The morning came with brutal efficiency. Guards entered the holding area where the newly branded slaves had spent the feverish night, their heavy boots striking the stone floor in rhythmic, authoritative thuds. They carried whips and short clubs, weapons designed for crowd control rather than killing. The message was clear: move quickly, move quietly, and obey without question.
Velrith forced herself to her feet despite the fever still burning through her body. The iron collar welded around her neck felt heavier than usual, the engraved words "Property of Arena Master Volgath—Expendable Class" a constant weight reminding her of her status. The infection in her branded shoulder had not improved overnight. If anything, it had worsened. The flesh around the numbers was swollen and hot, the skin stretched tight and discolored. Every movement of her left arm sent sharp jolts of pain radiating down to her fingertips and across her back. But she could not show weakness. Weakness invited violence from both guards and fellow slaves.
The branded slaves were herded through a series of narrow corridors, deeper into the Arena's underground structure. The path descended steadily, taking them far below the surface level, into the guts of the massive obsidian fortress. The temperature dropped as they descended, the oppressive heat of the volcanic surface replaced by a damp, cool darkness that seeped into bones and lungs.
The corridors were carved roughly from volcanic rock, the walls uneven and sharp in places. Torches mounted at irregular intervals provided minimal light, casting flickering shadows that made the space feel unstable and threatening. The ceiling was low enough that taller slaves had to duck occasionally, and the floor was slick with moisture and other substances that Velrith did not want to identify.
After what felt like an hour of walking through the maze-like passages, the group emerged into a much larger space. This was the underground cell complex, a massive cavern that had been subdivided into dozens of smaller cage-rooms through the use of iron bars and stone partitions.
The scale of the operation was immediately apparent. This was not a small holding area for a handful of slaves. This was industrial-scale imprisonment, designed to house hundreds of expendables awaiting their turns in the Arena above. The cavern stretched in all directions, disappearing into darkness beyond the reach of the torchlight. The smell was overwhelming—a thick, nauseating mixture of unwashed bodies, human waste, rotting food, stale blood, and the pervasive dampness of underground air.
The noise was constant and chaotic. Hundreds of voices talking, arguing, crying, and screaming created a layered wall of sound that made individual conversations impossible to distinguish. Metal clanked against metal as chains moved. Guards shouted orders. Somewhere in the distance, someone was being beaten, the wet sounds of fists striking flesh carrying across the cavern.
The cage-rooms were arranged in rough rows, separated by narrow walkways that allowed guards to patrol and monitor the prisoners. Each cage was approximately fifteen feet by fifteen feet, constructed from thick iron bars that ran from floor to ceiling. The bars were rusty and stained with old blood, but they were solid and secure, designed to contain even the strongest demons.
Inside each cage-room were ten slaves. The math was brutal in its efficiency: two hundred slaves total in this section alone, and Velrith suspected there were multiple such sections throughout the Arena's underground. This was a machine designed to process expendable lives, grinding them through combat and death for entertainment.
The guards began assigning the newly branded slaves to their cage-rooms. The process was random and uncaring. Velrith was grabbed by the arm and shoved toward a particular cage near the middle of the row. The guard unlocked the heavy iron gate with a large key, pulled it open with a screech of protesting metal, and pushed her inside. Nine other slaves were already present, and they all turned to assess the newcomer.
The gate clanged shut behind her, the sound final and absolute. The guard locked it and moved on to the next assignment, leaving Velrith to face her new cage-mates.
The interior of the cage was filthy beyond description. The floor was covered in a layer of compressed dirt, old straw, and waste that had accumulated over countless cycles of prisoners. The corners were particularly foul, serving as the designated areas for urination and defecation since no other facilities were provided. The smell was concentrated and suffocating, making breathing through the nose nearly impossible.
The walls were the rough stone of the cavern, cold and damp to the touch. The ceiling was the underside of whatever structure existed above, crossed with thick support beams that were stained black with age and smoke. A single torch burned in a sconce just outside the cage, providing barely enough light to see by. The shadows were deep and numerous, perfect for hiding violence.
