16 – Braam

Braam’s demeanor after the arena differs starkly from the others. Violence seems to roll off him like rain, leaving him unchanged. While other survivors need time to shed their battle mindset, he transitions seamlessly back to casual conversation.

“Did you ever hear the one about the baldagaar who got a job as a bookie?” he asks with a grin, despite the blood caking his face.

The other prisoners stare at him blankly, still haunted by their own arena memories.

“This guy knows what I’m talking about.” Braam turns to Isaiah, slapping his arm with unnecessary force.

He’s still trying to tell his joke when the cell door creaks open—a different sound from the arena entrance. Those massive double doors groan like dying beasts, their sound accompanied by screaming crowds and dying men. The arena doors speak of dread and death.

But this smaller entrance brings something else entirely. Amari steps through, and the cell’s atmosphere shifts. Her presence carries hope, however fleeting. She moves directly to Braam, her steps light and purposeful.

“Hey, duv,” Braam says casually. “Would you look at my finger?”

“Sure,” she replies softly. “After we close that gash on your forehead. Sit down.”

Braam settles on the bench. She squeezes the wound closed with practiced hands, applying her healing salve with gentle precision. I watch carefully, fascinated by her technique. Despite the obvious pain it must cause, Braam doesn’t flinch. She wraps a bandage around his head, securing it tightly.

He holds up his finger, bent grotesquely sideways like a broken signpost.

“This may hurt a bit,” she whispers, barely audible.

The corner of his mouth lifts along with one eyebrow.

“Okay then.”

Amari takes his massive hand in her delicate ones—the size difference almost comical, like a bear’s paw in a child’s grasp. Yet Braam yields to her touch without question. She massages the dislocated finger gently, then suddenly yanks it straight with a sharp crack.

“Are you done, girl?” Braam asks, as if she’d merely adjusted his collar.

“Not yet. Hold still.” She dips into her salve jar, warming it between her palms before wrapping them around his finger. “This will prevent swelling.”

I touch my own wound from earlier, surprised to find it completely healed. I’ve never seen anything heal so quickly. Her medicines must be extraordinary—perhaps even incorporating elements that emerged after the Shift. I want to ask her about it, to learn more about her healing arts.

Papa slides closer to us. “Where did you learn to heal?” he asks. “Have you always been good at it?”

Amari nods without speaking.

“Where are you from?” Papa continues. “Do you have a home in Arcmire?”

“Less chit chat,” the guard barks from the doorway.

Braam swaggers over to the guard. “Hey, did I ever tell you about how I had a baldagaar for a bookie…”

As Braam distracts the guard, Amari relaxes slightly. “I live with Hugo Neddington. That’s his name, but everyone here calls him Fat Man.”

“We’ve met him,” Papa says dryly.

“I think we all have,” Isaiah adds, joining our circle.

“Is he your father?” Papa asks.

“He has raised me since I was a child.” Her golden eyes darken. “I was abandoned at Ashen Falls and he found me. Took me in.”

“That happens often,” Isaiah comments.

“I don’t think Hugo ever actually cared about me,” Amari continues, her voice heavy with old pain. “He just wanted a slave. I’ve been doing his bidding since I can remember, especially once he discovered my talent for healing. He likes to get as much as he can out of his fighters.”

“We’re breaking out of here,” I say suddenly, drawn by the sadness in her voice. “When we go, you should come with us.”

Amari glances nervously at the guard, still engaged with Braam’s terrible joke.

“How would the baldagaar keep track of the bets though?” the guard asks, confused.

“It’s a joke,” Braam says, exasperated. “It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Which part is funny?”

“I didn’t tell you that part yet. You have to let me finish…”

Amari turns back to us, her voice barely a whisper. “I tried to escape once when I was seven.” She touches the veil on her face. “This hides the scars of my punishment.”

My heart clenches at her words. I recognize the fear in her voice—not of pain, but of hope itself.

“Come on, healer,” the guard calls. “You’re done for today.”

Amari offers a final, subtle smile before departing. The cell feels colder without her presence, as if she takes some vital warmth with her.

“I never got to tell him the punchline,” Braam complains. “Bobblegash!”

“So, you want her to come with us?” Papa asks carefully, his tone neutral.

“You don’t think traveling with a healer would be useful?”

“I think stealing someone of value from here will be tricky.”

“Papa,” I protest.

“But her story is a sad one,” he continues. “They shouldn’t exploit her like this, and she may never get another chance to escape.”

I kiss his cheek gratefully. “Thank you, Papa. No one deserves to be a slave.”

“I’ve been thinking about Isaiah’s offer,” he says. “Building a new home in Graven Pointe sounds appealing to an old man like me.”

“I’ll do whatever you say, Papa,” I tell him, though Solomon’s shadow lurks in my thoughts. The man who murdered my brother still lives, and that debt remains unpaid.

“You know,” Isaiah interjects thoughtfully, “a healer would be welcome in Graven Pointe. We have medicines, but nothing like what she can do.”

I nod, already forming plans. Amari deserves freedom, and her skills could mean the difference between life and death during our escape. More than that, there’s something about her that draws me—not just her healing abilities, but her quiet strength, her determination to help others despite her own bondage.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Papa warns. “The Fat Man won’t let such a valuable asset go easily.”

“He doesn’t own her,” I say firmly. “No one should own another person.”

“I agree,” Papa says, “but that won’t make it any easier. We’ll need a solid plan.”

I lean back against the cold wall, my mind racing. Somewhere in this prison of blood and pain, a path to freedom exists. We just have to find it—not just for ourselves now, but for Amari too. Her golden eyes and gentle hands deserve better than this place of death.

The arena roars again in the distance, hungry for its next victims. But for the first time since our arrival, I feel something beyond mere survival stirring in my chest. Perhaps it’s hope, or maybe just the fierce determination to right another of this world’s many wrongs.

Either way, we’re getting out of here. All of us.