Volantis burned beneath its own beauty.
By night, the city glimmered like a crown of dying stars — gold-veined marble, black stone, the endless shimmer of torches reflected on water. Perfume drifted through the air, trying and failing to hide the stench of sweat, sea, and iron.
Kaine walked through it alone.
His steps were soft, unhurried, his gaze calm as he passed through the market quarter. Merchants packed their stalls with gleaming trinkets, gilded daggers, and jars of scented oil. Behind them, slaves waited in silence — pale eyes, dark collars, and the stillness of those who had forgotten what choice felt like.
A nobleman laughed as his servant stumbled under the weight of a jeweled chest. A child watched them pass, hollow-eyed.
Kaine's gaze lingered on the boy for a moment, then moved on.
The same stories, told in different tongues. Empires change. The cruelty doesn't.
The sound reached him long before the arena did — a slow, rhythmic thunder of drums, broken by the roar of a thousand voices. The crowd's excitement pulsed through the streets like blood through veins.
The coliseum rose from the heart of the city — carved from dark volcanic stone, its walls etched with old victories and forgotten gods. Fires burned in iron braziers along its rim, their light spilling down like molten gold.
Kaine entered with the tide of nobles and merchants streaming toward the stands. The scent of spiced wine and sweat filled the corridors. Slaves ushered guests to their seats, their hands trembling under jeweled cups and silver trays.
He found a place among the highborn — a section draped in velvet and guarded by men with lion-crested spears.
The crowd's roar swelled again as two fighters met in the sand below.
One fought for gold, the other for the promise of freedom — though Kaine could tell neither truly understood the difference. Steel clashed. The crowd cheered. Blood painted the dust red.
Beside him, a richly dressed merchant turned with an eager grin, wine sloshing from his cup. "First time in Volantis, friend?"
Kaine's tone was even. "Passing through."
"Ah!" The man laughed, his rings glinting in the firelight. "Then you've chosen well! There's no better entertainment east of Braavos. Look down there — that's art, not violence. Discipline. Beauty in blood."
Kaine's eyes stayed on the fighters. "And what do they get for their beauty?"
"Coin, glory, a name sung by the crowd!" the man said proudly.
"Until they lose it."
The merchant chuckled, uneasy. "You speak like a priest. Or a philosopher."
"I've been called worse."
Below, one fighter fell — his throat cut clean, his body crumpling into the sand. The victor raised his sword to the thunder of applause. The dead man's body was dragged away, leaving only a red smear behind.
"Magnificent!" the merchant shouted. "You see? That is the glory of Volantis — where men become more than mortal!"
Kaine's eyes glinted faintly. "Or less."
The man's smile faltered.
Kaine leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping the arena. The flicker in his eyes returned — faint light dancing in black. For a heartbeat, the world opened to him.
He saw through the stone.
Guards stationed behind every arch. Pitmasters pacing near the cages. Slaves huddled together in a low chamber, their chains faintly humming as they trembled in silence. Fighters stood apart — better fed, better armed, but no freer.
Two sides of the same cage.
The roar below pulled him back.
The announcer's voice rose above the noise, smooth and practiced. "Citizens of Volantis! You have seen champions of Myr, Lys, Norvos, and Braavos! You have witnessed courage and steel — but now, prepare yourselves for the one who stands above them all!"
The crowd cheered, some rising to their feet.
The merchant beside Kaine grinned. "Ah! You're in for a treat now. The Demon herself fights tonight."
"So I've heard."
"They say she came from Westeros," the man said eagerly. "Half northman, half Essosi. A mix of fire and frost. The gods themselves must've forged her temper."
Kaine tilted his head slightly. "Or shattered it."
The merchant hesitated, then laughed nervously. "You'll see soon enough."
The announcer spread his arms wide, his voice echoing across the pit. "The undefeated. The unbroken. The Demon of the Pit!"
The crowd fell silent.
Then came the sound — chains.
A deep, metallic rhythm dragging across stone.
The great black gate at the far end of the arena creaked open. Torchlight spilled into the darkness beyond.
And she emerged.
Her wrists and ankles were bound in thick black iron, the chains connecting them heavy enough to break any ordinary fighter. Yet she moved as if they weighed nothing — calm, measured, each step deliberate.
The crowd's roar faltered, replaced by a murmur of awe and unease.
Even the guards who escorted her stopped short, keeping their distance. They carried their spears like men who knew they would not be fast enough if she turned.
The merchant beside Kaine swallowed hard. "She's… chained?"
Kaine didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on her.
Her skin, pale beneath the dust, caught the firelight. Old scars marked her arms and shoulders — not wounds, but stories. Her hair was dark as oil, braided down her back, gleaming faintly like tempered steel.
When she lifted her head, her eyes found the crowd.
Gray — cold, burning, alive.
They carried the stillness of a storm before it breaks.
The announcer's voice quavered as he spoke again, listing her victories. "Three hundred bouts… three hundred triumphs… and not one defeat."
The crowd began to cheer again, though softer this time — a forced bravado to hide the discomfort crawling up their spines.
Rhael, the merchant, exhaled shakily. "The stories don't do her justice."
"They never do."
Kaine's eyes didn't leave her.
The chains aren't for her. They're for them — comfort for the frightened, illusion for the powerful.
The Demon turned her head slightly, scanning the stands. When her gaze brushed his, the air seemed to shift — heavy, electric.
For a moment, the sound of the crowd disappeared.
Kaine's eyes darkened, the faint silver within them shimmering like a reflection in water.
That look… not rage. Not madness. Just purpose refined by pain.
The merchant whispered beside him, "You'd think she was a goddess."
Kaine's tone was quiet, almost reverent. "No. The gods bleed easier."
The merchant blinked. "What?"
But Kaine didn't reply.
The chains rattled as the Demon turned toward the pitmaster. The sound alone silenced the nearest rows. She did not bow. She did not kneel.
She simply waited.
The announcer's voice faltered again, his hands trembling slightly as he raised them toward the audience. "Let the games… begin!"
The gong sounded — a single, heavy note that made the ground tremble.
The crowd roared, trying to drown its own fear.
But Kaine only sat still, watching the woman in chains stand tall beneath the weight of a thousand eyes.
Even bound, she commands the stage.
He leaned back slightly, his voice a quiet murmur beneath the storm of cheers.
"Let's see," he said, "how the world's cage fares against its own creation."