Morning arrived with all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession, which seemed appropriate given Pyra had just agreed to deliberately get kidnapped by people who did horrible things to prisoners in the name of science.

She lay on her stone floor, staring at the darkness above her cage, and reconsidered every life choice that had led to this moment. The list was long and started with "setting things on fire because it seemed fun" somewhere around age six.

"You're awake early," Ranth observed from his cage. "Usually you sleep until the guards make noise."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Thinking about your next fight?"

"Something like that."

Ranth was quiet for a moment. "You've got that look again. The stupid one."

"I thought we established I don't have a look."

"And I thought we established that you absolutely do." He shifted, chains rattling. "Whatever you're planning, be careful. This place has a way of punishing ambition."

Pyra sat up, wincing at her ribs' continued objections to existing. "What if I'm tired of being careful?"

"Then you'll probably die. But at least you'll die doing something instead of just waiting for it." Ranth's tone was surprisingly gentle. "Just... try not to die, yeah? I've gotten used to having interesting neighbors."

"I'll do my best—oh! I've been meaning to ask. Why are some fighters allowed to use weapons while others aren't? It's hardly fair." As someone whose primary weapon at the moment was a weak spark of flame and a tendency towards overconfidence, this had been bugging Pyra.

Ranth leaned against the side of his cage. "The arena's got strict rules on weapons. No projectile weapons like bows, slings, or javelins. The spectators don't fancy being part of the battle, apparently." He rubbed at a scarred patch of skin along his jaw. "Melee weapons—swords, knives, hammers, that sort of thing—can be approved based on the fighter's past performance."

"Seriously? So the best fighters get to be even more dangerous while the newcomers are stuck trying to fight with just their bodies and whatever they can grab in the arena?"

"Exactly. Keeps things interesting. Keeps people coming back to watch." His fingers traced the ridge of scar tissue. "Fist fights and desperate improvisation are fine for the cheap crowds, but they get bored quick. Spectators pay more to watch experienced killers use real weapons on each other."

"So why didn't you get approved for weapons in your arena fights?" It seemed a relevant question to ask of a veteran gladiator with more scars than polite conversation.

A low rumble came from Ranth's throat. It took a few seconds for Pyra to recognize it as mirthless laughter.

"I did," he said. "I just chose to fight without."

"Why?" A follow-up question immediately arose. "...How?"

"Got approved after my third win." He made a dismissive gesture. "The guards gave me a list of options—weapons previous fighters had used, plus some from old arena stock no one was claiming. I could have chosen a warhammer. Or a flail." He shook his head. "It was tempting. Felt like cheating, somehow, to be offered a weapon when so many of my opponents died by my hand."

"You have a weird relationship with weapons," she observed.

"Maybe. Or maybe everyone else is too quick to use force. There's something satisfying about fighting with bare fists, no other tools involved." A small smile, bittersweet and complicated, flickered across his face. "Besides, once you've used a weapon on another person, you become numb to the act itself. It's all too easy to disconnect. When you kill with your bare hands, when you see the light leave someone's eyes up close, feel their breath stop and their body go still, there's no room for that sort of distance."

Pyra didn't entirely understand. Killing was killing. Whether it was at a distance or up close, what did it matter? But that didn't really matter right now.

"Do you think they'll approve any weapons for me? Because I could really use something other than fire and rocks in that next fight. Or the other next fight. Or the other next next fight. Pretty much always and forever, if we're being honest." The whole fighting-without-weapons situation was getting old. Her ribs agreed. Violently.

"Dunno. They're unpredictable." Ranth gave her a measured look. "If I were you, I'd be focusing on not dying instead of worrying about weapons. Besides, you can conjure fire and move fast enough to avoid hits. Seems pretty strong as-is."

"I'm supposed to be a lot more powerful than this." Pyra made a sputtering noise through her teeth. "And before you start lecturing me on humility and survival, just trust me on this. My fire isn't operating at full power for... reasons. Which I can't really explain."

Especially without admitting she was part of a quintet whose powers got distributed weirdly when they're split. Because that was just too complicated to fit into a casual conversation between arena prisoners.

"Fine," Ranth said. "But even at a tenth of your full strength, you're doing better than most newcomers. Keep that in mind when you get an ego."

