The tension fizzled for a moment, the boys still glaring but silent as Luke's command echoed through the gloom.
Luke stood still, surprised that they had actually stopped. His own heartbeat echoed in his ears.
They listened? he thought.
That shouldn't have worked. Not here, not in this place where blood spoke louder than words.
He returned to his corner beside the mint-haired girl and sat down slowly, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. He glanced at her again. Her eyes were still wide—watching him now, not with fear, but with something else… something like curiosity.
"Hey," he tried again, softer this time, "It's okay. I'm—"
"Tch."
The sneer came from his left.
The black-haired boy sat with his back against the base of one of the thick stone support pillars, not far from the center of the cellar. His leg stretched forward while the other bent up toward his chest, one arm resting lazily across it. His face wore a bored expression, but his eyes gleamed with provocation.
"If only you were up there with us. Not lounging here like a pampered 'opener' who fought one scared child."
His voice cut the air with aristocratic disdain.
"While we bled and clawed to survive, you had time to rest in the dark. Your bright colored hair prooves you went through nothing compared to me. "
Luke didn't answer.
The reply came not from him, but from the other boy—the auburn-haired one, seated directly across from the black-haired boy on the opposite side of the cellar. He sat cross-legged near a collapsed pile of crates, glaring through the gloom.
"Shut up, you noble brat. You've survived only by hiding behind others and running when the blood started flying."
He leaned forward, his voice rough and cracking.
"I saw you. Screaming. Hiding. You're alive because you're lucky, not strong."
The cellar tensed again like a drawn bowstring. Other children sat huddled in pockets of shadow, unmoving, silent. The girl beside Luke hadn't flinched—but her hands were now curled tight into her lap.
"Enough."
Luke stood.
Again.
And this time, not to speak.
He strode directly across the stone floor, each step echoing. He passed between other children, who shrank back without thinking. He moved like someone with nothing left to lose.
He stopped in front of the black-haired boy by the pillar.
Then, without warning, he slammed his fist into the stone wall just beside the boy's head.
Crack.
Dust fell. The sound of breaking stone cracked like a whip in the stillness.
Luke stared down at the black-haired boy whose arrogant gaze still smoldered despite the fear behind it.
His fist hovered just inches from the boy's skull, knuckles dusted with crumbled stone.
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper:
"One word from you again… and you'll end up like that 'scared child.'"
The threat wasn't loud—but it didn't need to be. It cut.
Even though the punch hurted like hell, It proved a point.
Luke was even shocked at his own strength, he just punched the wall to strike fear but didn't expect it to cave in.
The black-haired boy's lips tightened, his pride clearly wounded, but he said nothing. Not a breath.
Luke turned without another glance and walked back across the stone floor. The sound of his steps echoed in the cold chamber like the toll of judgment.
He sat down again, shoulders heavy, next to the mint-haired girl.
For the third time, he tried.
His voice softened to near a whisper, careful not to carry the violence of moments ago.
"Hello."
He offered the word gently, like holding out a fragile glass.
But the girl recoiled.
Her body jerked away with a sharp gasp, and before Luke could blink, she collapsed to her knees beside him—arms clasped, head bowed low, forehead nearly to the stone floor in a trembling pose of
surrender.
"H-HIEHH! YES—I'M SORRY!"
Her voice cracked. She wasn't answering a greeting—she was begging for mercy.
Luke's breath caught in his throat.
Shit...
His hands hovered, unsure of what to do. The sight before him was more brutal than any bloodied child in the arena.
She wasn't just scared. She was conditioned—trained to expect pain in response to being noticed.
Slowly, carefully, Luke patted the ground beside him, gesturing without words.
She peeked up through tear-glossed lashes.
Then, without hesitation, she obeyed—scuttling over to sit where he had indicated. Not because she wanted to. Because she thought she had to.
Luke exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Every instinct told him to scream—to curse the world that broke her this way. But screaming would only make it worse.
He leaned in slightly, keeping his hands still, his voice quiet and clear.
"Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you."
"I just want to talk… ask you a few questions. Is that alright?"
The girl's eyes darted across his face, still unsure if it was a trick. Her mouth moved as if trying to form words, but nothing came out.
Still, she gave a small nod. Hesitant. Fragile. But real.
Luke nodded in return—grateful she didn't flee again.
And for the first time, the silence between them wasn't made of fear…
…but of possibility.
"Thanks…"
"First of all… what's your name?"
Luke asked gently, still keeping his posture
relaxed—palms resting on his knees, voice just loud enough to be heard over the distant screams and murmurs.
The girl flinched at first, but this time, she didn't fold. Her eyes flicked toward his, wide and uncertain, but clearer than before.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper—fragile, like a breath of wind through broken glass.
"I'm… Elarin. Elarin Mintheara…"
She paused, then added, with sincere hesitation,
"How… how should I address you, sir?"
