Frid woke up to the chatter and laughter of young children running around outside, drifting in through his open window.
He pushed himself up from the bed, wincing from the ache he felt from the healing wound on his lower back. The memory of Pendrick driving the knife into him flashed through his mind.
"He really stabbed me..." he muttered absentmindedly, scratching the back of his head. "Did I piss him off that much?"
The door opened. A young woman stepped inside carrying a bucket of water, which she promptly set down as she hurried to his side.
"What are you doing just getting up like that?!"
Frid flinched at the loud tone of the voice.
"It's okay, Vora," he said, trying to placate the girl to no avail. "I can handle things like this."
The red-haired girl glared at the man before closing her eyes and sighing.
"You haven't been injured in a fight for five years," she started, her voice cracking. "And you promised me it would never happen again."
Her shoulders lightly trembled as she tried to contain the tears. "You promised."
Frid suddenly felt what he could only describe as a decade's worth of guilt wash over him.
He had to admit that he hadn't really thought much of it when he told her that. He was going to keep getting forced to fight, so he committed to never losing. That was all. He didn't expect her to take it so seriously.
Maybe it was because he never entertained the thought of injury or death that he had downplayed things in his mind like that.
"I'm sorry," he said earnestly, owning up to his guilt. "I really am."
She looked at him, composing herself and slapping him playfully on the top of his head.
"I'll forgive you this one time."
A small smile formed on the man's face. He then remembered something.
"I was so distracted since waking up that I forgot," he started casually. "Where's the helmet?"
Evora blinked a few times in confusion. Then a look of realisation spread across her face.
"Right, right," she said. "I forgot about that thing... Do you even have to put it on still?"
Frid peeled off the shirt he'd woken up in, grabbed the bucket that she had just brought, and sat on a stool, dampening a rag to wash himself.
"I could take it off," he said. "But Fernand probably wouldn't like it. My face 'doesn't fit the image he needs me to present.'"
"Right..."
Evora trailed off, thinking about how to bring up the next topic to him.
"...Miss asked about you."
Frid froze in the middle of wiping his arm. Memories flashing through his mind that he had to push aside for now. Straightening in his seat, he stretched his limbs and rolled his neck. Evora recognised it as an attempt at distraction.
"She really misses you," she said gently. "After all, you're her entire—"
"Thank you," Frid interrupted. "So long as she's healthy and doing well, I'm satisfied."
The redhead looked at him sympathetically. She honestly wished things were different for him. He deserved to be happy, though the world had done nothing but disappoint him thus far.
"Evora!" a small voice called.
A little girl burst through the doorway. "Frid! You're awake!"
She barely paused for breath. "It was so lonely without you—the sheep man kept me company, but it's not the same, and—"
"Hi, Daphne," Frid said, smiling.
"Oh," She said sheepishly, before jumping back into her excitement. "Hi!"
Evora watched as Daphne launched into an enthusiastic recap of everything he'd missed, including a lengthy explanation about her problems with the "sheep man."
Having had her fill of seeing the man struggle to keep up with the girl, she picked the child up and turned her towards herself.
"Daphne, you were looking for me, right?"
"Oh! Right!" Daphne nodded, recalling why she had originally come here. "Simon said the master's study is a mess again. He told me to tell you to take care of it."
A deep scowl formed on the red-haired servant's face. She had just cleaned the study earlier that morning. For it to need cleaning again meant that the man had to have purposefully made a wreck of it... again.
"Everything okay?" Frid asked.
"Fernand must've had another of his fake temper tantrums."
"Now? Who's he trying to fool?"
Evora looked at him, then turned away, her expression hardening.
"He recently came back with those guys who hurt you."
For the second time in this interaction, Frid tensed. He remembered the conversation and confrontation that had happened in the arena's slave chambers.
"Both of them?" He asked.
"Yeah," Evora replied dismissively, but her voice still carried a tinge of anger. "The woman is in confinement in the old tunnels under the mansion, but the other one...had a talk with Fernand earlier today."
Frid stared into the air before standing up abruptly.
"How many days has it been?"
"Like four, why?" she responded, confused by the question.
The man threw on a loose-fitting brown shirt and carried Daphne up onto his shoulders, much to the young girl's amusement.
"Let's go," he led the way out of the building. "I'll walk you to the study."
---
Henry sipped tea in his back garden.
Iris Fernand could hardly believe that this was the same man who had just flown into a rage earlier. Well... that would be the case if she didn't know him as much as she did.
"Dear," she started, continuing even when he didn't acknowledge her. That was nothing new. "Are you sure you should be dealing with that slave this way?"
Fernand put his cup down, smiling faintly.
"Dorn," he said. "I didn't recognise him in the arena. Imagine my surprise when I signed the transfer papers and saw the name plastered right there."