"Noted."

The day proceeded with its usual routine—disappointment stew for breakfast, fighters shuffling through corridors, guards discussing odds on tonight's matches. Pyra went through the motions while her brain spun through contingencies and backup plans.

Her fourth fight came that evening against someone called the Viper's Fang, which seemed excessive given the original Viper had only warranted one animal nickname. This one fought with twin short swords and a fighting style that involved lots of spinning, which looked impressive but left him dizzy and vulnerable.

Pyra won in under a minute by tripping him mid-spin and letting momentum do the rest.

The crowd seemed disappointed by the brevity but appreciated the efficiency.

Back in her cage, Pyra found a small cloth bundle tucked into the corner where stone met bars—placed there by someone who knew exactly where guards didn't look during searches.

Inside: a slim blade no longer than her palm, wrapped in dark fabric. A small pendant on a leather cord that thrummed with subtle warmth. A folded paper note scrawled in familiar handwriting:

Blade is treated steel. Won't set off basic detection wards. Pendant amplifies natural magical output by about a third. Wear it under your shirt. Blade hides in your boot lining—there's a sewn pocket on the inside left. Destroy this note.

—M

Pyra memorized the instructions, then held the note to a weak flame until it crumbled to ash. She scattered the remains across her cage floor where they'd blend with the general grime.

The pendant settled cold against her chest, hidden beneath rough fabric. The blade fit perfectly in her boot's modified lining, invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look. Which no one did.

She tried conjuring fire. It came a little faster, burned a little brighter. Definitely felt stronger, though still not at her usual levels. Even with the magical boost, she wasn't going to be casually tossing around fireballs or wreathing herself in flame armor.

But she had a knife now. And she knew the limits of her abilities (mostly).

That had to count for something, right?

Another day brought her fifth fight—a brutal affair against a woman who fought with a chain and apparently no concept of personal space. Pyra spent most of the match dodging, waiting for openings, and using the pendant's boost to finally set her opponent's clothing alight and force a panicked submission.

Five fights. Five wins.

Her body hurt in all sorts of interesting places. Her mind felt like a storm-churned sea. But she'd done it.

At least, part one of this whole stupid plan was finished.

That evening, Malik appeared during his cleaning rounds, pushing his bucket past her cage while whistling something that might have been a folk song or might have been tonal gibberish.

He didn't stop. Didn't acknowledge her. Just kept walking while dropping a small stone that clattered against her bars.

Pyra waited until he'd turned the corner, then retrieved the stone. A message was carved into its surface in tiny letters:

Tomorrow night. Selection starts at dusk. Be ready.

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She palmed the stone, tucked it under her sleeping mat, and tried to ignore the way her stomach was attempting to escape through her throat.

Tomorrow.

One more day of being a caged fighter.

Then she'd be a different kind of prisoner entirely.

The next day stretched like taffy being pulled by someone who really enjoyed watching people squirm. Pyra tried to focus on her upcoming fight—her sixth, against an opponent called Mountain's Shadow, who apparently earned the name by being roughly the size of a geographic feature.

But her brain kept drifting to tonight. To the plan. To all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong.

"You're distracted," Ranth observed during the afternoon lull.

"Just nervous about tonight's fight."

"Liar. You get a different expression when you're nervous about fighting. This is your 'contemplating terrible decisions' expression." He studied her through the bars between their cages. "I'm not going to ask what you're planning. Don't want to know. But Pyra?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever happens tonight, you fought well. Better than most. That counts for something."

Pyra's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Thanks, Ranth."

"Don't thank me yet. You might still die horribly."

"You're a real comfort."

"I'm realistic. There's a difference."

Evening came with the usual pre-fight chaos—guards herding fighters toward the holding area, the distant roar of the crowd settling into their seats, the particular energy that came from people gathering to watch violence as entertainment.

Pyra's fight was scheduled fourth. The selection event would start during the intermission after the sixth match, giving the Silent Hand representatives time to observe the final fighters before making their choices.

Perfect timing. Assuming everything went according to plan.

Which it wouldn't, because plans never survived contact with reality, but at least they had a framework for how things would go wrong.