Luke blinked.
Sir?
He looked at her—really looked. The way she sat rigid, the way her eyes scanned for permission, for danger, for a crack in his tone. In her mind, he wasn't just another prisoner—he was a figure of power, a presence she had been taught to obey.
Even kindness could feel like command in a place like this.
"I'm…"
Luke paused.
His name—his real name—felt foreign for a moment. As if speaking it would be a betrayal to whatever life this body belonged to.
Wait... what is this child's name? The one I'm in?
His brow furrowed.
Nothing.
No memories. No flashes. No instinctive name rising in his head.
Nothing but the present. Nothing but him.
"…I'm Luke. Luke Davin."
The words came out slowly, but with weight.
Davin.
That name had once burdened him with
scorn—the black sheep of a prestigious bloodline. But now, in this place of death and silence, it became his anchor. His line in the sand.
It was his name—and no hell was going to strip it from him.
"And just Luke is fine."
Elarin gave a small nod, her shoulders still tense, but her breathing was no longer frantic.
"Elarin," Luke continued gently, "can I ask how… you ended up here?"
Elarin didn't answer at first. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze toward the slit window above, where the faint roars of the arena could still be heard—like the growl of a
starving beast.
Her voice came out flat. Lifeless.
"I was already in the Blood Brawl."
Luke blinked. "You… fought?"
She nodded once. Her hands clenched tightly into fists as she spoke.
"They threw me in with the second wave. We didn't even get a chance to look around. The moment the gate opened, someone was already screaming. A boy—he couldn't have been older than nine—got trampled before he took a step."
Her voice shook now.
"They didn't give us weapons. Just… just a
number. A shout. And the panic."
Luke was silent. He could see it now. The dirt on her skin. The blood that wasn't hers. The vacant look in her eyes.
She'd made it through by clawing her way out, just like him.
"I tried not to fight," she whispered. "But someone came at me. I—I scratched. Bit. Kicked...and I ran...I don't remember how I got away. Someone fell. Someone else screamed. And then… they pulled me out. A knight said they needed to make room. That I'd done enough."
She hugged her knees, curling in slightly.
"I didn't win. I didn't lose. I just... lived."
Luke's throat tightened.
This girl hadn't just watched horror—she'd breathed it in. Worn it. Bled in it.
He looked at her differently now.
"You lived," he said softly. "That's more than most."
Elarin didn't respond, but she shifted slightly closer to him. Not much. But enough.
And that, in this place of screams and ash and shadow, was the beginning of something real.
---
Luke watched the girl beside him—Elarin. Her shoulders still trembled faintly, and her small hands twisted the edges of her
tattered tunic in silence. She had survived the Blood Brawl. But barely. Not just physically—mentally.
He knew that look.
The hollowness behind her eyes.
The way her lips moved slightly, as if forming silent prayers she no longer believed in.
He wanted to ask so many things. About how long she'd been here, what she knew, what the Knights were doing—but…
Not yet.
If he pushed too hard, she might shut down again. So instead, he took a softer
route.
"How old are you, Elarin?" he asked gently, keeping his voice low and steady, like someone speaking across a bed of broken glass.
"And where are you from?"
She stiffened again, but didn't recoil. Her lips parted, then closed. Then parted again.
Luke waited patiently.
Finally, with a slight quiver in her throat, she spoke.
"I'm from…"
She stopped. Her breath caught in her chest, and her hands curled tighter into her lap.
Luke thought she might stop again, but then—she pushed forward, her voice cracking with each word.
"from the far east. A little village. We don't have a real name, not one that's written anywhere or recognized by maps…"
She blinked, tears glistening but still refusing to fall.
"We just called it Heim. That means 'home' in the old tongue. My grandfather used to say it was named that way because it's all we ever needed."
There was a stillness in the air. The way she said it—Heim—like it was already gone. Like it had been swallowed whole.
"It was quiet," she added. "We had trees. Gardens. Small fires at night where we told stories… I thought I'd grow up there. Maybe never leave."
Luke's chest tightened.
"I'm… thirteen," she finished softly, as if it mattered less than everything else.
He looked at her, really looked.
Not at the blood on her skin or the dirt caked along her jaw—but at the person trying to hold onto something, anything, that still felt real.
"Heim…" Luke repeated, tasting the word.
It wasn't just a village name—it was a memory, a scar, a lifeline.
"You remind me of myself," he said gently. "Not because you're quiet. But because you didn't start out that way, did you?"
Elarin looked at him, startled—like he'd seen something she didn't expect him to.
"I was the same," Luke continued. "The world didn't want me soft. So I hardened up."
He gave her the smallest smile. One without warmth—but full of understanding.
"You're still here, Elarin. That means something."
She looked away, but this time… her shoulders loosened. Just slightly.
And when she spoke next, her voice was barely a whisper.
"Thank you… Luke."