The Ice Elf city didn't glitter.It groaned.
Frostmere was carved into the frozen cliffs like someone had tried to bury a dream and forgot to finish the job. Bridges of ice crossed caverns glowing faint blue from trapped mana. The higher tiers belonged to the ones with warm fires. We lived where the ice sweated.
Our boat was our house now—half-sunk in a frozen canal, tilted just enough to make sleep philosophical.Kayra turned the hold into a lab. Klaus worked odd guard shifts. Ragnar disappeared every night and came back with silver that smelled like blood and applause.
"You're joining tonight," he said, grinning like someone who'd already forgiven me for dying.
"Joining what?"
"The Club. Frostmere's Poor Pit. You fight, you eat. You lose, you get trampled by drunks. Tradition."
Lucifer leaned upside-down from the boat's mast, eating a frozen apple like gravity was optional. His body shimmered like smoke held together by intent, eyes flickering ember-red."Nothing says cultural exchange like poverty with betting slips," he said. "Take notes, kiddo. The economy's built on pain with good lighting."
1. The Descent
The pit was beneath the frozen canals—stone tunnels carved long ago by elves who thought eternity meant architecture. Now they held broken benches, torches, and smell.
Two shrines faced each other across the arena: one of black obsidian, one of white ice. Between them lay a shallow ring of chalk and blood, runes scratched so often they had muscle memory.
"Rules are simple," Ragnar said. "You sit at the shrine. You call your Elf. You make people regret betting against you."
"And if I lose?"
He smiled. "Try not to."
The crowd was a choir of coughs and hunger. They bet with coppers, dried meat, and pride.Lucifer perched above on a wooden beam, swinging his legs, scarf fluttering in a wind that wasn't there. "Smile," he told me. "You're about to learn the first law of survival—pain sells."
2. The Summoning
I knelt before the Obsidian Shrine. The runes hissed under my hand like recognition.
The tattoo on my arm burned—a coal waking up.From the mark, shadow smoke bled outward, pooling, shaping, breathing.
Then she rose: my Shadow Elf.Tall, weightless, her body a sculpted silhouette of black glass and violet veins. The scythe grew from her hand as naturally as silence grows from a grave.
Across the ring, my opponent—a broad-shouldered human with frost burns across his face—sat before the Ice Shrine. His Frost Elf formed like a statue of snow and steel, wielding twin axes of frozen light.
The announcer, if you could call a man missing most of his teeth that, yelled:"Round one! Shadow vs. Frost!"
The crowd roared. The shrines hummed.
3. The Fight
The Frost Elf moved first, a blur of white arcs.My Shadow Elf countered, sliding into darkness—vanishing through the ground and reappearing behind. Her scythe cut low, tracing a violet crescent.
Shadow Slash.Light bled black.
The Frost Elf staggered but didn't fall. Ice regrew over its wound. It spun—frost exploded outward like knives. My Shadow Elf raised her hand—Shadow Step—and blinked past the storm, her form splitting into three overlapping afterimages.
I felt every move in my bones. My breath matched hers. When she was struck, my ribs ached.
Lucifer watched from above, eating another apple. "Not bad, kiddo. But remember—showmanship! They bet harder when you bleed artistically."
The Frost Elf charged again.I felt her hesitation—mine, mirrored. Then the mark pulsed, commanding resolve.We moved as one: a half-step forward, blade drawn in silence.
Shadow Step → Shadow Slash.
The scythe carved a perfect crescent through the Frost Elf's chest. The sound was air surrendering. Ice cracked, light burst, and the spirit shattered into frost dust.
The crowd froze, then erupted. Coins hit the ground like rain.
Lucifer whistled. "See? Even poverty loves a good story."
4. The Price of Winning
I staggered back as the Shadow Elf dissolved into mist, returning to my mark. My hand shook; the tattoo glowed faintly violet before fading to dull warmth.
Ragnar grabbed my shoulder, laughing. "You just paid for dinner and rent."
"What about pride?" I said.
He grinned. "We'll buy that next month."
Lucifer dropped from the rafters and landed soundlessly beside me. He handed me a piece of flatbread stolen from someone's bag. "Congratulations," he said. "You've officially learned capitalism. Bleed, sell, repeat."
"You're real enough to steal food now?" I asked.
"Real's a negotiation," he said, chewing. "I'm as real as you need me to be. And tonight, apparently, you needed a mascot."
The crowd chanted my name wrong—"Ezer," "Eon," "Ezo." It didn't matter. They'd seen the scythe, the light, the shadow.
And in Frostmere, names didn't earn respect. Survival did.
5. The Night After
We climbed back to the canal level with a handful of coins and frost smoke still clinging to our boots. Kayra waited in the ship's hull, boiling herbs. Klaus was already asleep, armor on.
"You fought," she said.
"I won."
She smiled, faint and tired. "Then we eat."
Lucifer sat cross-legged on the table, licking frost off the apple core. "Don't get used to it, kiddo. Victory's a loan with bad interest."
"Yeah?" I said. "Then I'll pay with shadows."
He grinned. "Good answer."
Outside, Frostmere's aurora flickered green and cold across the sky—like the world was watching through cracked glass.The mark on my arm pulsed once, and for the first time, I swore I heard the Shadow Elf whisper back:
"More."
End of Chapter 9 — The Pit of the Poor