The heat of the pits was different from the heat of the city.

  Above, in the streets of Port Azharia, the sun burned against skin, pressing down in waves of suffocating humidity. It was the heat of sweat-drenched silks, of wine-heavy breath, of coin exchanging hands in back alleys and crowded marketplaces.

  But down here, in the belly of the Obsidian Moon Pit, the heat was something else. It was thick and stale, trapped beneath the stone arches that sealed in the scent of blood and men long dead. It clung to the skin, oily and sour, rising from the packed sand that had soaked up countless deaths, the ghosts of old battles still whispering in the silence before the next fight.

  The pit was not just a place. It was a thing that consumed.

  And tonight, it would consume a boy.

  The crowd above was restless, thick with merchants, gamblers, and drunkards, their voices swelling in a chaotic rhythm of laughter, shouting, and the dull clinking of wagers being placed. From his place in the holding chamber, Marion Vex could hear them, their energy rising and falling like the tide.

  Tonight was nothing special.

  Just another night of bloodsport, another evening where the crowd would feast on the illusion of power, watching men fight and die for the amusement of those who never had to lift a blade themselves.

  Loric stood beside him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he watched the pit slaves being dragged from their cells.

  “The boy’s up first,” Marion said, casually adjusting the golden rings on his fingers.

  Loric’s eyes did not move. “He’s going to die.”

  Marion smirked. “Perhaps. But I’ve made worse bets.”

  Loric exhaled slowly through his nose. “You think you’re gambling, Vex. But what you’re doing is tossing raw meat to a wolf and hoping it doesn’t turn on you when it’s done.”

  Marion just kept smiling.

  The boy was already waiting when they brought out his opponent.

  He had changed little in the weeks since his arrival. He had grown no softer, no more obedient. He had learned the shape of the world around him, but not how to bend to it. His muscles had hardened, his stance was more solid, but the thing inside him—the thing that watched, that waited, that refused to submit—remained.

  And yet, despite everything, despite the weeks of training, despite the endless bruises and cracked ribs and hours spent forcing a weapon into his hands, Marion knew this:

  The boy was not ready.

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  Not for this.

  Not for what was about to happen.

  Because this would not be a fight.

  This would be an execution.

  His opponent was called Jorren the Red, a veteran of the pits with sixteen kills to his name. He was a wall of a man, a fighter who had endured and survived the way only the cruelest did.

  Jorren did not fight with skill. He did not need to.

  He fought with brute force, with overwhelming strength, with the kind of experience that made him something more than just another pit dog.

  He was a man who knew how to kill.

  And the boy—

  The boy was just that.

  A boy.

  The crowd did not cheer for him. They did not chant his name.

  To them, he was a lamb thrown to the wolves.

  They only roared for the slaughter to begin.

  The bell rang once, and the moment it did, Jorren moved.

  Not with hesitation. Not with caution.

  With certainty.

  He closed the distance in a blink, raising his axe and swinging downward in a vicious arc, the kind of strike that did not maim, did not wound—it ended things.

  The boy barely avoided it.

  He rolled sideways, sand exploding beneath him as the axe carved into the ground where his skull had been.

  The crowd laughed, a great rolling wave of amusement at the scrambling child, the terrified northern mongrel who had been thrown into the storm.

  Marion watched, his hands folded in front of him, fingers steepled together in quiet anticipation.

  The boy had no technique, no formal footwork.

  But he was fast.

  Faster than anyone in the pit had expected.

  Faster than Jorren had expected.

  And when Jorren swung again, the boy did not retreat.

  He lunged.

  The wooden training sword he had been given—a mockery of a weapon, meant to break in the first real clash—drove forward, striking Jorren just under the ribs.

  It bent on impact.

  It did nothing.

  And Jorren, unbothered, drove a fist into the boy’s stomach with all the force of a charging ox.

  He flew back, hit the ground, coughed wetly.

  The crowd roared in approval.

  It was not a clean battle.

  It was not the kind of fight the gamblers enjoyed—a quick, brutal kill, a display of dominance.

  Instead, it was something ugly.

  Jorren was not skilled, but he was vicious, relentless.

  He battered the boy, hammering him down again and again.

  And yet—he kept rising.

  He did not land many blows.

  He did not counter well.

  But he kept moving, kept clawing forward, kept bleeding onto the sand without falling for good.

  The crowd loved it.

  They cheered his suffering.

  They threw coins and cups into the pit, laughing as Jorren toyed with him, stretching out the inevitable kill.

  Marion only watched.

  Not with amusement.

  Not with concern.

  But with a gambler’s patience.

  Jorren, growing bored, finally decided to finish it.

  He grabbed the boy by the throat, lifting him off his feet, his grip like iron.

  The crowd knew the ending.

  They had seen this kill before.

  And then—

  The boy twisted, shifted—

  And in one, sharp motion—

  He drove his teeth into Jorren’s throat.

  Jorren staggered.

  Blood poured from his neck.

  And the boy did not stop.

  His body was battered, his ribs broken, his vision blurred, but he moved on instinct alone.

  He ripped the axe from Jorren’s hands.

  And he swung.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Until there was nothing left of Jorren’s face but a ruin of red.

  Until the crowd, once roaring, had fallen silent.

  For the first time in his life, Marion saw something unexpected in the pit.

  Not a fighter.

  Not a survivor.

  Something else.

  Something that had not yet been given a name.

  The boy stood over the corpse, chest heaving, his hands slick with fresh blood.

  He did not raise his arms in victory.

  He did not soak in the cheers of the crowd.

  He only stood there, staring at what he had done.

  And the pit, the great beast that consumed all things—

  Was silent.

  Korrak sees your admiration.

  And he hates it.

  He is not a hero. Not a legend. Not some specter that walks between myth and reality, meant to be whispered about in awe. He does not care for the songs, the stories, the drunken retellings of his deeds that twist and swell with each passing tongue.

  If you had stood before him, clutching your reverence like a fool clutching a dull blade, he would have only stared. And then he would have walked past you.

  Because to Korrak, it was never about glory.

  It was about the hunt.

  And if he still lives, it is only because there is always another chase.