Darkness nests in every soul. Give it a crack, and it seeps—slow, methodical—until nothing glows.
"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The human soul is fragile. When darkness comes, we kneel.
"Kill her!" the crowd shouted.
"Thirty silver on the orc!" a trader called.
"Sun Guardians—that all?" a noble sneered.
From my cage in Nublis, I watched her bare her teeth. The jeers pressed against her like weight. They weren't wrong.
The Twilight Sanctum was a deep stone pit, banners hanging from the walls depicting the deaths of past champions. Two combatants fought on cold sand, scarred and slick with old blood.
The pit wasn't just an arena. It was a market. Traders prowled the edges, scanning for value. Sex slaves. Worker slaves. Fighter slaves. Some were rare, some broken—but a few were destined for food. Like me.
Scar, a half-orc with dried-blood skin and short green hair, was a veteran gladiator. His chest heaved with every step. Bruises bloomed where he struck, sweat and blood streaking his face. Knuckles were white, aura flickering yellow like embers.
She was seven—or at least she looked seven. Her face was small, but her eyes held a weight no child should carry. She stored sunlight and released it as fire, her movements precise and dangerous even under the gray sky.
Scar roared and swung, steel whistling against sand. She twisted, feet skimming the ground. The crowd's cheers faded into stone-cold silence. Her aura flared, crimson hair igniting briefly, heat licking her armor. Each strike landed, wet and heavy.
One thrust. Heart. His chest heaved once more. Then still.
She stood over him, breathing hard. Sand and sweat clung to her skin. The body beneath her boots twitched faintly. Guards came. She dropped the blade and let them drag her away.
Noon. The feeding pit beneath the Sanctum, called the "dining area," smelled of blood, iron, and refuse. Slop gray, meat low. They used the dead, and refuse meant starvation. Revolt required strength, and strength required fuel. Guards lined the walls. The sand was the same. The stench was the same.
I crouched in a corner, silent. Today's meat had been Scar. Butchered. Roasted. Served.
That night, the footsteps returned. Always the same. Always silent.