There was no furniture, no bedding, no comfort of any kind. The slaves slept on the filthy floor, fought for the few relatively clean spots, and endured. Water was provided twice a day in a single bucket that was passed through a slot in the bars. Food came once a day, the same gray slop that Velrith had eaten in the pit, dumped into a communal trough.
The nine existing occupants of the cage were a varied group, representing different stages of Arena survival. Some were clearly new, their brands still fresh and infected like Velrith's. Others were veterans, their bodies marked with numerous scars from past combats. All were thin and malnourished, their ribs visible through their skin, but some carried more muscle than others, indicating higher positions in the cage hierarchy.
The pecking order was established through violence. Velrith understood this within minutes of entering the cage. There was no democratic process, no negotiation or discussion. Strength determined position, and position determined access to resources—the best sleeping spots, the first access to food and water, and protection from the worst abuses.
The strongest slave in the cage was immediately obvious. He was a large male demon, perhaps thirty years old by human reckoning, with thick muscles built through years of combat and survival. His horns were massive and curved, the tips filed to sharp points that could be used as weapons. His body was a map of scars—slashes, punctures, burns—each one a story of a fight survived. His eyes were cold and calculating, constantly scanning the cage for threats or opportunities.
This dominant male occupied the best corner of the cage—the one furthest from the waste areas, closest to the torch for warmth and light, and positioned against the back wall where he could see all approaches. He had claimed this space through violence, and he maintained it through the constant threat of more violence. The other slaves gave him a wide berth, their body language screaming submission and fear.
Below the dominant male were two lieutenants, slightly smaller but still formidable fighters. They occupied the second-best sleeping spots, flanking the dominant male and serving as his enforcers. They watched the other slaves with predatory intensity, ready to administer punishment for any challenge to the established order.
The remaining six slaves, including Velrith now, were the lowest tier. They competed among themselves for the scraps of resources that the top three did not claim. Their sleeping spots were the worst—near the waste corners, in the center of the floor where traffic was constant, or pressed against the cold bars. They ate last, drank last, and suffered the most abuse.
Velrith stayed silent during her first hours in the cage. She found a spot along the side wall, not near any of the contested corners, and sat with her back against the bars. The cold metal pressed against her infected brand, causing a spike of pain that made her vision blur briefly, but she maintained her position. This was strategic—the spot was undesirable enough that no one would challenge her for it immediately, but it offered a good vantage point to observe the cage's dynamics.
She watched everything. She cataloged faces, noting which slaves showed deference and which showed resentment. She observed the dominant male's patterns—when he ate, how he interacted with his lieutenants, what behaviors triggered his aggression. She studied the two enforcers, noting that one was more brutal but less intelligent, while the other was calculating and patient.
She tracked the fights that erupted periodically. These were not formal combats but spontaneous violence over perceived slights or access to resources. A younger male slave tried to drink from the water bucket before one of the lieutenants had finished. The lieutenant responded with immediate violence, grabbing the younger slave by his broken horn and slamming his face repeatedly into the floor until blood pooled and consciousness fled. The message was clear: know your place.
Another fight occurred over sleeping positions. An older female slave, emboldened by desperation or madness, attempted to claim a spot closer to the torch. The dominant male did not even rise from his position. He simply gestured to his more brutal lieutenant, who stood, walked over, and delivered a systematic beating that left the female slave curled in a ball, sobbing and bleeding. She was then dragged to the worst corner, near the waste area, and left there as a lesson.
Velrith observed who fought and who survived. The fighters were not always the survivors. Some slaves, driven by pride or anger, would challenge the hierarchy and inevitably lose, suffering injuries that would handicap them in future Arena combats. The survivors were the ones who understood the system, who submitted when necessary, who picked their battles carefully.
She placed herself firmly in the survivor category. She had no illusions about her current strength. Her body was weak from fever and infection, unfamiliar in its proportions and movements, and lacking any combat training. Any direct confrontation with the dominant male or his lieutenants would end in swift, brutal defeat. So she submitted. She averted her eyes when the dominant male looked her way. She moved aside when the lieutenants approached. She accepted the worst positions and the smallest portions without complaint.
