"How long?" My voice comes out as a rasp. My throat feels like I've been swallowing sand.
"Three days since they dragged you in." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm an interesting specimen. "You've been mumbling in your sleep. Forla, mostly."
Heat flashes through me, part anger, part protective fury. This witch has no right to know that name, to speak it in this hellhole. But I force my rage down. Getting myself killed in the first hour won't get me back to Forla.
"Name's Vyra," the Purna continues when I don't respond. "Though I doubt we'll be properly introduced long enough for it to matter."
A harsh laugh echoes from the corner, and I look toward the sound. A Naga sits coiled against the far wall, crimson scales gleaming even in the dim torchlight. His hood is flared slightly—a sign of agitation or readiness to strike. Unlike Nazim's controlled demeanor, this one radiates barely-contained violence.
"She means we're all going to die," the Naga says, forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. "Name's Kresh. Been here two months. Seen dozens come through these cells." His yellow eyes fix on me. "None of them leave. Not alive."
The third prisoner finally looks up—another orc, but one whose spirit has been broken so thoroughly he barely qualifies as kin anymore. His tusks have been filed down to nubs, his hair is matted with filth, and his eyes... his eyes are empty.
"Don't listen to the snake," the broken orc whispers. "Fight when they tell you to fight. Maybe you live another day. Maybe two."
My hands ball into fists, shackles rattling. This is what they do here. This is how they break warriors down until they're nothing but entertainment for Dark Elf gold. The sight of my fellow orc reduced to this hollow shell makes me want to tear these bars apart with my bare hands.
But I think of Forla instead. Her gentle hands on my wounds, her fierce determination when she spoke of surviving. Her promise that she would find a way. If there's even a chance she's looking for me, I need to stay alive long enough for her to succeed.
"What kind of fights?" I ask.
Vyra raises an eyebrow. "Still thinking like a warrior instead of meat. Interesting." She gestures toward the bars. "Arena fights. Gladiator games for the entertainment of whoever has enough coin to buy a seat. Sometimes it's to the death, sometimes just until someone can't stand. Depends on Gospar's mood."
"Gospar?"
"Arena master," Kresh hisses. "Dark Elf collaborator. Makes his fortune breaking strong fighters and selling the spectacle." The Naga's claws extend slightly. "He likes to pair fighters against each other based on old hatreds. Orc versus Naga, human versus anything with fangs."
"There's someone else you should know about," Vyra says quietly. "Someone they're all afraid of, even Gospar."
The broken orc whimpers and covers his ears.
"Rophan," she continues. "Minotaur gladiator. Undefeated. They say he's killed over forty fighters in the past two years. They say he's gone mad from whatever the Dark Elves did to him when they captured him."
"Mad how?" I need to know what I'm facing.
Kresh's hood flares wider. "Endless rage. Bloodlust that never stops. He doesn't just fight—he destroys. Tears opponents apart with his bare hands, horns, hooves. The crowds love it."
"And they're saving you for him," Vyra says matter-of-factly. "Fresh orc warrior, still has fight in him. It'll be quite the spectacle when you face him."
When, notif. The certainty in her voice chills me, but it also hardens my resolve. I've survived Dark Elf poison, orc slavers, and the loss of my entire clan. I can survive whatever this Rophan brings.
I have to.
Because somewhere out there, Forla is searching for me. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let some mad minotaur keep me from getting back to her.
The sound of boots on stone echoes from the corridor beyond our cells. All four of us tense, and I smell the spike of fear from the broken orc.
"Feeding time," Vyra murmurs. "Try to eat whatever they give you. You'll need your strength."
But as the guards approach, I'm not thinking about food. I'm thinking about Forla's hands in mine, her whispered promise that we'd find each other again. I'm thinking about the carved charm she made me, now hidden beneath my torn shirt where the guards didn't think to look.
And I'm thinking about how I'm going to kill every last one of these bastards when the time comes.
The cell door clangs open.
12
FORLA
