The morning light crept through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting thin golden streaks across the room. Rohan sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his sore shoulder as he pulled on his shirt. Every movement sent a dull ache through his body, a reminder of last night’s fight.

  Sera stood near the small table, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression.

  “I found you a job.”

  She said finally, causing Rohan to pause, glancing up at her.

  “A small inn, just down the street. They need a waiter.”

  She tilted her head, eyes sharp.

  “You could make some decent coin without getting stabbed for it.”

  Rohan finished tying the straps of his boots and stood.

  “Not interested.”

  Sera’s expression hardened.

  “You’re barely standing, Rohan. You’re walking around with wounds that haven’t even closed yet.”

  She gestured toward his side, where a fresh bandage wrapped around his ribs.

  “You go back to those pits like this, you won’t just lose. You’ll die.”

  Rohan adjusted his father’s dagger at his belt and turned toward the door.

  Sera took a step forward, voice laced with frustration.

  “Is that what you want?”

  He didn’t answer.

  With a shake of her head, she let out a bitter laugh.

  “You’re just like him.”

  That made Rohan pause, just for a second. But he didn’t turn back.

  Without another word, he pulled open the door and stepped out into the streets of Duskwatch.

  The pits awaited.

  Rohan walked through the familiar entrance of the pits. The guard at the entrance barely spared him a glance before jerking his head toward a side door.

  “You’re moving up, come with me.”

  Rohan followed, his boots echoing against the stone floor as they descended further underground. The deeper they went, the thicker the air felt, humid, laced with the scent of sweat, blood, and expensive perfumes.

  The tunnel opened into a lavish chamber, a stark contrast to the filth and brutality of the lower pits. Rich merchants and noblemen lounged on cushioned seats, draped in fine silks, drinking from gold-rimmed goblets. Platters of roasted meats and exotic fruits covered the tables, untouched by the savagery of the fights they so eagerly bet on.

  A heavyset man in a velvet robe leaned forward, slurring his words as he spoke.

  “The new boy.”

  He mused, eyes settling on Rohan.

  “The one from last night. He’s quick, but I say he won’t last another week.”

  A thin man beside him smirked.

  “You always bet against the desperate ones. But desperation makes men unpredictable.”

  Rohan clenched his fists, feeling their eyes crawl over him like vultures sizing up a dying animal. Another merchant, draped in jewelry, called out lazily.

  “Who’s fighting next?”

  The guard beside Rohan gave him a shove forward.

  “Him.”

  The room stirred with interest. A few men grinned, already whispering wagers among themselves.

  Rohan kept his face cold, his heartbeat steady. It didn’t matter who was watching. It didn’t matter what they thought. All that mattered was winning.

  The guards led Rohan through a side corridor, away from the lavish chamber, deeper into the underground complex.

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  They shoved him into a dimly lit room where other fighters were waiting. Some sat on benches, wrapping their hands and sharpening weapons, while others leaned against the walls, their faces hardened from many battles.

  A man with a broken nose and a jagged scar across his cheek eyed Rohan as he stepped in. He smirked, shaking his head.

  “Fresh meat.”

  Rohan ignored him and sat on a bench, tightening the straps on his boots. The same scarred fighter sat down beside him, stretching his arms lazily.

  “You don’t talk much, huh?”

  The man mused, glancing at Rohan’s bruised knuckles.

  “Smart. But you should know how things work down here.”

  The man leaned in, his voice low.

  “The fights? They’re just a show. The real business is what happens after. The nobles come here for three things, violence, drugs, and flesh. And if one of them decides they want you, you don’t get a say.”

  Rohan’s jaw tightened.

  “And if you refuse?”

  The man chuckled darkly.

  “There is no refusing. The pits belong to the nobles. They fund it, they control it. You’re either making them money in the ring or… elsewhere. That’s how it works.”

  Rohan’s hands curled into fists. He had known Duskwatch was corrupt, but this was deeper, more twisted than he had imagined.

  The scarred man patted his shoulder.

  “Fight well, kid. Make yourself valuable in the ring. It’s the only way to keep them from deciding you’re worth more outside of it.”

  Before Rohan could respond, a guard appeared at the door.

  “You’re up next.”

  Rohan stood, rolling his shoulders. His body ached, his wounds still fresh, but none of that mattered.

  Rohan stepped into the pit, his boots sinking slightly into the sand. The arena was smaller than the ones he had fought in before, more intimate, more suffocating. The air was thick with the scent of wine, perfume, and blood.

