There was an old tale whispered in the streets—a story no one cared to hear. The kind that got lost in the noise of passing carts and hollow footsteps. The storyteller? A beggar, ragged and ignored, spinning his words into the cold air for no one in particular.

  It was a story about a starving wolf pack.

  Winter had them in its grip—prey was scarce, and the cold gnawed at their ribs. At the head of the pack was an old Alpha. Not young, not fast, but strong. He had led them through worse. But hunger? Hunger made even the loyal forget their place.

  Then came a gift from the gods—a wounded stag, half-buried in the snow. An easy kill. A rare salvation.

  But before they could take it, the young wolves turned on each other. Teeth flashed. Fur ripped. It wasn’t just about food anymore. It was about who ate first. Who led. Who was worth following.

  The Alpha fought. Held his ground. But he was outnumbered. His own kin tore him down, shattered his fang, left him bleeding in the snow. The strongest feasted while the weak watched, knowing their turn might never come.

  The cycle would repeat.

  Tomorrow, another wolf would fall.

  But the broken-fanged wolf did not die. He crawled, starved, and learned. Not strength. Not size. But patience. And when the time was right—when the pack was weak from their own greed and fighting—he struck.

  He wasn’t the strongest.

  But he was the last one standing.

  That story stuck with me. Even after I became a slave, it lingered in the back of my mind—unshaken, unwelcome. Strange how something told by a nobody could stay buried so deep. But this… this moment brought it crashing back.

  The coliseum loomed before us, a monstrous ring of stone. Walls towering high, packed with people. Thousands, maybe more. Their voices merged into a deafening roar—cheers, jeers, cries of excitement, a few groans of disappointment. But beneath it all, the same sick anticipation.

  In the center of that pit, a battlefield of sand.

  Five beasts stood there—huge, monstrous things. Pale-skinned, scarred, their fangs like daggers. Ogres.

  And against them? Humans. Ten of them. Starved, hollow-eyed, their ribs jutting out like knives through thin skin. They ran, staggering, gasping for air, but they had nowhere to go. The ogres toyed with them, swatting at their broken bodies like a bored child with insects.

  The crowd loved it.

  At the highest seat in the arena—the center of all attention—a man lounged on a throne-like chair. He wore lavish gold and silver robes, his hair cut in a ridiculous bowl shape. Big eyes, a small nose, a mouth too wide for his face. He watched with a smirk, barely interested, as if this slaughter was just another dull afternoon for him.

  The frenzy in the stands grew.

  Two of the ogres cornered a man, their hulking forms circling like predators drawing out the fun. Another human was crushed underfoot—just a casual misstep. Blood sprayed across the sand, though the rising dust swallowed most of it. But when the haze cleared—

  I nearly choked.

  Bones, fresh blood soaking into the ground, pieces of what used to be people.

  And the crowd? They roared louder.

  Some placed bets, laughing, calling out numbers, wagering how much longer the others would last before they were torn apart.

  "That one's fast."

  "Eat them! Eat them!"

  The shouts chased us, blending with the frantic slap of bare feet against stone. The arena loomed in the distance, its jagged walls swallowing the dim light. Ahead, a narrow entrance—no door, just a weathered stone archway—marked our destination. A man led the way. Not one of our captors. Short. Wiry. His face mostly hidden beneath a battered brown cap. His robe—once blue, now a washed-out husk of color—hung loosely, neither long nor short, just enough to obscure the shape of him.

  "Line up," he ordered.

  We did. No hesitation.

  The roars from the arena still echoed as we stepped inside. The air thickened, damp and stale, carrying the scent of sweat, rust, and something deeper—something lived-in, old, and familiar in the worst way. The corridor stretched ahead, carved from the same rough stone as the walls. Weapons lay scattered in metal baskets—rusted blades, splintered shafts, things barely worth the name.

  People passed, some entering, some leaving. A few spared us a glance, their expressions unreadable but heavy with something close to contempt.

  The man barely looked back as he moved.

  "This way," he said. Again and again, his voice clipped, unbothered.

