19 – The North Cell

The fat man materializes in the dark corridor as we trudge toward our cell, his sudden appearance almost magical for someone so large. Sweat beads on his forehead, chest heaving as if he’d run the entire way—a feat I find hard to imagine.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to capture that baldagaar?” he grunts, multiple chins quivering with each word. His fine clothes, usually immaculate, show signs of distress from his hurried journey.

“You made the mistake of putting it in there with us,” Isaiah responds coolly, seemingly unimpressed by the fat man’s anger. I marvel at his composure, given the wooden splinter still protruding from his thigh.

“They don’t just fall from the sky, you know.” The fat man’s face reddens further. “Lord Solomon designs them to be ferocious. I lost three men capturing it, not counting the one it killed today. I thought you were all dead the moment the gate shut.”

“You thought wrong,” I say, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice.

The fat man’s expression shifts, anger giving way to something more calculating as he straightens his considerable bulk. His eyes dart between us, assessing, measuring, like a merchant appraising valuable goods.

“Cyrus,” he calls to one of the guards. “Have you ever seen prisoners fight like this? Surviving for so long? Working in concert?”

“No,” Cyrus responds flatly.

“Or so good looking?” Braam adds, still supporting my weight against the wall. His attempt at humor barely masks his pain.

Cyrus raises his blunderbuss toward Braam, but the fat man knocks the weapon aside and slaps the guard’s face in one fluid motion. The sound echoes through the corridor.

“Don’t damage the merchandise, fool. These are my stars now.” The fat man’s eyes glint with avarice. I recognize that look—it’s the same one Solomon gets when he discovers something valuable he can exploit.

Cyrus retreats, rubbing his reddened cheek.

“These three will no longer be with the others,” the fat man announces. “I want them taken care of. Put them in the North cell.” His gaze lingers on me. “You actually get to sleep on a soft cot tonight.”

As he turns to leave, I catch sight of Papa across the cell, being shoved into a corner with the other prisoners. My heart clenches.

“Papa has to go with us,” I shout before the fat man can disappear.

“Does he now?” The fat man pauses, one eyebrow raised.

“He’s the only one who can repair my proths,” I insist.

“I have prothchanics who can take care of it.”

“Papa is the only one who can repair my proths,” I repeat, enunciating each word like I’m speaking to a dim child. The fat man needs to understand—Papa’s skills aren’t just technical, they’re art.

“Fair enough,” he concedes with a dismissive wave. “But there are only three cots in the North cell. One of you will have to take the floor.”

I nod quickly, before he can change his mind. The fat man instructs the guards to give Papa access to the scrap pile and any tools he needs.

“I want her in working condition by tomorrow at main event time.” His gaze shifts to Braam and Isaiah’s battered forms. “Send Amari up to the North cell and allow her all the time she needs to heal them. I want them all at a hundred percent for tomorrow’s event.”

The North Cell proves to be a stark contrast to our previous accommodation. A double-bar locking system with a failsafe mechanism secures the door—standard prison security—but inside, it’s almost palatial by comparison. A large rug covers most of the floor, its patterns faded but still visible. Sulfur lights cast a warm glow across the space, banishing the perpetual gloom we’d grown accustomed to. There’s even a proper latrine with a door in the far corner—a luxury I’d forgotten existed.

I run my fingers across one of the cots, the soft material a far cry from the rough benches we’d been sleeping on. Even the floor looks inviting, with extra blankets and actual cushions for our heads. A small table in the center holds bread and prickly pears, fresh and unmarred. It’s as if we’ve stepped from a dungeon into a merchant’s quarters.

Amari enters as I’m still taking in our surroundings. The guard locks the door behind her, leaving us truly alone with her for the first time. She acknowledges me with a slight nod before moving toward Braam, who’s clearly suffering the worst injuries.

“Don’t get blood all over the cot,” Isaiah scolds as Braam attempts to sit.

“I can’t help it,” Braam moans, sliding to the floor instead.

Amari works with focused intensity, applying salve and bandages. But there’s something different about her technique—her hands linger on the wounds, gripping with surprising strength for someone so slight. Braam’s initial wince gives way to relief, his clenched jaw relaxing as pain visibly drains from his face.

“Do you think we could do that again?” Isaiah asks, breaking the silence. “I feel like they’ll get wise to those guerilla tactics pretty quick.”

“Baldagaars aren’t known for getting wise,” Braam responds dryly.

“But who says we’ll be fighting baldagaars next time?”