He laughed so genuinely, Iris wondered if she'd seen him this gleeful ever.
"The Pendrick Dorn," the man continued. "He's an interesting boy. It's amusing that he thought he could use me... I am playing along, though."
"That's not my concern, Henry," Iris said evenly. "You're letting him go around freely as he pleases. That can't possibly be a good idea."
"Ah, that. Am I?"
That alone was enough for Iris to understand. She relaxed back into her seat, quietly absolving herself of whatever bloodbath her husband's games were going to lead to.
---
- Random Pub — Lukaria City -
"Get me more drink!" Patrick slurred.
Jon, a fairly built man who was one of Inford's slaves, remained impassive.
This wasn't the first time he had been dragged along for his master's revelries. However, he'd never seen the man this self-destructive.
Usually, once Patrick was upset, he lashed out badly. He only got worse when he drank.
'This is beyond his normal level of drunk, though.'
The middle-aged slave worried about what chaos the man might cause in his current state.
Glass shattered on top of his head, but he didn't react. He was used to this kind of treatment.
"Sir," he said calmly, "if you keep this up, they'll throw you out."
That would've actually been the best outcome for the man. That is, if he hadn't already been removed from three other bars this night.
Rather than go home, he simply directed them to the next. Part of Jon's mind questioned how the man even knew how to navigate himself despite being absolutely mind-numbingly wasted.
"Screw Gavis Balroc!"
Jon winced as those words left his owner's mouth. He knew nothing of the man being cursed out other than his monetary and influential stature. If his master kept going, he may as well end up dead in these very streets they had been wandering all night.
"Contain yourself, sir... please," He couldn't afford to slip up on showing respect, especially not now.
Patrick shoved the man, not moving him in the slightest.
"The bastard promised me!" He said, taking another swig from one of the bottles in front of him. "He said he would handle it all! And I still lost everything!"
Jon ignored the implication that he and the rest of the slaves the man still possessed were counted as nothing. To be honest, he couldn't even bring himself to care. He wished that, just like worthless nothings, the man discarded them and let them free.
"Sir—" The slave was cut off by yet another shattering bottle to his body.
"Shut up!" Patrick exclaimed. "You look down on me, too, don't you?"
If Jon could afford to, he would've blurted a blatant "yes" in the small man's face.
"Just like that piece of shit, Henry Fernan—"
Before he could finish, he was punched in the face, sprawling onto the floor. A moderately sized man, rough-looking with beady eyes and a thick, dirty beard, stood over Patrick. He then grabbed the man by his leg and dragged him out of the bar, dumping him into the street.
"Your stupid rants were already disturbing my customers," the man said. "But don't you dare invite unnecessary trouble to my establishment."
He spat on Patrick. "If you're going to spout your death wish, do it somewhere else."
The man walked back into his bar, passing Jon as he came outside to meet his owner.
The slave looked at the sorry state of the man. He hated the man, so a part of him did find quite a bit of joy in seeing him like this, but it was getting to the point where the second-hand humiliation tasted bitter in his mouth.
"Let's go home," he said plainly. "That should be more than enough for today, sir."
Patrick didn't answer him, so he just picked the man up and wrapped his arm around his shoulder to support him.
On the path home was a long stretch of shady pubs, brothels and gambling dens.
Patrick had settled down in such parts to feed his vices. It was all an excessive bother to Jon. He had to pick up after the man whenever he went and messed himself up. No one else among the man's slaves could handle it; they were all too soft or faint-hearted. They could barely stand the normal abuse; this would kill them within the night.
'Well, Pendrick could probably handle it,' Jon thought, thinking of the man he hadn't spoken to since having alerted him to go for his match four days ago.
'He was a sharp kid.'
Though not sharp enough, apparently. He had gone and stabbed up the Champion and poster boy of the Lukan Arena. Suicide, basically. Jon didn't even want to imagine the kind of death the blond had experienced.
It was the reason he didn't resent him much for adding to his baggage by contributing to putting their owner in this condition.
Grudges against dead men were pointless.
Patrick tripped, slipping out of Jon's support and falling abnormally at the door of a brightly lit gambling house. Rising to his feet, the man lethargically made his way inside.
'Damn it all.'
Jon rushed after the man, following him inside.
The interior was small, containing only three tables where card games were being played. Patrick drunkenly skulked over to the middle of the room, Jon close behind, brainstorming a way to get him out of here without making a scene.
"Hello, friends."
A raspy voice called out to them. A man with deep red hair smiled at them. He wore a finely tailored suit with an expensive-looking scarf hanging loosely around his neck. Overall, his appearance didn't seem to belong in the grimy gambling house.
Yet, everyone seemed to be at ease with him. As if he were right at home here.
"Get comfortable," he gestured to an open seat beside himself. "Let's play a few games."