The holding area buzzed with more tension than usual. Fighters whispered among themselves, casting nervous glances toward guards who seemed more alert than normal. The air felt charged, like a storm building pressure before breaking.

"Buyers are here early," someone muttered. "Saw them arrive during the second match."

"Means they're serious about tonight's picks."

"Means we're all screwed."

Pyra kept to her corner, watching, listening, cataloging information while her fingers found the pendant hidden beneath her shirt. The magical amplification thrummed against her skin.

Her match came. Mountain's Shadow turned out to be exactly as large and exactly as difficult to damage as his name suggested. Pyra spent most of the fight running, dodging, looking for weaknesses while the crowd grew increasingly frustrated with the lack of decisive violence.

She found her opening when Mountain's Shadow overextended, reaching for her. His balance shifted forward, weight on his front foot. Pyra dropped low, drove her shoulder into his knee with flame-enhanced force, and felt something give with a sickening pop.

The big man went down hard. Stayed down.

The crowd erupted. Apparently, tactical knee destruction counted as entertainment after all.

Back in the holding area, Pyra collapsed onto a bench while the healer examined her new collection of bruises. Nothing serious. Nothing that would interfere with tonight's plan.

"That's six," the healer muttered, more to herself than Pyra. "Six wins. Other than Ranth and a few favorites, not many get past three. You're tougher than you look."

"Luck counts," Pyra said, remembering Malik's words. "So does being really stubborn about dying."

The sixth match ended. Guards began clearing the arena floor, preparing for the intermission. Fighters were herded toward a larger holding chamber. It was different from the usual post-fight area, with better lighting and more space.

This was it—the selection event.

Fighters jostled and muttered, their collective anxiety like a living thing among them. Guards shouted orders, directing prisoners toward a central stage. There weren't enough benches, so Pyra leaned against a side wall, observing, waiting, ready.

She spotted Malik moving among the staff—carrying equipment, offering assistance, blending into the backdrop. His gaze caught hers, held, communicated something between warning and readiness.

The door at the far end of the chamber opened. Three figures entered, accompanied by four bodyguards and a trail of whispers through the watching fighters.

Silver masks. Intricate, swirling designs etched in subtle shades.

The Silent Hand.

Ross, the accountant-pirate, stood at a podium with his ledger, reading from prepared notes. "The following fighters have been selected for potential acquisition based on performance criteria established by our honored guests. Each will demonstrate capabilities as directed."

He called names. One by one, fighters stepped forward to perform their demonstrations. The Silent Hand representatives observed, occasionally making notes on small tablets, never speaking.

When Pyra's turn came, Ross gestured her to the center of the chamber. "The Flame-Haired Wonder, six-time winner with unexplained magical abilities." His tone suggested these weren't necessarily positive qualities. Tough crowd. "Please demonstrate your pyromancy, agility, and reflexes."

One of the masked figures raised a hand. Their voice was distorted, filtered through some magical effect that made it impossible to identify as male or female. "Demonstrate flame intensity and control."

Pyra raised her hands, summoning fire. The catalyst pendant helped, letting her produce flames that actually looked impressive instead of pathetic. She made the fire dance across her knuckles, twirl up her arms, spiral around her body.

"Acceptable," the masked figure said. "Next candidate."

The remaining fighters demonstrated their capabilities. Ranth's turn came, and the Silent Hand seemed mildly interested by his physical strength. Apparently, barehanded pugilism was less spectacular than throwing fire.

When demonstrations concluded, the three masked figures withdrew to the far corner, conferring in voices too low to hear. Minutes stretched into eternity. Fighters shifted nervously. Guards stood ready.

Finally, the central figure returned, addressing Voss. "We will acquire four. The flame-user, Ranth the pugilist, Serris the chain-fighter, and the one with inherent regeneration, Dorvus. Prepare them for transport immediately."

"The usual price?" Ross asked.

"Yes."

"Excellent." Ross made notes in his ledger. "They'll be prepared for transport within the hour."

Ranth's expression went carefully blank. Pyra kept hers neutral, watching the Silent Hand exit. Guards began separating the selected four from the others, herding them toward a different exit.

Pyra's mind raced. The plan was working. She was being bought. Malik's contacts would follow. She'd gather intelligence, get extracted, and everyone would be fine.

