Marion Vex had learned long ago that there was no greater spectacle than violence performed well.

  Men, even the ones who considered themselves refined, civilized, above such things, would always find themselves drawn to the pits. It was not merely the promise of bloodshed or the thrill of chance that lured them—it was the theater of it. The rhythm of combat, the sharp intake of breath before the final blow, the way a fighter moved, hesitated, struck. It was no different from an artful play or a masterful dance, except that the curtain fell in steel and flesh instead of bows and applause.

  And Marion was the man who held the stage.

  As he led the boy through the arching tunnels beneath the Pit of the Obsidian Moon, the cool dampness of the stone passage was a stark contrast to the city’s blistering heat above. The torches lining the walls flickered against damp bricks, and the air smelled of salt, sweat, and blood that had seeped too deep into the sand to ever be washed away.

  He had brought many men through this tunnel before, and they had all reacted in one of two ways. Some, realizing at last the gravity of their fate, trembled in their chains, their breath quickening, their bravado cracking at the edges.Others wore a mask of false indifference, unwilling to show weakness but already calculating their place within the hierarchy of this underground kingdom.

  The boy, as expected, did neither.

  He moved without resistance, without the nervous glances most slaves cast toward the grates in the ceiling, where the distant roar of the crowd above echoed through the tunnels. He did not flinch at the distant crack of a whip, nor did he shudder at the wet thud of flesh meeting flesh in one of the training cells deeper within. He had the stillness of a sharpened blade laid upon the whetstone, not yet in motion, but poised to cut the moment it was lifted.

  Marion did not speak to him. Not yet.

  There was no point in filling the silence with words the boy would ignore.

  Instead, he let the sounds of the pits speak for him.

  The tunnel opened into a sprawling underground chamber, half-lit by torches mounted in iron sconces. The floor was packed earth, damp from where the sea had crept in through old cracks in the stone, and scattered throughout were fighting circles lined with chalk, sparring dummies wrapped in worn leather, and cages—rows and rows of cages, each filled with fighters at various stages of survival.

  Some sat in quiet contemplation, sharpening their weapons or wrapping their hands. Others leaned against the bars, watching their would-be challengers with the lazy hunger of caged wolves.

  And then there were those already in the rings, sweating, bleeding, swinging fists or steel in drills designed not to teach but to punish. These men had already fought and lost, and were now paying for their failures in muscle and exhaustion.

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  A few heads turned as Marion entered, but only briefly. New blood was not uncommon here.

  And yet, when they saw the boy behind him, shackled and silent, their gazes lingered longer than usual.

  Not because of who he was.

  But because of what he wasn’t.

  He did not slouch. He did not avert his eyes. He did not shrink from the attention.

  The silence stretched a little too long.

  Marion smiled. He could feel it already—the stirring of something new.

  “Vex.”

  The voice was gravel-torn, rough from years of sand, salt, and blood.

  Loric stepped from the shadows of one of the outer training rings, his arms folded over his scarred chest. He was a veteran of the pits, once a champion, now one of Marion’s most trusted trainers. His knuckles were twisted from too many breaks, his nose crooked from too many fists, and his stare had the weight of a man who had seen dozens of promising fighters reduced to nameless corpses in the sand.

  He did not bother acknowledging the boy. Not yet.

  Loric did not waste attention on things that would not survive long enough to matter.

  Marion inclined his head slightly. “Loric. I have a new investment for you.”

  Loric let his eyes drift lazily over the boy, taking his measure in a single, disinterested glance. He grunted.

  "Too young."

  "Old enough," Marion countered. "I’ve seen boys younger than him split a man’s skull in two."

  "Have you seen this one do it?"

  "Not yet."

  Loric sighed through his nose, rubbing his temple with two fingers. He did not like working with unfinished things. He liked fighters who had already learned how to kill, not ones who needed to be taught why they had to.

  And yet, there was something about the way the boy stood.

  Still. Waiting.

  Not hoping.

  Not dreading.

  Just waiting.

  Loric frowned.

  "Does he speak?"

  Marion smirked. "He listens."

  Loric’s frown deepened. He did not like mysteries.

  Marion stepped forward and finally turned his attention to the boy.

  “You belong to me now,” he said, not as a threat, but as a statement of fact. “You fight when I tell you to fight. You bleed when I tell you to bleed. And if you survive, I will make you something worth betting on.”

  The boy did not move.

  The silence stretched.

  Marion tilted his head. “Do you understand?”

  A pause.

  Then—a slow, slight nod.

  The other fighters had been watching from the edges of the chamber, but at that, a few of them exchanged glances.

  Not because the boy had obeyed.

  But because he had chosen to.

  Marion smiled again.

  He turned to Loric. "Start him with the wooden swords. Break him down first. Then we’ll see if he’s worth steel."

  Loric grunted. He was not interested in the boy’s potential. Not yet.

  He had seen too many boys enter these pits with silent stares and cold glares, thinking they were something special.

  And he had seen too many of them dragged out in pieces.

  "Fine," he muttered, already turning away. "But don’t waste my time, Vex."

  Marion laughed softly as he walked away, leaving the boy in Loric’s care.

  Waste?

  No.

  This was not a waste.

  This was a wager.

  And the best wagers always had the most to lose.