The cell was a stone hole, damp and cold, but for the first time since his arrival, Brannok had received a bowl of murky water and a meager portion of gruel. Surviving the dog pit had earned him that privilege. A few hours later, the door groaned open again. Two guards entered, throwing a bundle of leather and metal at his feet.
"Get dressed, brat. You're on tonight."
It was a gladiator's armor, or at least a rudimentary, patched-together version, scaled down to fit him. A pectoral of boiled leather, a single bracer for his right forearm, and greaves that reached his knees. No helmet. Zarekh wanted the crowd to see his new fighter's youthful face.
Brannok put on the gear. The leather was stiff and smelled of old sweat and blood. For an eleven-year-old boy, he already had a surprising frame – broad shoulders, a deep chest, long, dense muscles hinted at under his sun-tanned skin. It wasn't the bulk of a man, but the promise of formidable strength, already palpable.
When evening came, the sounds changed. The scratching of rats was drowned out by a dull roar from the main arena – the bellow of a crowd hungry for blood and spectacle. The smell of dust and fear was replaced by the scents of roasting meat, strong ale, and heavy perfumes.
They came for him. The guards placed a short, blunted sword in his hand. "For show," one of them grunted. "Good luck, kid. You'll need it."
They shoved him toward the entrance of a dark tunnel. At the other end, harsh light and screaming awaited. Zarekh was there, leaning against the wall, a shark-like smile on his lips.
"They're already talking about you, boy. The child who tamed the mastiffs. They're curious. So, I'm giving them a real show." He gave a signal. "Release the Beast of Shadizar!"
The arena gates opened with a deafening racket. Brannok was thrust forward, momentarily blinded by the torches. The sand was fresh, but he could smell the old bloodstains.
Across from him, on the other side of the arena, another cage opened. A flash of black muscle and spotted fur shot out. A panther, long, sleek, and deadly. Its yellow eyes shone with a cruel intelligence, and a low, vibrating growl made the air tremble.
The crowd roared even louder, bets flying.
The panther circled Brannok, supple and silent, its tail twitching. Brannok stood still, his useless sword lowered. He breathed deeply, calming the frantic beating of his heart. He could smell the musky odor of the feline, hear the subtle whisper of its paws on the sand.
The attack was lightning-fast. A leap that defied the eye, razor-sharp claws aiming to open his belly.
But Brannok saw the tension in its hind leg muscles. He heard the deep breath before the jump. He threw himself to the side, rolling over his shoulder. The claws tore into his back, shredding leather and flesh. A searing pain shot through him, but he was alive.
He scrambled up quickly, facing the beast. Blood flowed warmly down his back. The panther, surprised, was already turning for another attack.
This time, Brannok didn't just dodge. He charged. Not with the heaviness of a warrior, but with the speed of a rival predator. As the panther leaped again, he dove under its belly, his sword pointed upward.
The blunted blade didn't penetrate deeply, but it tore into the tender muscle of the beast's underside. A cry of pain and rage, half snarl, half shriek, echoed.
The fight became a wild, bloody dance. Brannok, wounded, used all his agility, his heightened senses allowing him to predict each attack. He struck, slashed, wearing the panther down. He didn't have the strength for a single killing blow, so he bled it, slowly, surely.
Finally, weakened by pain and blood loss, the panther stumbled. Its breath was ragged. Brannok, exhausted himself, his arms heavy, saw his opening. He lunged, avoided one last weak claw, and drove the sword into the animal's neck with all his remaining strength.
The panther collapsed in a final spasm, then lay still.
A stunned silence fell over the arena, then applause and cheers erupted, mingled with laughter and victorious shouts from those who had bet on the child.
Brannok stood panting over the body of the beast. His armor was in tatters, his back a gaping wound, and blood flowed freely from several gashes on his arms and legs. He looked up at the screaming crowd, then towards the box where Zarekh watched, a broad smile on his lips.
They came to retrieve him. The guards hauled him out of the arena, his blood leaving a scarlet trail on the light sand. He had won.
But as he was dragged through the dark corridors towards the circus's squalid infirmary, Brannok knew one thing. He was not a hero. He was a carnival attraction. And every victory would only strengthen his cage.