  Unlike the rowdy crowds above, the spectators here were different. Merchants in fine silk, nobles draped in gold, and high-ranking officials sat in private booths above the pit, sipping from jeweled goblets. They spoke in hushed tones, only raising their voices when a fighter they had bet on secured a win.

  Rohan’s grip tightened around his dagger as his opponent stepped forward. A broad man with a shaved head and a jagged scar running down his cheek. He wore a confident smirk, twirling a short sword in his hand.

  The announcer’s voice was calm, almost bored.

  “A fresh face against a seasoned fighter. Place your bets, gentlemen.”

  A few nobles leaned forward, intrigued. Others barely looked up from their drinks. To them, this was nothing more than entertainment.

  The man lunged without hesitation, his sword slashing through the air. Rohan dodged, the blade missing his chest by inches. He countered with a quick strike of his dagger, but his opponent dodged away effortlessly. The man was fast and experienced.

  Rohan barely had time to block the next attack, steel scraping against steel. The force sent him stumbling back, his feet skidding on the sand. The nobles continued murmuring amongst themselves, indifferent to his struggle.

  The man struck again, this time aiming for Rohan’s stomach. He barely parried in time, the impact sending a jolt through his arm. The strength difference was obvious, he couldn’t meet this man head-on. Instead, he had to be smart.

  Rohan feigned another retreat, his breathing ragged. His opponent took the bait, pressing forward with a confident smirk. The moment he raised his sword for a downward strike, Rohan shifted to the side, ducking low.

  With a sharp movement of his wrist, he slashed across the man’s thigh.

  A thin line of blood bloomed across his opponent’s skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough.

  The fighter snarled, rage flashing in his eyes.

  “You little-”

  Rohan didn’t let him finish. He lunged, feinting a stab before shifting his weight and kicking out at the man’s wounded leg.

  The fighter staggered, losing balance for just a moment. A moment was all Rohan needed.

  He drove his dagger into the man’s side, twisting it deep. His opponent gasped, his sword slipping from his grasp as he crumpled to his knees.

  Then, the sound of slow clapping from one of the booths. A noble in a deep blue coat smirked as he leaned back in his chair. A few others murmured their approval, some shaking their heads at lost bets.

  A servant stepped into the pit, checking the downed fighter before giving a nod to the announcer.

  “The winner… Rohan!”

  No roaring cheers. No wild celebrations.

  Just quiet satisfaction from the ones who had won their bets. Rohan exhaled, his fingers loosening around his dagger. He wasn’t sure how long he would last in a place like this

  Rohan stepped through the curtain leading to the fighters' quarters, his body still humming with adrenaline. The air was thick with sweat and smoke, the dimly lit space filled with men nursing fresh wounds and drinking cheap liquor. He barely took a step before a familiar voice called out to him.

  "Not bad, kid."

  The fighter from before leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed. His tone was neutral, but there was something unreadable in his gaze.

  Rohan didn’t respond, merely wiping the blood from his dagger before sheathing it.

  The man took a swig from his flask, eyeing him.

  “You know, the guy you just put in the ground had a kid. A boy, no older than ten.”

  He paused, watching for a reaction.

  “He fought in these pits to keep him fed.”

  Rohan met his gaze without flinching.

  "And?”

  The man scoffed, shaking his head.

  "And you don’t care. Figures."

  He pushed off the post, stepping closer.

  “That’s how it starts, y’know? First, it’s just survival. Then you stop asking questions. Then one day, you wake up, and you’re no different from the bastards who made you fight in the first place.”

  Rohan didn’t react.

  “He stepped into the pit. He knew the rules.”

  The fighter studied him for a long moment before smirking.

  “You’ll fit right in here.”

  Rohan sat on the rough wooden bench, his muscles aching from the fight. He let his head rest against the cold stone wall, exhaling sharply.

  A man dropped onto the bench beside him, older, with deep scars across his arms. Without a word, he shoved a long-stemmed pipe between Rohan’s lips.

  “Go on. You’ll thank me.”

  Rohan scowled, pushing it away.

  “Not interested.”

  The man only chuckled, taking a long drag before exhaling a cloud of thick, pungent smoke into Rohan’s face. The scent was sharp, earthy, laced with something unfamiliar. The moment it hit his lungs, the dull throbbing in his ribs eased. His body, tight with exhaustion and pain, began to relax.

  He inhaled instinctively. The ache in his limbs faded, his mind slowed.

  “See? Not so bad.”

  The man said, grinning.

  “Takes the edge off.”

  Rohan hesitated before taking the pipe from him, staring at the smoldering embers. The pain was gone. His mind felt clear, lighter.

  The man clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Welcome to the pits, boy.”