  We passed men training with real swords—sharp steel, not the dull imitations handed to slaves. Others moved with quick, purposeful strides, weapons in hand—daggers, clubs, whatever they favored. Everyone was busy. Focused. The kind of world that mirrored the one we came from, just stripped of the pretense. Gambling. Corruption. People with dark agendas pulling the strings while the rest of us danced for their amusement.

  And what could I do? Nothing. We were puppets. Step out of line, and the strings tightened—until they cut deep enough to kill.

  We kept walking. A few turns later, we reached a set of massive doors—stone, like everything else here, but made of black brick, towering over us like a mausoleum entrance. The man leading us turned, holding up a hand. Silent. Stay quiet. Then, without hesitation, he knocked three times.

  A pause. Then he pushed the door open and strode inside, same as before—confident, controlled, like nothing in this place could touch him. He flicked a hand, telling us to follow.

  The stench hit first—rotting sweat, old alcohol, and something worse, something sour. The room itself was proof of what happened when greed and power drowned a man past the point of saving. Polished stone floors, but barely visible under the mess. Clothes—filthy, discarded. Papers scattered. Stains, some wet, some dried into permanence.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  And at the center of it all, a man slumped in a wooden chair. His long, thinning hair clung to his scalp, his beard unkempt. His eyes sagged, half-lidded, barely clinging to wakefulness. A bottle dangled from his fingers, legs propped up on a heavy wooden table covered in crumpled documents and a single oversized stamp.

  Another batch of slaves had arrived. The short man in the brown cap leaned on the table, both hands pressed against the stained wood. "Wake up, Edon. The night’s still long. We’ve got work to do."

  Edon didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch. He just sat there, slumped in his chair like a corpse left out too long. Then, after what felt like forever, one eye cracked open, bloodshot and unfocused, locking onto the man in front of him.

  The short man wrinkled his nose. "Filth—did you piss on the table?"

  He yanked his hands back like the wood had burned him, then sniffed his fingers just to be sure. His disgust was instant.

  Edon laughed. A slow, dragging sound, thick with exhaustion and whatever poison he’d drowned himself in. Rook flicked a glance at me before turning his attention back to the drunk.

  "Err—I… I need women. Get me some piss-maids."

  The short man clenched his jaw. "This bastard…" His voice carried that thin edge of restraint—like a thread about to snap. Then it did.

  Boots scraped against the stone floor as he closed the distance in three heavy steps. He grabbed Edon by the collar and yanked him forward, their faces inches apart.

  "I'm having a shit day, and If you don’t get your gods-damned eyes open, I’ll make you eat that whole damn bottle!"

  Slap.

  The hit wasn’t light. Edon's head snapped sideways, a fresh red imprint blooming across his cheek.

  Didn't seem to do much, though. The bastard was too deep in his drunken stupor to feel anything but regret in the morning.

  Honestly, if the guy really wanted him awake, a bucket of water would probably do the trick. But judging by the way his fists clenched, I got the feeling he was seconds away from skipping straight to breaking Edon’s nose instead.

  The capped man let go of the drunk’s collar, straightening with a sigh before knocking the bottle from his hand. It hit the ground with a dull thud, the liquid inside sloshing onto the ground. The low laughter from the slaves in front of me cut off fast—like they suddenly remembered breathing too loud could get them killed. Not that I blamed them. That capped guy probably didn’t take kindly to being mocked.

  Not my problem. Slaves didn’t watch out for each other. No one did.

  Well, maybe Rook. I cared about him—just a little. But the rest? If they got caught slipping, that was their own damn fault.

  The drunk stirred. Not a quick jolt awake, but something worse. His eyes pried open slowly, unfocused, like some rotten corpse reanimating in real-time. He rubbed at his face with both hands, then slapped himself across the cheek.

  Thwack!

  That one did the trick.

  He sucked in a breath, his whole body twitching like he was pulling himself together piece by piece. The capped man stood by the window, not sparing him a glance. Still, the drunk scrambled. He lunged for the fallen bottle, snatching it up quickly, trying to stop the alcohol from leaking out.

  "Oh, for fuck’s sake," Edon groaned, tilting the bottle toward his eye. "You don’t have to do that every damn time."

  The short man lifted a finger, his tone dry. "First," he said, "maybe consider not getting piss-drunk in the middle of work, you bloody idiot." Then he shook his head, just slightly.

