Cyril's eyes snapped open to an eery silence.
No clanking chains, no shouted orders, no sunlight beaming on his back as he worked like a dog.
Just cold.
Not the cold of winter or death— something more subtle. A silence that pressed down from all sides,wrapping his aching body in stillness.
Cyril laid on the hard floor of a stone cell, his wrists chained and arms suspended just high enough to keep him off balance. Stone damp beneath him, Iron cuffs bit deep into his skin, bruising flesh that had already been through way too much abuse. His body screamed—but beneath it all, somewhere deep in his core, a warmth pulsed.
The aftershock of yesterday's outburst still lived inside him.
He breathed slowly, the Flow—he felt it again. Dim, like fading ember, but there. A quiet hum beneath his skin, lingering in his chest. He tried to summon it, to force the metal cuffs to bend or the stone beneath him to crack.
His attempts were to no avail, just heavy silence and the weight of being restrained like a caged pet at the mercy of its owners every beck and call.
***
Time crawled, and hours passed—or maybe it was minutes Cyril had no way of knowing.
He slowly felt himself losing his sanity, but a certain book came to mind that helped him keep it. The protagonist starting off in an even more fucked up situation, his name kept slipping off Cyril's tongue. The One Forgotten by the Sun, Lost by Light? One or the other.
The only proof Cyril had that the world still moved came when the door opened.
A quiet click, then the slow grind of iron hinges.
A beautiful woman stepped inside.
She had on rags just like he did, hinting toward her being a fellow slave. Her footsteps were very quiet, too quiet, like she wasn't ever there in the first place, the aura she had was unforgettable—controlled, deadly. She wasn't here to gloat like the guards or drag him back to work.
She observed him with detached interest.
"You're the one who cracked the quarry floor," she said softly, testing the weight of the words.
Cyril straightened up slowly, muscles screaming in protest.
"That's what they're saying?"
"Rumors spread faster than ash in wind," she said, kneeling to run her fingers across the faint spiderweb fractures in the stone underneath him.
"Didn't think my first taste of infamy would lead me to a cell…"
Cyril said faintly.
The woman simply continued.
"They say you released a pulse. Shattered the ground, breaking a man's spine with no blade in hand."
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
She stood again.
"No training, no channeling technique. But you pulled from The Flow like it belonged to you…"
Cyril blinked.
"The Flow? What the hell is that?"
Her head tilted slightly, then she ignored the question entirely and pulled a glass vial from who knows where. Inside, a pale green liquid shimmered faintly.
"Dren's punishment is brutal, pain like that—most don't wake up. This'll numb it long enough to get you back on your feet."
She handed him the vial, face unreadable.
"If you're serious about surviving, drink."
Cyril hesitated, staring at the vial. In this world of chains and cruelty, he was slowly learning that trust wasn't just rare—it was dangerous. But something about her—her presence, her knowledge—rubbed against his instincts in all the right ways.
And more than trust, he hungered—for knowledge, strength, power. For the strength to rise and never fall again.
And he felt like…she could somehow help him with that.
He drank.
The warmth spread immediately, like fire raging in a wildfire prone forest. His body stiffened then slowly relaxed. He exhaled, the built up fatigue bleeding from his body.
The woman—Miren, she called herself—smiled faintly.
"Pain makes the strong, power keeps them alive. I can teach you how to stop being prey, If you survive today."
"Today? What else am I doing besides being trapped in this damn cell?"
She stepped back, already fading into the shadows, her voice slowly becoming more distant.
"They're taking you to the arena."
And then she was gone, as if swallowed by the walls themselves.
Cyril was dragged through stone corridors moments later.
His wrists still shackled, but his steps had strength now. The guards taking him didn't speak, they didn't even look at him like he was a slave anymore. Maybe they saw what he did before—or maybe they just wanted to see him bleed in the pit like everybody else.
As they approached the final corridor, another door opened with a clang. Master Dren stood waiting.
He looked the same as always—stiff, angular, dressed in his crimson high-collared coat with golden trim, face stone cold.
"You've caused quite the disturbance," he said as Cyril was shoved to his knees before him.
Cyril spat blood to the side and looked up.
"You're welcome."
Dren's lip twitched, whether it was annoyance or amusement, Cyril had no way of knowing.
"You're too unstable to be kept in the quarry, but too interesting to kill outright…"
He circled Cyril slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.
"So we give the people a show, you enter the pit. Maybe you survive, maybe you don't, either way—order is restored."
Cyril met his gaze.
"I'm not some circus freak."
"No," Dren said quietly.
Stopping his circling, a mysterious red energy formed above his palm—possibly The Flow Miren mentioned. Stepping towards Cyril, he placed the palm on his shoulder.
"ARGGHH!" Cyril suddenly screamed in agony.
Dren smiled at the sight.
"You're a dog who bit its master. Now we see whether you're a wolf in disguise… or just a mad pup needing to be put down."
He snapped his fingers and the guards yanked Cyril upright, dragging him through the final gates.