Kael's first instinct was to fight. It always had been. Even in this frail body, as the gang closed in with sinister grins and rusted weapons, every fiber of his being screamed for him to strike.
But his body betrayed him. His legs wobbled like brittle twigs, and his arms felt as if they carried the weight of an entire battlefield. He clenched his fists, hoping for a spark of strength, a sliver of power—but none came. The mark on his chest flickered faintly, as if mocking him.
"Get up," Kael muttered under his breath, his voice rasping, unfamiliar.
The leader of the gang stepped forward, a hulking man with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw. He cracked his knuckles, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the dim moonlight. "What's this? A little noble brat who thinks he's tough?"
Noble? Kael froze. The word lodged itself in his mind like a splinter, but he couldn't place why.
Before he could reply, a boot slammed into his ribs, sending him sprawling into the muck. Pain blossomed in his side, and for a brief moment, he tasted copper.
"Stop playing with him," another voice called—a wiry man with a dagger twirling between his fingers. "Boss said to bring back any strays. Kid like this'll fetch a nice price."
Kael groaned, struggling to rise. As his hand pressed against the ground, his reflection shimmered in a puddle of murky water. For the first time, he saw the face of the body he now inhabited.
Bright silver-blonde hair matted with dirt and blood, striking violet eyes that glinted like amethysts even in the darkness, and a jawline that seemed sculpted, despite the bruises and mud obscuring it. Handsome, youthful—perhaps too youthful. He couldn't have been older than sixteen.
"Who are you?" Kael whispered, though he already knew the answer. This body wasn't his.
"Quiet!" The scarred man grabbed him by the collar, yanking him to his feet. "You're ours now, boy."
Kael's lips curled into a snarl, but before he could lash out, a sharp blow to the back of his head sent his vision spinning.
....
When Kael awoke, the world had changed.
The moonlight was gone, replaced by the dim glow of torchlight. His wrists were bound by rough iron shackles, the cold metal biting into his skin. Around him, the damp air stank of sweat, rot, and despair. He was in some kind of underground chamber, surrounded by other captives.
The murmurs of the enslaved filled the space. Some were crying, others silent, their eyes hollow. Chains rattled with every movement.
Kael leaned his head back against the stone wall, forcing himself to steady his breathing. His mind raced. He needed to assess, to understand. He was no stranger to captivity—he had been a prisoner of war once, long ago—but this was different. This wasn't his body. He felt the limits of it, the fragility. The boy's slender arms and legs lacked the muscle memory of a warrior, and his instincts were dulled by exhaustion and hunger.
"Hey, silver hair."
The voice came from beside him. Kael turned his head to see a young girl with fiery red hair and sharp green eyes. She looked only a year or two younger than the body he now inhabited, but her gaze held the weariness of someone much older.
"You've been out cold for hours," she continued, her tone dry. "Thought you were dead. Shame. They usually charge extra for dead ones."
Kael frowned, studying her. She wore a torn tunic, her wrists shackled like his. Her face was smudged with dirt, but her eyes were sharp, calculating. She didn't speak like a slave resigned to her fate.
"Where are we?" Kael asked, his voice hoarse.
"The Pit," she replied with a shrug. "Welcome to hell, silver. You'll love it here. Rotten food, no sleep, and if you're lucky, you'll only get beaten once a day."
Her sarcasm grated against Kael's patience, but it was clear she was trying to gauge him.
"And if you're unlucky?" Kael asked, playing along.
"Then you'll end up in the arena," she said, her tone dropping. "They like to throw new blood in there to 'entertain the crowd.' No one lasts long."
Kael's jaw tightened. He scanned the chamber, noting the guards posted at the entrance—two burly men armed with crude swords. Beyond them, he could hear faint cheers and the clash of steel.
The arena.
The word stirred something deep in him, a fragment of memory, of blood and glory under a burning sun. But it wasn't from his life—it belonged to the boy whose body he now inhabited.
"Who was he?" Kael muttered to himself.
"What?" the girl asked, narrowing her eyes.
Kael ignored her, focusing inward. Flashes of the boy's life trickled into his mind: a grand estate, gilded halls, a woman's gentle voice calling his name—Lucien. The boy's name was Lucien. But the vision quickly darkened. Soldiers storming the estate. Flames consuming the walls. And a man with a jagged scar…
The scarred man from earlier. He was there.
Kael clenched his fists, anger boiling in his chest. Whoever Lucien was, this body's previous life had been ripped away by violence.
"You don't look like the others," the girl said, interrupting his thoughts. "What's your story?"
Kael glanced at her, weighing his options. He needed information, allies—anything that could help him escape.
"My story doesn't matter," he said finally. "But I'll need your help to get out of here."
The girl scoffed. "You don't even know how things work around here, do you? The only way out is death, and trust me, that's not the escape you're looking for."
Kael met her gaze, his violet eyes steady. "I've broken out of worse places than this."
The girl raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Big talk for someone who couldn't even stay conscious."
Before Kael could respond, the chamber door creaked open, and the guards stepped inside.
"You," one of them barked, pointing at Kael. "Get up."
The captives around him fell silent, their faces turning away. The girl muttered under her breath, "Looks like your lucky day."
Kael rose slowly, the chains on his wrists clinking. Despite his frailty, his posture remained unbroken, his violet eyes fixed on the guard.
"Move," the guard growled, shoving him forward.
Kael stumbled but caught himself. As he was dragged out of the chamber and down a narrow corridor, the roar of the crowd grew louder. He didn't need to ask where he was being taken.
The arena awaited.
...
As the iron gates creaked open, Kael stepped into the harsh light of the arena. The crowd erupted into cheers, their bloodlust palpable. The circular pit was surrounded by jagged stone walls, and at its center lay discarded weapons—rusted swords, broken spears, and dented shields.
Across from him, another gate opened, and a monstrous figure emerged—a hulking beast of a man wielding a spiked mace. His eyes gleamed with sadistic glee as he sized up Kael.
Kael's fingers twitched. He felt the faint pulse of the mark on his chest, its warmth barely noticeable. Whatever power it held, it wasn't ready to reveal itself.
For now, he was on his own.
The gate slammed shut behind him, and the crowd's chant rose to a fever pitch.
"Fight!"
Kael exhaled slowly, his mind sharpening despite the odds.
Weak body. No weapons. No power.
And yet, a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips.
"I've fought worse than you," he muttered, his violet eyes locked on the beast.
The mace swung toward him, and Kael moved.