Except Ranth was coming too. He hadn't been part of the plan. And the other two—her stomach twisted at the thought of them facing whatever experiments awaited.

Should she tell them? Could she tell them without compromising everything? What if one of them panicked, tried to escape, ruined the entire operation?

They were led to a preparation chamber where their arena clothing was replaced with simple gray tunics. The hidden blade stayed in Pyra's boot wrappings—guards didn't check thoroughly, just as Malik had predicted. The catalyst pendant went under her new shirt.

Through all of this, Malik moved among the arena staff, never meeting her eyes directly but positioning himself where she could see him. The message was clear: stick to the plan.

But the plan hadn't accounted for three other prisoners.

They were herded into a covered wagon, hands bound with a rough rope that wasn't tight enough to cut circulation but firm enough to prevent easy escape. Guards secured the wagon's rear door, and then they were moving, rolling through corridors Pyra had never seen, up ramps that led toward surface streets.

Inside the wagon, cramped and dark, the four prisoners sat in silence.

Ranth broke it first. "Well. This is it."

"We don't know that," Serris countered, his voice tense. "Maybe they're just selling us to another arena."

"They're not," Dorvus said, quiet and resigned. "We all know what happens to bought fighters."

More silence. The wagon wheels rattled over cobblestones, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.

Pyra's mind spun through options. Malik's contacts were following. The plan was to mark the route, observe the facility, get extracted. Simple.

But the others weren't part of that plan.

What could she do? Ditch the whole thing? Break them free? That'd blow her cover. Ruin the mission. Throw away her chance at helping these people long-term. And there was no guarantee they'd all make it to safety.

"Listen," Pyra said quietly. "I need to tell you something."

Three pairs of eyes turned toward her in the wagon's darkness.

"There's a plan. Someone on the outside is tracking this wagon. They're going to extract us before anything permanent happens." She spoke quickly, keeping her voice low. "But you need to stay calm. Don't try to escape yet. Don't do anything that draws attention. Just observe, stay alive, and when the moment comes, be ready to move."

Silence stretched.

"Who?" Ranth finally asked. "Who's tracking us?"

"A bard named Malik. He's been investigating the Silent Hand. Got himself hired as arena staff to gather intelligence. This is his operation."

"A bard." Serris didn't sound impressed. "We're trusting our lives to a bard."

"Better than trusting them to the people who bought us."

Dorvus leaned forward. "How do you know this? How do you know he's real?"

"Because I talked to him days ago. He set this up. He's been preparing for this. He wants to know where they take purchased fighters. What they do to them. He needs inside intelligence."

More silence. Serris shook his head. "I don't like this. Why should we trust you?"

Pyra inhaled slowly. "You don't have to trust me. But ask yourself—what's your alternative? If I'm right and there's a chance to escape, you can take it. If I'm wrong and there's nothing coming, you're no worse off than before."

Silence again. Wheels rattling.

"When you were planning something stupid," Ranth said. "When you had your 'bad idea face' on." His expression was somewhere between bemusement and respect. "You planned this."

Pyra shifted, her back pressed against the wagon's wooden side. "Kinda. I was supposed to get bought so I could scout their facility and figure out their experiments."

"But we weren't part of the plan."

"No. But that doesn't change anything. You're all getting out of this. I'll make sure of it." Pyra met his eyes in the dim light filtering through wagon slats. "Look, I know it's not perfect. I know you have no reason to trust me. But we've got two choices—panic now and definitely get killed, or stay calm and maybe survive."

The wagon hit a bump, sending them all swaying. Pyra marked it mentally—rough road, probably leaving the city proper.

"I'm in," Ranth said finally. "Not like I've got better options."

Dorvus exhaled, his breath shaky. "Me too. What can it hurt at this point?"

All eyes turned to Serris. He frowned. "Fine. Let's say I'm cautiously optimistic. But if your bard doesn't come through, or if your bard gets us all killed, I'm haunting both of you."

Pyra exhaled slowly, tension easing slightly. It'd take more than a vague plan and reassurances for these fighters to fully trust her. But for now, they weren't trying to strangle each other. Or her.

Which was progress.

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