12 – Endless Wait

I wake early with a stiff neck and aching shoulder. Despite the cacophony of snoring, farting, and restless movements, I managed some sleep. Papa sits on his bench looking exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes.

I smile at him and he smiles back. For a moment, his face brightens and I see the old him—the Papa who buzzed with energy and curiosity, always solving problems, always helping others. The last few days have aged him decades. I long for when he can be himself again, though I know things can never truly go back to how they were.

His smile fades and reality crashes back. The cramped cell teems with aimless men. Some sing softly to themselves while others curl into balls, seeking escape in sleep. Several stretch their muscles, preparing for whatever comes next. A few sit quietly against the wall, eyes closed, minds somewhere far from here.

I estimate four hours pass. The waiting gnaws at us worse than any physical discomfort. Papa and I barely speak—what is there to say? My thoughts keep drifting to the veiled healer girl. Did she tend to fighters before they died? Does she cry for them afterward?

The silence stretches until I want to scream just to break it. At least in battle, you know your enemy. Here, we fight our own minds. Every footstep in the corridor makes us tense. Every distant cheer from above reminds us why we’re here.

I wouldn’t tell Papa, but part of me craves the arena. At least there I could run, feel the wind, use my skills. Unless they chain us to poles for wild animals—I’ve heard stories of such things. But that seems too boring for the bloodthirsty crowds. They’ll want us to fight, to struggle, to entertain.

But fight what? Other prisoners? Baldagaars? Uncertainty is another form of torture.

Breakfast arrives—teyrelsk breast meat, bread, water, and rendered fat. Plain but filling. They want us strong enough to give the crowd a good show, I suppose. The thought makes me sick, but I force myself to eat. I’ll need the energy.

A guard passes by, whistling a tune I recognize from Eden’s market district. The casual normality of it strikes me as obscene. I catch Papa watching me, his eyes full of worry. He starts to speak but stops himself. What comfort could words offer now?

As evening approaches, the cell’s atmosphere shifts. The weaker prisoners retreat further into corners while the stronger ones pace and stretch. Braam remains against his wall, seemingly untouched by the tension. His size and skill probably make this just another fight to him.

One prisoner, a thin man with rope-scarred hands, starts telling stories about previous arena matches. Papa tries to shush him, but others lean in, desperate for any information about what awaits them. I listen despite myself. He describes fights against wild animals, gladiator-style matches, and worse things. I can’t tell if he’s trying to prepare us or terrify us.

My attention snaps to the corridor when I hear the guards approaching. Four of them, metal-shod boots echoing off stone.

“How do you know who fights today?” I ask no one in particular.

“You don’t,” says last night’s survivor, his face twisted in a grimace.

I study his face more carefully, expecting it to be swollen but surprised by how well it has healed overnight. The swelling has disappeared, and the cuts have already closed. Whatever ointment the healer girl used must be powerful medicine—far better than anything we had access to in Coghaven. I wonder if she makes it herself, or if it’s another luxury the Fat Man keeps for his prized fighters.

The guards order everyone to stand and spread out. They point to two scrawny men, then to Papa. My heart stops when they collar him.

I launch forward, grabbing the guard’s arm. “What about me?”

“Are you so eager to die?” The head guard laughs cruelly. His face is lined with years of meanness, body soft from excess.

“Neeka, no!” Papa’s voice cracks with fear.

“I’m coming,” I state, as if it’s already decided.

“You’re a stupid little girl, aren’t you? This is the warmup. None of these men are coming back.”

“Please don’t take my Papa.” The authority drains from my voice, leaving only desperation.

“Neeka,” Papa pleads. His eyes dart between me and the guards’ weapons.

“Don’t worry. Your time will come soon enough.”

“Wait,” I try reason, “I’m just a little girl. What harm can I do?”

“We only have three collars.”

“I’ll take his place.” I point to a dark-skinned man with rotting teeth. “Use his collar. Save him for tomorrow.”

“You really want to die today?”

“No, but I won’t let my Papa die alone. I don’t even need a collar. I’ll behave. Why settle for three deaths when you can have four?” The dark man’s face falls—he clearly preferred my earlier suggestion.

“Stupid girl,” Braam mutters.

“Fine. Keep quiet,” the head guard growls.

I cling to Papa’s arm as they lead us down a dark corridor. We stop before massive wooden doors reinforced with steel. The crowd’s bloodthirsty roars filter through, making the doors vibrate. Someone starts a rhythmic chant that builds until it feels like the whole arena pulses with it.

I squeeze Papa’s hand. I’m not sure if I’m trying to comfort him or draw strength from him. The doors loom before us like the maw of some ancient beast. Beyond them lies either death or survival—and I’m not sure which would be worse in this place.

Through a gap in the doors, I catch glimpses of the arena sand turned dark with blood from previous fights. The Fat Man’s voice booms above the crowd, though I can’t make out his words. Papa’s hand trembles in mine, but when I look at his face, he wears a mask of calm. Always trying to be strong for me, even now.

I think of the veiled healer girl again. Will she tend our wounds if we survive? Or will she say prayers over our broken bodies? The doors begin to creak open, and I straighten my spine. Whatever comes next, I’ll face it on my feet.