Night had fallen by the time Soren returned to his cell, but his mind was far from quiet. The words of the masked man replayed over and over, each one twisting like a thorn in his chest. The Colosseum's masters wanted him to harness the power of the chains, to make him their weapon. They were dangling a promise of strength just out of reach, hoping he would reach for it blindly.
But Soren wasn't about to give in without understanding what he was binding himself to.
He lay down on the thin straw mattress, staring up at the rough stone ceiling. He focused inward, feeling the chains' faint pulse, the slow and steady rhythm that was just barely there, like a whisper at the back of his mind. The energy was quiet now, almost dormant, but he knew that if he could reach deeper, he might be able to uncover more about its nature.
Breathing steadily, he let himself sink into a meditative state. The sounds of the Colosseum faded away, replaced by a vast silence. He felt his awareness turn inward, moving through his body until it centered on the chains around his wrists. A strange sensation washed over him—like sinking into deep water, weightless yet pressing down on him from all sides.
Who are you? he asked, his voice steady in the quiet of his mind.
For a long moment, there was no answer. But just as he began to doubt himself, a voice—a familiar, steady whisper—echoed in the darkness of his thoughts.
We are what binds you, it said, cold and relentless. We are what grants you power… and we are what will take it away.
The answer came with a sharp surge of energy, enough to send a shock up his arms, making him flinch. He gritted his teeth, pushing deeper, refusing to pull back.
If you take power, he asked, then why should I trust you?
Another pulse of energy, softer this time, almost a caress.
Trust is not required, the voice replied. Only strength. Do you have it, Soren? Will you wield us, even if it costs you?
He swallowed, considering the question. Was he willing to pay the price? What if the chains' hunger grew beyond his control, pulling him into madness? But he knew that without their power, he would remain nothing more than a slave in the Colosseum. He needed to take this risk if he was ever going to find his freedom.
Yes, he whispered, his mind filled with resolve. I will wield you, but I will also master you. I will not let you take control.
The chains fell silent, and for a moment, he felt nothing. But then a rush of power coursed through him, stronger than anything he had felt before. His vision went dark, his body weightless, as if he had been thrust into a vast, endless void. Shapes began to emerge from the darkness—figures cloaked in shadow, their forms indistinct yet unmistakably familiar.
One by one, they stepped forward, each figure wrapped in chains similar to his own, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. He could feel their gazes upon him, piercing and judgmental, each one evaluating him in silence.
You are not the first, a voice echoed, colder and more powerful than before. Many have wielded us, but none have mastered us. Their will was not strong enough. They were consumed by their own weakness.
The shadows seemed to press closer, surrounding him, their presence suffocating. He could feel the weight of their expectations, the crushing intensity of their gaze. But he refused to look away. He faced them, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set.
Then I will be the first, he said, his voice defiant. I won't fall to you. I'll break these chains if I have to.
The shadows stirred, a ripple of something like amusement running through them. And then, one by one, they began to fade, their voices echoing in his mind like distant whispers.
Then prove it, Soren, they murmured. Prove your strength. Prove your will. Only then will you be worthy.
The last of the shadows vanished, and he felt himself falling back into his body, his senses returning. The stone walls of his cell came into focus, the dim light filtering through the small window above him. The chains around his wrists hummed with a renewed energy, their warmth sharper, more vibrant.
Soren took a deep breath, his hands trembling as he absorbed what had just happened. The chains were more than he had realized—a force, a will, a collection of souls that had wielded their power before him. And if he was going to survive, he would need to prove his strength to them, to bind them to his will instead of becoming their puppet.
The next day, Soren was summoned once again, but this time, he was not led to the Colosseum's arena. Instead, the guards escorted him down a narrow corridor, their expressions tense as they guided him through a series of twisting passageways. Finally, they arrived at a heavy iron door, which swung open to reveal a dimly lit chamber lined with weapon racks and training dummies.
Waiting for him in the center of the room was a thin, sharp-eyed woman with a cold smile. Her arms were crossed, and her gaze swept over him with an air of appraisal.
"You're the Gauntlet's latest survivor," she said, her voice clipped and precise. "I am Lira, the Colosseum's combat instructor. I train those deemed worthy by the masters to advance beyond mere survival."
Soren met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "And they think I'm worthy?"
Lira's smile widened, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Let's just say, they're… curious about you." She gestured to a rack of weapons, her gaze challenging. "You'll be training under me from now on. Your chains may grant you some power, but raw strength alone is insufficient. To survive, you'll need skill."
Soren glanced at the weapons, feeling the chains pulse faintly, as if reacting to the sight. Part of him wanted to refuse, to reject any part of the Colosseum's twisted system. But he knew he couldn't afford to pass up this opportunity. Training with a skilled fighter like Lira might be his best chance to grow stronger, to gain the skills he needed to survive and, eventually, escape.
He selected a short, curved blade, feeling its weight in his hand. Lira raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical.
"You'll need more than a sword," she said. "Show me what you can do."
Without warning, she lunged at him, her movements fast and precise. Soren barely had time to raise his blade, blocking her strike just as it was about to land. The impact sent a jolt up his arm, but he held his ground, focusing on the chains' faint pulse, letting their guidance steady his movements.
Lira pressed him, her attacks relentless, each one faster than the last. He struggled to keep up, his movements clumsy in comparison, but he could feel himself adapting, his body learning, the chains lending him just enough support to match her strikes.
After what felt like an eternity, she stepped back, nodding in approval. "Not bad," she said. "You're slower than I expected, but there's potential."
Soren's chest heaved as he caught his breath, his muscles burning from the exertion. "You could've warned me," he muttered.
Lira smirked. "In the Colosseum, there are no warnings. If you want to survive, you'll need to be ready for anything."
She paced around him, her gaze thoughtful. "I've seen fighters rely on strength alone, and they all fell eventually. You're different—your reflexes are guided, almost unnatural. But you'll need to master them if you want to survive."
Soren clenched his fists, feeling the chains hum faintly in response. He knew she was right. Strength alone wouldn't be enough. He would need skill, precision, control. And if he could learn to wield the chains in harmony with his own abilities, then maybe, just maybe, he could overcome the Colosseum's trials.
Lira tossed him a waterskin, her expression softening slightly. "Rest up. Tomorrow, the real training begins."
Soren took a long drink, feeling the cool water soothe his throat. He glanced down at the chains around his wrists, their faint warmth a reminder of the power they held—and the challenge that lay ahead.
As he prepared for what was to come, a steely determination settled within him. He would master the chains, prove his worth, and escape this place. And no one—not the Colosseum's masters, not the shadows within the chains, not even Lira—would stand in his way.