"Who are you?"
The muscles in Frid's legs and left arm tensed as he stared her down, his body already coiled for action. One sign that she understood more than she should, that she might give something away—and he would end her life without hesitation. He couldn't allow things to fall apart at the very start.
Astelle didn't recoil under his gaze. If anything, she seemed to study him in return, her eyes far too calm for someone in her position. There was no fear in them—in fact, the longer his words hung in the air, the more her curiosity seemed to grow.
"I can tell," she said lightly, tilting her head. "You're quite something. I've never seen anyone like you... but I'm not looking to fight you right now."
Frid said nothing. At first, his tension had come from the possibility of this woman throwing things off, but now his senses caught onto something else entirely. Her posture was completely relaxed, open—yet something about her scraped against his instincts, setting them on edge. He gauged the distance between them, traced possible attack paths in his mind, but still, something screamed at him to hesitate. Then the realisation struck, and he let himself ease.
"You're one of those," he muttered, exhaling sharply.
"Those?" Astelle questioned.
Frid launched forward, moving faster than any ordinary eye could track. Astelle reacted almost lazily, deflecting his hand as it shot toward her throat, the force grazing her shoulder without slowing her stride.
They traded a storm of strikes, each blow met with a precise parry, bodies twisting and sliding just out of lethal range. Frid dropped low to avoid a wide swipe aimed at his face and swept his leg toward hers, throwing her off balance. With a fluid twist of raw strength and momentum, he propelled himself into a handstand. Spinning through the air, he delivered a brutal axe kick from the inverted position, the motion seamless and as deadly as it was graceful.
The ground beneath her lightly buckled; if it hadn't been solid stone built over the earth, she might have collapsed entirely through. Astelle, however, remained unharmed. She stayed low on one knee, hands crossed above her in a guard, a faint glow pulsing from her arms.
"One of those," he said, springing back into a loose stance, returning to his original position.
"Ah," Astelle replied, comprehension flickering across her face. "That's what you meant."
Frid sat himself back onto the bench he'd been resting on moments earlier, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He cast the young woman a sideways glance.
"So… you want to join us," he said flatly. "And how, exactly, are we supposed to trust you?"
Astelle took a seat on a bench to his right, deliberately leaving one empty between them. Her face scrunched as she tried to grasp the intent behind his question.
"It's only natural that anyone would want to be free," she said, turning her body to face him directly. "Why would I deliberately throw that chance away?"
He scoffed. "That would be the rational way to think, normally. But people who've lived in bondage too long are never well." His gaze hardened. "It's not unheard of for some to try to find comfort in their shackles, even if it means throwing everyone else into the flames."
"That is true," Pendrick cut in dryly, "and it would apply… if she'd been a slave for longer than a week."
Frid finally looked at Pendrick for the first time since Astelle had appeared. Even with his face covered, the others could tell he was taken aback by the remark.
"…And how do you know this? You know her?" he asked, his tone almost sheepish, realising he might be the outsider in the conversation.
Pendrick considered letting Frid stew in the absence of answers. He glanced at Astelle, expecting her to clarify, but found her staring back with equal confusion.
'She doesn't know?' he thought in disbelief.
He had to admit it was a blow to his pride. He knew he wasn't anything special, but this was a bit much. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, silently cursing whatever force it was that took pleasure in his misery.
"We have the same owner," Pendrick explained. "I only ever really saw her when she first arrived, but it should be obvious that I couldn't have mistaken her."
A flicker of understanding passed over the other two. For Astelle, recognition finally clicked, and she remembered catching sight of the blond training in the corner of her eye the moment she tried to make a break for it, only to collapse in excruciating pain as the mark activated.
Her expression soured at the memory, but then she noticed a peculiar detail prompting her to turn to look at Frid.
'How is he not being affected by the mark, even when openly detailing an escape plan?' she wondered. Even when she had briefly talked about joining them in their endeavour, thoughts of rebellion had crossed her mind. Each time, the mark released sharp flashes of pain, which she managed to suppress only by immediately diverting her attention.
"Alright… that changes things, if that's how it is," Frid said, cutting into her train of thought. He tilted his head. "Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course," Astelle replied without hesitation.
"Then you're in!" Frid exclaimed, suddenly animated as he leaned across the empty bench and thrust out a hand.
"That's all it takes?" Pendrick asked, watching as Frid fervently shook her hand—and Astelle reciprocated without a hitch.
"Well, yeah," Frid said, grinning. "She'll be useful to our plan. With her power and all."
"Our plan?" Pendrick echoed. "I don't remember agreeing to join you."
Frid straightened, his earlier excitement reined in. He glanced at the blond, clearly at a loss for what he'd just heard.
"Come on, man," he said. "Don't be like that."