But she remembered everything. Every face. Every act of violence. Every casual cruelty. She was building a detailed map of the cage's power structure, identifying weaknesses and patterns that might be exploited later, when she had strength and opportunity. For now, survival required submission and observation.
The day passed in a blur of discomfort and fear. The fever from her infected brand made time seem elastic and unreliable. She drifted in and out of clear consciousness, sometimes aware of her surroundings, sometimes lost in fragmented memories of Joseph's life that made less sense with each passing hour.
Food came once, the gray slop dumped into the trough. The dominant male and his lieutenants ate first, taking their time and consuming perhaps half the available food. The remaining slaves scrambled for what was left, pushing and shoving in desperate hunger. Velrith waited until the initial scrum subsided, then approached and managed to scoop a small handful of the disgusting mixture. It tasted of mold and rot, but she forced it down, knowing her body needed fuel to fight the infection.
Night descended, marked not by any natural darkening but by the extinguishing of some torches and a general dimming of the ambient light. The guards' patrols became less frequent. The noise in the cavern reduced from chaos to a low, constant murmur of suffering.
The slaves in the cage settled into their sleeping positions, each one claiming whatever space they had managed to secure. The dominant male and his lieutenants sprawled in their corner, comfortable and relaxed. The lower-tier slaves curled up in the less desirable spots, trying to find whatever comfort was possible on the filthy floor.
Velrith positioned herself carefully against the side wall, her back pressed against the cold bars despite the pain from her brand. This placement was strategic. With the bars behind her, she could not be approached from that direction. She could see most of the cage from this position, particularly the dominant male's corner and the central area where most movement occurred.
The night brought new horrors. In the darkness, with the guards absent and the torchlight minimal, the worst of the cage's violence emerged. Sexual assault attempts were common, she learned with cold, sickening certainty. The predatory slaves, emboldened by darkness and lack of oversight, would target the weakest prisoners for violation. She heard it happening in nearby cages—the sounds of struggle, muffled protests, the rhythmic movements of forced acts. The guards, if they heard, did not care. This was part of the Arena's brutality, part of the breaking process that reduced slaves to terrified, compliant victims.
In her own cage, the dominant male's lieutenant—the more brutal, less intelligent one—rose from his sleeping position and began moving through the shadows. He was hunting, his eyes scanning for vulnerable targets. He approached a thin, young male slave curled near the center of the floor. The young slave tried to scramble away, but the lieutenant was faster, grabbing him and beginning to force compliance. Other slaves turned away, refusing to watch, refusing to intervene. This was survival: do not draw attention, do not become the next target.
Velrith watched from her position against the wall, her body tense and her mind calculating. She was too weak to fight off such an attack if it came to her. Her fevered state, her unfamiliarity with her body, and her lack of strength made her extremely vulnerable. But her positioning helped. Against the wall, in the shadows, not in the central areas where the predators focused their attention. She made herself as small and unnoticeable as possible, her breathing shallow, her eyes half-closed, appearing to be asleep or unconscious.
The night passed with agonizing slowness. The assault in her cage concluded with the young male slave left sobbing quietly in his corner. The lieutenant returned to his sleeping spot, satisfied and unconcerned. The dominant male had watched the entire interaction with cold indifference, neither approving nor disapproving, simply acknowledging it as part of the cage's natural order.
Velrith did not sleep. She could not risk unconsciousness in this environment. Instead, she maintained a state of alert rest, her eyes tracking movement, her ears cataloging sounds, her mind continuing to build the detailed map of threats and patterns. She learned that sleeping against walls was safer. She learned which slaves were predators and which were victims. She learned that the darkness brought out the worst of the cage's violence, and that survival required constant vigilance.
By the time morning came, announced by the return of patrolling guards and the brightening of torches, Velrith had survived her first night in the cage hierarchy. She was exhausted, feverish, and traumatized by what she had witnessed and narrowly avoided.