Darkness pressed against Arlo like a suffocating blanket, broken only by the faint glimmer of pale light filtering from somewhere far above.
His boots scraped against the rough stone beneath him, dust rising with each shallow breath.
He had barely settled on the jagged platform when the voice came — a low, oily whisper that slithered across his ears and coiled in the pit of his stomach.
"Well, well, well… what do we have here? Fresh meat this early in the season?"
Arlo froze for half a heartbeat, not from fear, but from something else entirely.
Excitement.
His lips tugged into the faintest of smirks as he turned, slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation build inside him.
Behind him, shadows stirred.
One after another, figures began peeling themselves away from the dark stone walls like creatures lurking just beyond torchlight.
First one pair of eyes, then two, then a dozen.
The air grew heavy with the musky stench of sweat, grime, and unwashed bodies.
Chains rattled faintly as ankles shifted.
Arlo squinted, letting his gaze adjust to the dim glow that clung stubbornly to the prison walls. The figures resolved themselves into men — or at least, they looked like men at first glance.
But something about them was… off.
Their faces were too sharp, too angular, cheekbones protruding as though cut from bone. Their eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, not quite human, glinting with colors that should not belong in mortal sclera — yellow, red, even sickly green. Their skin carried odd undertones, bluish veins or grayish pallor, each marking them as something other than human.
They were ripped, corded muscle stretched tight over wiry frames, like predators shaped by years of hunger and violence.
Scars latticed their torsos and arms in ugly maps of survival, each wound a memory, each mark a lesson. Clothes hung loose and torn on their bodies, little more than rags, yet somehow that only made them look more savage.
There were maybe twenty of them, scattered around the platform in loose formation. And they were circling him.
The whisperer stepped into view, grinning with jagged teeth. His voice was low, slick with amusement.
"A white hair? He's even of noble blood too," came another voice from the corner, harsh and mocking. "Look at that skin. Look at that face. Pretty boy doesn't belong down here."
Laughter rippled through the group, coarse and sharp.
Arlo tilted his head, studying them.
His eyes flicked from one scarred face to another, noting the way they carried themselves, the weight in their stances, the confidence in their sneers.
They were dangerous, they were killers.
Any normal man would have been shaking, begging, maybe trying to talk his way out of it.
But Arlo?
Fear was the farthest thing from his mind.
In fact… he couldn't even summon it. His heart beat steadily, but it wasn't panic pounding in his chest — it was anticipation, thrumming with heat and something darker, something prideful. He didn't know if it was the dragon blood surging inside him or simply this new body, but every instinct screamed the same thing:
'They are all beneath you.'
His lips twitched upward.
He didn't bother replying to any of their comments, and the silence seemed to bother them.
One of the lackeys, a hunched figure with a shaved head and a scar splitting his chin, broke from the group and swaggered forward. He jabbed a finger toward Arlo, spit flying from his mouth as he barked.
"Hey! Didn't you hear my boss's question?" His voice was loud, sharp, the tone of someone who had spent a lifetime barking at the weak just to feel big. He closed the distance in quick, jerky strides, his chest puffed out like a rooster. "He asked why you were sent down here, huh?"
The lackey's face twisted into a sneer. "What was it? Did you kill somebody? Or maybe you insulted that bitch of a queen, eh? Thought you were above the rules, noble brat?"
A low rumble of chuckles circled from the others.
Arlo's ice cold eyes — he only now realized how sharp they gleamed — locked on the man. He didn't move, didn't flinch.
He just watched.
But the lackey wasn't finished.
He stepped right into Arlo's personal space, close enough that the sour reek of his breath wafted hot across Arlo's face.
His voice rose, cracking with false bravado.
"Answer the damn question before we fuck you up so bad your mama won't be able to recognize you."
The words echoed off the stone walls.
The prisoners surrounding them shifted, waiting for Arlo's reaction. Some smirked, already licking their lips for the coming entertainment. Others looked on with detached curiosity.
Arlo just… stared.
And then, slowly, his thoughts began to wander.
Not away from the danger — no, directly into it. Into the absurdity of the moment.
This guy, this idiot, spitting in his face, screaming threats… Arlo knew him.
Not personally, but archetypally. He'd seen him a hundred times before.
In books, in movies, in games.
The cannon fodder, the meat bag. The expendable thug put in front of the hero to show off how badass he was.
Arlo almost laughed.
He could practically hear the narrator in his head, the way authors always used these moments: The protagonist smirked as the fool rushed forward, unaware of the monster he was provoking…
And here he was.
Living it.
For the first time in his life, he was no longer the reader envying the hero. He was the hero.
The thought sent a strange thrill through him.
"Pathetic," Arlo murmured under his breath, so quiet it was almost lost under the lackey's final scream.
And then he moved.
No windup, no dramatic pause. Just sudden, explosive violence.
His hand shot up, faster than the eye could follow.
The smack landed with a crack that echoed like thunder through the pit.
The lackey didn't even have time to yelp.
One moment he was snarling in Arlo's face, the next his head snapped sideways and his body became a ragdoll.
The force of the strike lifted him off his feet, sent him hurtling backward like a launched cannonball.
Stone shattered as he slammed into the prison wall.
Dust and shards exploded outward, spraying across the platform. The impact left a crater, jagged rock collapsing in small chunks around the limp figure embedded in the wall.
Silence fell.
And then came the movie moment.
The prisoners, who had been circling so close, instinctively parted, clearing a path as though rehearsed. Their heads turned in unison toward the embedded lackey, his body twitching weakly in the stone.
Then, just as simultaneously, they all swiveled back toward Arlo.
Eyes widened.
Jaws slackened.
The silence wasn't about fear, but filled with shock and respect.
Arlo stood where he was, hand still half raised, his expression calm, almost bored.
His lips curved into the faintest, mocking smile as he whispered to himself:
"Cannon fodder."
The sound of a single chain rattling broke the silence.
One of the prisoners shifted his weight, eyes narrowing as though reevaluating. The others followed, some licking their lips now for entirely different reasons.
Fresh meat had just turned out to have fangs.
Arlo clenched his fist slowly, savoring the raw strength coursing through him. His heart thudded, not with fear, but with exhilaration.
And from somewhere deeper in the pit below, a roar rose.
Not laughter, not words — just the guttural cry of someone who had smelled blood.