"What?" Pendrick replied flatly. "For all you know, I might not have the heart to risk trying to get out of this life. You questioned whether you could trust her—so what about me? What makes you so certain you can trust me?
Pendrick stared the man down, impatiently waiting for an answer to settle the unease he felt at apparently having been singled out from the moment they first met.
"Pendrick Dorn."
The blond went rigid the instant the name left Frid's mouth.
"I heard you were quite the guy," Frid continued, voice casual. "But more importantly, I heard you're not the kind of person to stay like this for long."
Pendrick froze, caught off guard. "Who told you…?" Then he snapped. "How do you know that name?!"
"You're a famous guy," Frid said playfully, trying to ease the tension. "Though I'll admit, I didn't know you were a combat slave until today."
"Okay… scratch everything," Pendrick's voice dropped, and the room seemed to grow colder with it. "Now, it's a matter of how I'm supposed to trust you."
"You approached me already knowing things about me," he stepped closer. "Yet I know nothing about you. You knew my name—but you lied about yours."
Frid's posture stiffened; the playfulness drained from him. "I didn't lie."
"Is that so?" Pendrick shot back. "Gewalt."
Astelle stirred at the name, straightening sharply as she turned toward the helmeted man.
"That's not my name," Frid replied flatly.
"Right… though you seemed to respond to it quite well out there," Pendrick said, gesturing toward the arena beyond the walls.
Silence stretched.
Frid rose and stepped closer, looming over Pendrick.
"That. Is. Not. My. Name."
The hostility between them was thick enough to cut, each movement brimming with a potential for violence. Astelle, silent until now, let out a quiet sigh and stepped between them, nudging them apart. "Enough," she said firmly, trying to draw their focus. Both men's glares lingered, their stances stiff, the air still charged with the threat of conflict.
---
- Prestige Booth -
The chatter remained much the same, hollow pleasantries from the nobles interwoven with the merchants' bitter muttering over their losses and bruised egos.
Gavis Balroc, uninvolved with the surrounding buzz, had watched every fight after the first two with open disinterest. He owned no slaves of his own, having never agreed with the practice. He was here solely to maintain business relationships.
The fact that this could even be considered a social gathering was distasteful to him in itself, but life—and certainly ambition—was not lived in isolation. However much he disliked it, he needed some of these people.
He did, however, have to concede that, as a former mercenary, his interest had been unexpectedly piqued by a few of the fighters he had seen today.
That Pendrick lad had displayed sharp wit and an impressive capacity for adaptation. And just before the tournament began, he had encountered a young woman he was almost certain was Gifted.
Gifts were rare in these parts, and those who possessed them barely stayed or appeared at all.
The real standout was the arena's long-standing champion. At first, Balroc had looked down on the establishment as a whole, expecting little from anyone here. He'd assumed it was just padded glory meant to fill seats. He had been wrong. From a professional standpoint, Gewalt was still somewhat crude, but the raw power he wielded was staggering. He had been certain the Gifted girl would emerge victorious, but now…
The current fight drew to a close, leaving little impression—no one in the ring had shown anything particularly remarkable. He observed quietly, his gaze following the announcer as he accepted the sheet listing the next set of fighters.
"Okay, fine people of the audience, it's time for the next bout! Our combatants are—"
Before the announcement could finish, an explosive sound tore through the arena, the entire structure shuddering from the force. Gasps and startled murmurs spread through the crowd as everyone instinctively ducked or braced themselves.
Gavis could immediately pinpoint the source of the commotion, a privilege of the things he had earned from his years on the battlefield. Something was happening in the slave chambers.
"So that confirms it… and it's a significantly strong one," he muttered under his breath, though his words carried clearly enough for the men around him to catch.
The shaken merchants turned their attention to Gavis in unison. Over time, he had come to be regarded as the group's de facto leader. It wasn't just his current wealth or status that earned their respect, but the story of how he had clawed his way there—rising from a mere mercenary to the head of a mercenary organisation, alongside several other ventures that cemented his reputation.
Noticing that he held their attention, he spoke. "Has anyone here entered a young woman with braided purple hair into the competition?"
His gaze swept from the arena to the gathered merchants, waiting for a response.
"Um… yeah, she's one of mine. I acquired her recently."
The voice came from a scrawny, feeble-looking man who suddenly found himself at the centre of everyone's attention.
'This person owns someone like her? Both this girl and Gewalt...slavery truly is a wasteful thing...' Balroc shook his head slightly, staring at Patrick with thinly veiled distaste.
"…And who are you?" Gavis asked.
"Patrick Inford, sir…"
Gavis gave Patrick a brief once-over, finding nothing remarkable about him, yet he nodded in acknowledgement.
"Then let's keep an eye on that one," he said, his tone measured but sharp, eyes already moving beyond the arena in anticipation of her performance.