The cold woke him before the pain did.
Stone pressed against Aren Vale's cheek, damp and smelling of rusted iron. His breath fogged the darkness as he inhaled too sharply and regretted it—every rib answered with a dull, layered ache, like old bruises arguing with new ones. Chains lay slack around his wrists, not because he was free, but because he was no longer worth restraining.
Someone laughed above him.
"Still breathing," a voice said. "Stubborn thing."
Boots scraped stone. A shadow leaned into the torchlight, revealing a man with broken teeth and a stitched symbol burned into his neck. The mark of the Pit Wardens. Aren didn't look up fully. He'd learned that lesson early—eye contact invited attention, and attention invited entertainment.
"Drag him to the edge," the man said. "If he wakes properly, toss him back in."
Hands grabbed Aren by the shoulders. The motion sent lightning through his spine, and for a moment the world fractured—white sparks behind his eyes, a ringing hum inside his skull. He didn't scream. Screams made them curious.
The edge of the pit was a half-circle balcony carved into the underground arena. Beyond it yawned a hollow where men fought, bled, and sometimes climbed out again. Sometimes.
Aren's feet scraped uselessly against the stone as he was hauled upright and dropped to his knees. Blood dripped from his nose onto the floor, dark against the gray.
"Name?" the Warden asked lazily.
Aren said nothing.
The man sighed and kicked him in the ribs. Pain exploded, but Aren folded inward instead of outward, protecting what little still worked.
"Name," the Warden repeated, sharper this time.
"…Aren," he said at last. His voice sounded unfamiliar, scraped raw by disuse.
The Warden grinned. "Still remembers it. That's a good sign." He turned to the crowd gathering above. "Looks like we get another round today."
Cheers echoed down the pit.
Aren's hands curled against the stone. Somewhere deep inside, something cold and quiet observed the moment—not with hope, not with fear, but with a strange, steady awareness.
He had lost count of the days. Lost count of the fights. Lost count of the people who had entered the pit screaming and left it silent.
But he remembered January.
The month his village burned. The month his name stopped meaning safety. The month the world decided what he was worth.
A gong sounded.
Chains were cut.
Aren was shoved forward.
He fell.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs as he hit the arena floor. Sand mixed with blood beneath his palms. Across from him, another figure was thrown down—bigger, broader, breathing hard with rage instead of exhaustion.
"Kill," the crowd chanted.
Aren rose slowly.
He did not rush.
When the other man charged, Aren stepped aside at the last second and drove his elbow into exposed ribs—not with strength, but precision. The crack echoed. The man roared and swung wildly.
Aren let the blow glance off his shoulder and felt something tear.
Pain registered.
He accepted it.
Three breaths later, the other man lay unmoving.
Silence followed.
Then the ground beneath Aren's feet trembled.
Not from the crowd.
From something deeper.
A pressure settled over his chest, invisible and immense, like a hand pressing down on his soul.
A voice—not heard, but understood—spoke.
Achievement Recorded.
Condition Met: Survival without Hatred.
January Record: Opened (Fragment).
Aren staggered.
No one else reacted.
Whatever had spoken to him had done so alone.
As darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, Aren smiled faintly.
Not because he had won.
But because something had finally noticed.