A dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind Luke's eyes like a heartbeat gone wrong.
He tried to move and immediately regretted it. His ribs protested, his face felt like gravel, and his throat was dry enough to crack. The first breath he managed came with a groan.
"Still alive," said a voice nearby. "Disappointing."
Luke blinked through the haze until the shape beside him came into focus — Elias, bandaged across the chest, a thin grin on his split lip.
"Elias?" Luke rasped.
"In the flesh. Barely." Elias lifted an arm, flexing his fingers like he wasn't sure they still worked. "You've been out for a while."
"How long?"
"Half a day, maybe. Hard to tell — no windows."
Luke turned his head, eyes adjusting. The infirmary wasn't large — a row of narrow metal cots lined the wall, each occupied by groaning fighters in various states of ruin. A soft hum filled the air from the ceiling vents, carrying the faint antiseptic tang of healing dust — the same energy used in healing chambers.
He glanced down. His chest was wrapped tight in clean white gauze, glowing faintly at the seams.
"I think they patched us up," Luke muttered. "That's… new."
"Yeah," Elias said, "probably so they can question us before tossing us out."
Luke frowned. "Question us for what?"
Elias gave him a look. "For being us, Luke. Two nobodies with bad armor who somehow made it to the Crown's biggest tournament. You really think they're gonna throw us a parade?"
Luke tried to laugh — it came out as a cough. "You're saying we're in trouble."
"I'm saying we might've just committed social suicide on a national broadcast."
---
For a while, they lay in silence, the muffled sounds of other patients filling the air — groans, whispered curses, the occasional hiss of a medic applying Nova gel.
Luke stared at the ceiling. "Still worth it," he said softly.
Elias turned his head. "Huh?"
"That rush. The crowd. The fight." Luke smiled faintly. "Even if it was just for a few minutes… it felt like we mattered."
Elias didn't reply right away. His gaze softened, the usual sarcasm slipping for a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "It did."
They both fell quiet again. The memory of the arena burned behind their eyes — the roar of the crowd, the light, the raw chaos. For a moment, they'd felt like something more than miners.
Then the door opened.
The sound of boots echoed through the infirmary — heavy, deliberate, official. A guard stepped in, flanked by two others in black and silver armor bearing the Crown's sigil. Their presence alone made the air heavier.
Conversations stopped. Even the medics froze mid-step.
Luke felt the hairs on his neck rise.
The lead guard scanned the room, his gaze sharp and impassive, until it settled on the two of them.
"Luke. Elias."
Elias groaned. "You've got to be kidding me."
The guard continued, voice clipped and precise. "You're to come with us."
Luke hesitated. "Why?"
The guard didn't answer. Instead, he held out a pair of cuffs — sleek metal bands that clicked open like jaws.
"Oh, come on," Elias muttered, sitting up. "We just got patched up. At least let us limp out on our own dignity."
"Orders," the guard said simply.
Luke and Elias exchanged a look — the same look they always shared right before something terrible happened.
Luke sighed. "Guess that's a no on the parade, huh?"
"Shut up and move," Elias said, swinging his legs off the cot. "Maybe if we're lucky, it's just for trespassing."
"Oh yeah," Luke said dryly. "Just trespassing in the Royal Tournament Arena. That'll go over great."
Elias shot him a glare, but even through the exhaustion, there was a hint of amusement.
"Don't say anything stupid when we get there," Elias muttered under his breath as the guards led them toward the exit.
"I never say anything stupid."
"That sentence alone proves otherwise."
The corridor outside the infirmary was long and dimly lit, its walls of polished steel reflecting ghostly images as they walked. The sound of their boots — and the faint jingle of cuffs — echoed down the hall.
No one spoke.
Luke's mind raced, flipping through possibilities: arrest, interrogation, punishment, exile. Maybe all four.
They turned a corner, descended a narrow flight of stairs, and entered a colder, darker hall lined with cell doors.
The guards stopped before one of them — a small chamber reinforced with bars and a single light strip.
"This one," the lead guard said.
They shoved the door open and gestured inside.
Elias sighed. "Luxury accommodations, as always."
Luke stepped in, the cold stone biting through his boots. The cell wasn't large — barely enough room for a bench and a sink — but after the arena, it almost felt peaceful.
Almost.
The door slammed shut behind them with a metallic clang. The lock engaged with a hiss of hydraulics.
Silence again.
Elias sank onto the bench, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been. "So… any idea how long we're staying?"
Luke leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. "Until they decide what to do with us."
"Great." Elias tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. "You know, I think I preferred the part where we were getting punched by ten-foot gladiators."
Luke chuckled weakly. "Yeah. At least then we knew who the enemy was."
They sat in silence for a while before the bickering started — because of course it did.
Elias broke first. "This was your idea, you know."
Luke's eyes opened. "What?"
"The tournament. The sneaking. The stealing armor. You said, and I quote, 'What's the worst that could happen?'"
Luke lifted a finger. "Technically, I said, 'What's the worst that could happen if we win.' Subtle difference."
"Oh yeah? Well congratulations — we didn't win, and we're still screwed."
Luke smirked. "You didn't seem to mind when the crowd was chanting for us."
Elias pointed at him. "That's called adrenaline, not approval!"
"Oh come on, you loved it. Admit it."
"I loved not dying! There's a difference!"
Luke laughed, wincing as pain shot through his side. "You're just mad because I got the louder cheer."
"You got hit in the face by a hammer the size of a door!"
"Exactly. Crowd loves a survivor."
Elias groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Unbelievable. I'm trapped in a cell with the most delusional man alive."
Luke leaned back, grinning faintly despite the throbbing in his jaw. "Could be worse."
"Oh yeah? How?"
"At least they didn't feed us back to the mines."
Elias paused, considering that. "…Yet."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy — it was tired. Shared.
Two boys from the dark, sitting in the heart of the Crown's domain, bruised and cuffed and still somehow laughing.
Luke exhaled softly. "You think Reina saw us?"
Elias shrugged. "Probably. Everyone did."
"Think she'll tell?"
Elias tilted his head. "You kidding? She's probably sitting there trying to figure out how we didn't get crushed in the first minute."
Luke smiled. "She always did say we were too stubborn to die."
Elias smirked faintly. "Yeah. And too stupid to quit."
They both laughed — quiet, worn-out laughter that filled the little cell like an echo of something almost hopeful.
Then, from somewhere down the hall, came the sound of footsteps.
Different this time — slower, heavier, deliberate.
Elias's humor faded. "That doesn't sound like a guard."
The steps stopped right outside their cell. The small viewing slit in the door slid open with a metallic scrape.
Two eyes peered through — sharp, cold, intelligent.
The silence stretched.
Then a voice, calm and precise, said:
"Luke. Elias. You've caused quite a spectacle."
Luke stiffened. Elias sat up straight.
The slit closed again, and the lock hissed.
The door opened.
A figure stepped inside — not a guard, not an overseer. Someone dressed in the sleek uniform of the Nova's personal retinue, the symbol of radiant flame glinting on their collar.
"On your feet," the envoy said. "The Nova wishes to speak with you."
Luke blinked. "Wait— what?"
Elias shot him a look that said don't you dare talk right now.
But Luke, as always, did anyway. "You sure you've got the right vermin?"
The envoy's expression didn't change. "Oh, I'm certain."
Elias groaned softly. "We're so dead."