Aiden didn't know how long he had been in the darkness, but the first rays of dawn brought no comfort. They brought noise.
A deep, guttural chant began to echo through the stone corridors, growing louder and more frenzied with every passing second. It was a chorus of savage voices, a single, repeated phrase that made his blood run cold.
"FIGHT OR DIE! FIGHT OR DIE!"
He scrambled to his feet, his body aching, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He pressed himself against the cold wall of his cell, listening. The sound was coming from outside. An arena. A pit.
Suddenly, with a loud, grinding groan, the heavy iron lock on his cell door began to turn on its own. The door swung open, revealing not a guard, but a corridor leading towards the source of the roaring crowd.
And in the middle of the corridor, planted point-down in the dirt floor, was his sword.
It was a simple, elegant longsword, the hilt wrapped in worn leather, the pommel bearing the Dravenheart crest. A piece of home. A piece of himself.
With a hesitant step, he walked out of the cell and wrapped his hand around the hilt. The familiar weight was a small comfort in this terrifying place. As he pulled the blade from the ground, the Hunter Chief emerged from a side passage, his dragon-bone staff tapping a slow, menacing rhythm.
"Welcome to our main arena, Prince," the Chief boomed, his voice easily cutting through the crowd's chants. "We've been waiting to see if a prince's bones are as hard as his mouth."
Aiden said nothing, just gripped his sword tighter, his knuckles white.
The Chief chuckled. "Don't worry. This isn't an execution... not yet. This is a test. We want to see if the Heartstone you carry is worthy. You will fight my best warriors. One by one."
He gestured with his staff towards a large, gated archway that led into the blinding light of the arena. "You will fight for five rounds. One for each of your 'brides.' Every victory for you is a step to safety for them."
As if on cue, the gate screeched open. The crowd's roar intensified.
Five figures emerged, shuffling into the light. They were chained together at the ankles, their wrists bound. And they were all wearing wedding dresses.
The sight hit Aiden like a physical blow. The dresses were simple, white, and already stained with dirt and despair. It was a grotesque, mocking parody of the very life he had been trying to escape.
Lyra was first, her face a mask of pure fury, her eyes burning with a promise of violence. Then came Talia, her chin held high in defiant pride, her sharp eyes already scanning for weaknesses. Eira followed, her expression unnervingly calm, as if she were merely observing a strange ritual. Seraphine was a pale, ghostly figure in the white, and for the first time, Aiden saw a genuine flicker of fear in her violet eyes.
And last was Rina. Tears streamed down her face, but she was trying to be brave, her small frame trembling as she was forced along.
The Chief laughed, a cruel, booming sound. "A little joke, Prince. You ran from a wedding, so we brought you five. Now, the rules are simple." He pointed his staff at Aiden. "Five rounds. One for each 'bride.' Every time you defeat one of my men, one of them will be spared."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper filled with malice. "But if you lose... even once... if you fall, or if you yield... they will all become a consolation prize for my men waiting outside the arena."
The unspoken threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Aiden looked at Rina's terrified face, at Lyra's defiant rage. He saw their lives, their fates, resting squarely on his shoulders. The cynical, bored prince was gone. In his place was a man with a sword and a reason to use it.
"I will fight," Aiden said, his voice low and hard as steel.
"Excellent!" the Chief roared, clapping his hands together. He pointed to the opposite side of the arena. "Then let it begin!"
A massive brute of a man emerged, wielding a rusted, double-headed axe. He was shirtless, his chest a canvas of scars, and he let out a guttural roar as he charged.
Aiden fell into a defensive stance, the roar of the crowd washing over him. The weight of the sword in his hand was no longer just metal. It was the only thing standing between his maids and a fate worse than death.
The first fight had begun.
The brute with the axe was just the prelude. The crowd's roar reached a fever pitch as the first official fighter stepped into the arena. He was tall and lanky, with a manic grin plastered on his face and wild, bloodshot eyes that darted everywhere at once. In his hands, he gripped a long, rusty, iron-tipped spear, which he spun in a dizzying, blurring arc.
He didn't wait for a signal. With a high-pitched shriek, he charged.
Aiden's training took over. He fell into a defensive stance, his sword held at the ready. This wasn't a duel; it was a brawl. The man didn't fight with any recognizable form. He was a whirlwind of aggression, the spear thrusting and slashing in wild, unpredictable patterns. The crowd loved it, bellowing for blood.
Aiden was forced back, his feet digging into the dirt. He parried a thrust, the jarring vibration running up his arm. The spear was faster than he expected. He dodged a sweeping arc, the tip whistling past his ear. A shallow cut opened on his forearm as he sidestepped again. He was bleeding. He was on the defensive. He was losing.
From the side, he could hear them. Lyra was screaming, "KILL HIM, AIDEN! END HIM!" Rina was sobbing openly. Even Talia's voice cut through the noise, sharp and analytical. "He's all offense! His footwork is terrible! Feint left, Aiden! He overcommits!"
Feint left. The words echoed in his head. But the man was too fast, too chaotic. Aiden felt a cold spike of fear. He couldn't keep this up. He was getting tired. The man seemed to be getting stronger.
Then, the spearman made his mistake. Fueled by the crowd's cheers, he wound up for a massive, telegraphed overhand thrust, aiming to impale Aiden through the chest. It was a move born of pure, stupid aggression.
And in that split second, another voice cut through the noise in Aiden's head. The dry, patient voice of his old sword master, back in the castle training yards.
"A boar charges with its tusks, Aiden. It does not think. It does not plan. It only attacks. Do not meet its charge head-on. You are not a rock. You are the river. Redirect it. Use its rage against it."
The spear shot towards him. Time seemed to slow down.
Instead of stepping back, Aiden stepped to the side, into the attack. He didn't block the spear shaft; he deflected it with the flat of his blade, guiding its momentum, redirecting its path. The spearman, expecting to hit solid resistance, found only air. His own forward momentum carried him stumbling past Aiden, completely off-balance.
It was over in a flash.
Before the fighter could recover, Aiden pivoted on his heel. He didn't use the sharp edge of his sword. He swung the pommel in a short, brutal arc. It connected with the back of the spearman's skull with a sickening thud.
The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed in a heap, his spear clattering to the dirt beside him.
For a moment, there was stunned silence. The crowd, so loud just seconds before, was hushed. Aiden stood over the fallen fighter, his chest heaving, his sword held loosely in his hand. He wasn't a killer. But he was a survivor.
The Hunter Chief, seated on a throne of bones and hides, leaned forward. A flicker of something other than cruelty crossed his face. It was interest. He raised a hand.
A guard came forward and, to Aiden's immense relief, unchained Rina from the line. She was still sobbing as she was dragged away towards a side gate, but she was out of the arena. She was safe.
Aiden watched her go, then turned his gaze back to the Chief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
One down. Four to go.