  “You’re acting like you’re not used to it, Garit. This one's worth a gold, and you just slapped it away?” Edon clutched the bottle.

  Garit snorted. “And you think I have all the time in the world to wait for you to wake up from drowning in that rat piss of yours?”

  “Rat piss?” Edon scoffed. “Didn’t you hear me? Worth. Gold. Damn you.”

  “You think you’ll afford more of that when the Pit Lord finds out?”

  Silence. The kind that made the air thick. We weren’t watching, not directly, but every ear in the room was tuned in. The argument had started loud, but now it was cutting deep.

  Edon straightened, bottle barely hanging from his fingers. Whatever fire had been in him a second ago flickered out. Garit, standing with his back straight, unmoved, knew it.

  “Then let’s not waste any more time arguing over nothing,” Edon muttered, placing the bottle down, careful now, like it had turned to a relic. “What do you want?”

  Garit grinned, slow and knowing, then dropped himself into Edon’s chair. “That’s more like it,” he said, letting the words settle before continuing. “I’m here because the Warden wants you to mark the new slaves.”

  Edon turned his gaze toward the line of slaves in front of him. I stood in the middle, with Rook behind me and the two beastmen at the rear. The two men—Edon and Garit—watched us with the same bored, uninterested expressions.

  Edon moved toward us at a slow, measured pace. Now that I saw him up close, he looked like a man in his forties—maybe even fifties. The years hadn’t been kind, and the alcohol hadn’t helped. Still, he managed to crack a smile.

  "Only seven?" he asked.

  "Seven’s enough," Garit replied, still rocking lazily in his chair. "That makes it an even thirty dregs."

  Edon chuckled, then turned to face us fully. "Alright. Now, tell me—how would you like to get branded?"

  Silence.

  A few nervous glances. Someone scratched the back of their head. I wasn’t surprised. Slaves knew about branding, but most had never gone through it—at least, not until they had an owner. This was different. Once branded, we’d belong to one master. No way out. No arguing.

  Not that I had any complaints. Survival came first.

  "Pick a number," Edon said, holding up three fingers. "One, two, or three?"

  The slave in front of me turned to whisper with the others. No one asked our opinion, but it hardly mattered. Majority ruled. If they picked wrong, we’d all pay the price.

  Most muttered, "Three."

  If it were up to me, I’d have picked two.

  Behind me, the beastmen—Kastor and Elzir—stayed quiet. Rook, though, had already thrown in his vote, siding with the rest.

  Edon grinned. "Three, huh? Would you believe that, Garit?"

  Garit barely reacted. "What?"

  "Magic branding it is!" Edon laughed, a wild, almost giddy sound. He turned back, grabbing his bottle again.

  Garit sighed. "So what? Brand them already. What’s so damn funny?"

  "Relax, Garit. Magic branding isn’t my thing. If they’d picked one or two, I’d be working by now. But they picked three, which means…" He smirked, walking back towards his chair. "You’re the one who has to go find a sorcerer. Now, get your ass out of my seat."

  Garit studied Edon for a moment, his gaze sharp as he processed the information. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he stood up. “A sorcerer? That red-tailed brat?”

  Edon gave a short nod, the corners of his mouth curling slightly. He sank back into his seat. “That's right. Means I’m not the one branding them. Should be her.”

  Garit glanced at him, brows furrowed. “So, you don’t have a clue where I could find her?”

  “Unlucky for you, I don’t,” Edon replied with a smirk, tossing back the last of the bottle’s contents. His grin widened. “Looks like you're gonna be a little busier tonight, huh, Garit?”

  Garit’s lips twitched, a dry edge to his smile. “At least I’m moving like a man, not like you, Edon.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a copper coin, and dropped it onto the table with a clink. “Buy yourself a drink. Something that doesn’t taste like piss. Let’s hit the cells first.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned, striding toward the door. We followed in silence, the atmosphere still thick with the weight of the conversation.

  As we stepped outside, a harsh voice cut through the cool night air. "I’ll cut your neck off, you dwarf!”

  Garit didn’t even flinch, just kept walking. The noise didn’t faze him. And neither did I. We pressed on, heading toward the slave cells.

