Rafael's alarm blared, jarring him awake from fitful dreams. He groaned, rolling onto his side, squinting at the pale light seeping through the threadbare curtains of his small apartment.
The previous day's aching muscles protested as he swung his legs over the bed's edge, but his thoughts lingered elsewhere, on the empty arena floor he had cleaned just hours ago, and on the quiet determination still burning in his chest.
As he trudged toward the washroom, the distant sound of hurried footsteps outside drew his attention. His neighbors weren't typically this animated in the morning. Pausing mid-yawn, Rafael shuffled to his window, peering out at the cobbled street below.
Clusters of arena officials, their uniforms recognizable even from a distance, moving briskly while talking in a rushed tone. Rafael caught snippets through the cracked glass, "No choice…" "Withdrawn just hours ago…" "Today's schedule…" The words swirled without context, pulling at his curiosity.
Still, it wasn't his business. He closed the curtains and turned back inside, suppressing the pang of hunger that gnawed at his stomach. Another day of work waited, gladiator dreams didn't pay the rent. He'd barely grabbed his patched-up uniform when the sharp knock on his door made him freeze mid-motion.
Slowly opening the door, Rafael found himself face-to-face with two arena officials. Their clipped uniforms were hastily tucked, their faces flushed with urgency. One of them, a wiry man with dark circles under his eyes, smiled a little too wide to be genuine.
"Rafael, is it?" the man said, his gaze darting past Rafael into the meager room. Before Rafael could respond, the second official, a stocky woman with an air of authority, cut in.
"You're coming with us," she said briskly, brushing past him without waiting for permission to enter. "Now."
Rafael blinked. "What? Why? I'm—"
"No time for questions," she interrupted with a sharp tone enough to silence him. "There's been a development. One of our gladiators withdrew, and we need a replacement. Now."
"Wait, what? I'm just the janitor!" Rafael's voice cracked on the last word.
"Not today," the wiry official replied, his grin faltering as his colleague shot him a glare. "Think of it as... an opportunity."
The woman crossed her arms, her expression leaving no room for argument. "You've got magic, don't you? However small?"
"That doesn't mean—"
"It does now," she said firmly. "You're on in an hour. Get ready."
Before Rafael could piece together a response, they grabbed his arm and started dragging him into the chaos outside.
The door slammed shut behind Rafael as he stumbled into the preparation chamber. A rancid mix of sweat, leather, and the metallic tang of magic filled the air, making his nose wrinkle. He barely had time to adjust when one of the organizers shoved a bundle of armor into his arms.
"Put it on," the woman barked, her no-nonsense tone brooking no delay.
Rafael stared at the out of shape pieces of gladiator armor, each piece dingier and more mismatched than the last. "This... doesn't even look like it fits."
"Fit doesn't matter. Standing does." She jabbed a finger at his chest. "Get moving. We're already behind schedule."
Mumbling under his breath, Rafael tried to wrangle the chestplate over his head. The straps hung loosely, one of them missing a clasp entirely.
He fumbled with the gauntlets next, their oversized design threatening to swallow his hands whole. When he slipped on the greaves, they clinked loudly, nearly taking his knees out as the weight threw him off balance.
"First time, huh?" a grizzled armorer standing off to the side said, smirking around with a toothpick between his teeth.
"You think?" Rafael shot back, grimacing as he adjusted the ill-fitted metal. "None of this is enchanted properly. It feels... off."
The armorer's smirk grew wider. "Well, it's not like they save the good gear for the rookies. Especially not last-minute fill-ins."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Rafael groaned, eyeing the faint runes etched along the chestplate. They pulsed weakly, like embers on the verge of extinguishing.
Every attempt he made to channel his minimal magic through them felt as effective as striking wet flint against a rock.
A low chuckle rumbled from the corner as another arena worker hauled in a pair of battered weapons. "Here you go, champ. Sword, mace... pick your poison."
Rafael stared at the rust-streaked blades. "No bow?" he asked, though his voice lacked hope.
The worker snorted. "This ain't no enchanted archery contest, janitor. You're getting up close and personal."
He pout, gripping the sword's hilt reluctantly. Its balance was awful, the blade dull enough to make him wonder if it could cut bread, much less anything living. But as the worker shoved him toward's the chamber door, it didn't seem to matter.
"Don't think too hard about winning, kid," the armorer called as Rafael staggered forward. "Just focus on surviving."
"Comforting," Rafael muttered, his grip tightening around the weapon. The weak hum of the enchanted metal against his skin made every step feel heavier, like the weapon was dragging him closer to a fate he couldn't escape.
The door ahead creaked ominously as it began to open.
The tunnel was colder than Rafael expected. Each step echoed softly against the stone walls, a mocking reminder of how alone he was.
Ahead, the muted roar of the crowd seeped through, like distant thunder growing steadily louder.
Rafael's grip on the sword was slick with sweat, and his chestplate felt like a cage tightening with each breath.
He stopped just short of the arena's edge, where light spilled through a grated gate that hadn't yet opened.
Dust motes danced lazily in the beam, completely indifferent to the rising tension in Rafael's chest. His thoughts were louder than the crowd now, tangled in a flurry of curses and doubts.
"This is a bad idea," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the deafening noise. He turned, searching for anyone he could plead with, any sign of an organizer who might show mercy.
The tunnel was empty but for his own uneven footsteps and the oppressive hum of enchantments lining the walls.
Then the voice came.
"First match jitters, huh?" It was the wiry organizer from earlier, suddenly appearing like a ghost. His smile was as unsettling as before.
"Don't worry. Most first-timers survive long enough to make it entertaining."
"Entertaining?!" Rafael hissed, trying not to let the panic crawl into his voice. "I'm not even supposed to be here. I—"
A sharp whistle cut him off as the organizer held up a hand. "Relax. No one expects you to win. The odds are so skewed, it's already making us a fortune."
He winked like it was a joke meant to soothe Rafael, but it felt more like a dagger being twisted.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Rafael asked as his heart thundered.
"It means..." The organizer's grin widened. "You're a warm-up. Don't think too hard about it." He glanced toward's the light and gestured casually. "They're waiting."
Before Rafael could argue, the ground under his feet rumbled. The gates began to creak open, the sound swallowing every ounce of air in the tunnel.
As sunlight spilled across him, Rafael squinted, his stomach lurching as the full roar of the crowd hit like a crashing wave.
He stumbled forward under the organizer's unceremonious shove, his feet finding traction on sand that stretched wide, hot, and unwelcoming.
The arena opened up around him with a massive colosseum walled with roaring spectators, each face eager, expectant, and cruel.
Rafael took a shaky step into the light as his trembling hands tightened on the hilt of the useless sword.