“Who cares? We’ll figure it out.”

“Baldagaars?” I interject, my stomach clenching. “You think they’ll make us fight more than one? Fighting one was almost too much for the three of us. More than one—”

“That’s the next logical step,” Isaiah cuts in. “Then they’ll have us fighting guards with various weapons and advantages. If we survive that, they’ll start throwing waves of prisoners at us.”

“I’m not fighting the other prisoners,” I declare firmly.

“You will if they’re trying to rip your throat out,” Braam counters, wincing as Amari probes his ribs. It is apparent his wounds are more severe than before. This is the first time I’ve seen him struggle with pain.

“It’s all the more reason for us to try and get out of here,” Isaiah says quietly.

I watch Amari’s face for any reaction to this, wondering if she’ll betray us at the first opportunity. But her expression remains neutral as she works.

“Should we wait until she’s done to talk about this?” Braam asks, eyeing her suspiciously.

Amari finishes taping Braam’s bandages and moves to her supply kit, gathering materials for Isaiah. Without warning, she yanks the splinter from his leg. His howl of pain draws a deep laugh from Braam.

“Are you serious about escaping?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper as she tends to Isaiah’s wound. “Because I know a way out of Arcmire.”

Her words stun us into silence. The quiet, mysterious healer suddenly transforms into something more—a potential ally, or perhaps a trap.

“Getting past the guards unnoticed will be difficult,” she continues, her golden eyes focused on her work. “But there is a secret tunnel on the south side of the arena under the stands. Hugo had it built on top of an existing cave system when he constructed this place. It leads out of the city for a couple hundred paces and exits in a small hidden canyon surrounded by large boulders.”

“How wide is it?” Isaiah asks, his tactical mind already working.

“Do you think we can trust her?” Braam interrupts bluntly. “I mean, no offense, but she lives with the fat man.”

“He abused her when she didn’t get his way, Braam,” I snap, anger flaring. “That’s what he did to her. Do you think she’s loyal to him?”

“Even if she does want to help us, can we trust her to keep a secret?” Braam persists. “Does she talk in her sleep? Would she give us up if she were tortured?”

I look to Isaiah for support, but his face shows the same doubts. “You too, Isaiah?”

“We can’t be sure,” he says with a shrug. “But what choice do we have? I hardly know any of you.”

Throughout our argument, Amari works in silence, letting us voice our fears and suspicions. When we finally quiet down, she speaks with unexpected sharpness.

“So, first off, I’m right here. But please don’t hold back your feelings on my account.” Her sarcasm cuts like a blade. “And yes, you can trust me. I would like to get out of this place as well.”

Braam starts to explain himself, but Isaiah suddenly hushes us as footsteps approach. The cell door opens to admit Papa, pushing a cart loaded with mechanical parts. The guard’s scowl goes unnoticed as Papa practically bounces with excitement over his newfound treasures.

“They had quad hinge joints as well as ball and socket couplers!” he exclaims, some of his old enthusiasm returning. The sight warms my heart—I haven’t seen him this animated since before our exile.

While Amari finishes with Isaiah’s leg, Papa begins working on my damaged proth, removing my foot with practiced care. We whisper our escape plans, mindful of potential listening devices that Braam warns might be hidden in the walls—apparently a favorite trick of Solomon’s.

“I can get a key to the cell,” Amari offers, “but the guards are another matter. Two posted near the cell, at least eight more between here and the south side of the arena.”

“If we can get the cell guards close enough—” Braam starts, but falls silent as the door opens again.

Cyrus enters, grimacing at Amari. “Are you finished?” The words seem to pain him.

“Almost,” she responds, and I catch the ghost of a smirk as she secures a final bandage on my arm.

After she leaves, we huddle closer together, voices barely above whispers. The plan takes shape: Amari will return tomorrow with the key and a distraction for the nearest guards. Isaiah’s knowledge of rozker locations could prove useful again. Braam and I will handle any guards we can’t avoid, while Amari guides us to the tunnel. We’ll have to move fast—it will be difficult for the Fat Man’s new “stars” to simply disappear unnoticed.

I make my bed on the floor, insisting Papa take the cot. As we settle in, we share our individual versions of the baldagaar fight, each telling growing more elaborate than the last. My version, naturally, emphasizes the perfectly timed kicks and strategic maneuvers—though I’m sure Papa sees through my embellishments.

The North Cell may be more comfortable than our previous quarters, but it’s still a cage. Tomorrow, we’ll either find freedom or death.