  The place felt different from where we’d been. The walls here were lined with flickering torches, their light dancing across the stone floors. It wasn’t the damp, claustrophobic stench I was used to—no urine-soaked corners or fetid air. This place had been maintained. The ground was solid stone, smooth except for the occasional discarded scrap, but it was clean enough. No grime clung to the walls. No rats scurried in the shadows.

  The cells stretched out in a straight line, each holding a figure or two. They watched us as we passed, eyes darting between our group, hands resting on the bars. A few made low noises, tapping lightly on the metal, their calls muted in the thick silence of the corridor.

  Garit didn’t stop, didn’t acknowledge them. He moved forward, his boots clicking against the stone, the rest of us falling into step behind him.

  I could feel their gazes, though—heavy, hungry. But I didn’t let it show. Instead, I studied the prisoners. Some were still young, their faces hollow with hunger. Others, older, bore the weight of too many years under chains. I wondered how long it’d been since they’d seen daylight.

  One man, his arms thin and sinewy like old rope, snarled through the bars at a guard. The man didn’t even flinch when Garit’s eyes flicked over him, just kept on, his face an unreadable mask.

  No one spoke as we walked deeper into the cells. The sound of chains scraping against stone filled the space, each step carrying us further into that quiet, oppressive darkness.

  "You all be staying here for a while," the man said, pointing to a cell at the far end. Inside, a single figure hunched in the middle, head down, unmoving. "Until I find that woman."

  I wasn’t surprised. We were locked up again—like it was ever any different. I’d seen this routine too many times. Some of us tried to fight it, to plan, back when I was new to this life. Back when I thought there was a way out. But that’s the thing about hope—it gets beaten out of you until there’s nothing left but the dirt beneath your boots. Some of us accepted the prison, the chains, the silence. It became normal. You don’t fight what you can’t beat. You survive it. That’s all.

  I stepped into the cell, glancing at the lone figure sitting in the middle. His posture was slumped, shoulders heavy with the weight of whatever thoughts chained him. His face was hidden, but there was no mistaking the look of defeat. The look of someone who’d given up fighting long ago. I knew that look. I used to wear it.

  Then, a sharp tap on my back snapped me out of my thoughts. I almost jumped, my heart lurching.

  “Alright, alright,” Rook’s voice broke through the silence, his tone teasing. “The bet. You’ve won again this time.”

  I blinked, then cursed myself for not remembering. Damn him, always so eager to remind me. If he hadn’t said anything, I probably wouldn’t have cared. But Rook—he liked to keep score, liked to win. He probably hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Me? I barely kept track of the bets anymore. What was it this time?

  The bets never really mattered. But Rook? He made them into a game, a way to feel like something—anything—mattered in this godforsaken place.

  I muttered under my breath, “You’ve just lost a portion of your food. That’s depressing.”

  Rook laughed softly, the sound a little too loud for the atmosphere. “Surely is. But I just don’t get why you’re so good at this.”

  "That's why you need to stop with these betting games," I muttered, voice low. "You always lose more than you gain. You get that? It's stupid."

  Rook didn’t miss a beat. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "But seriously, stop. You sound like some old, bald bastard preaching about morals. Cut it out." He chuckled, that same laugh that always rubbed me the wrong way. But I let it slide.

  Hours passed, stretching longer than they had any right to. I couldn’t see the moon, but I figured it was already morning. At least midnight, for sure. We’d been waiting for food, but it never came when we thought it would. So we waited until morning, because that’s what you do when you're locked up. You wait. The food, when it finally showed up, wasn’t bad—if you didn’t mind the taste of disappointment. No surprise there. I wasn’t expecting a feast, but damn, I’d hoped for something better than a chunk of jerky and a bowl of what looked like puke. Still, I ate it. Couldn’t afford to let my stomach growl louder than my pride.

  I glanced at the man sitting in the corner. He hadn't moved since we walked in. Was he dead? Or asleep? His stillness was unnerving, and I couldn’t decide which was worse.

  “Hey, Galt, there’s that damn cat again!” Rook shouted, too loudly, too eagerly. His voice bounced off the stone walls, drawing the attention of the other slaves in nearby cells. And, unexpectedly, waking up the man who’d been completely still up until then.

  The cat? The black one with the golden eyes?