Chapter 1: Blood in the Sand
Koric’s fingers traced the edge of his daughter’s locket as he watched the evening market take shape below. From his perch on the broken wall, he could see the entire arena floor where merchants unfurled their awnings and set out their wares. Just months ago, this same sand had drunk the blood of gladiators. Now, in the wake of Lord Solomon’s bombing, their survivors had transformed it into something different – farmers trading mushrooms grown in the deep caves, craftsmen selling tools forged from scavenged metal, and mothers bartering clothes patched together from arena banners.
“You’re brooding again.” Raven’s voice came from behind him, followed by the familiar sound of her uneven gait. The Baldagaar that took her eye had also left her with a permanent limp, though she never let it slow her down.
“Just thinking,” Koric said, not turning around. “My daughter would’ve been sixteen today.”
Raven settled beside him, her crossbow resting across her knees. The weapon was old, like everything in Arcmire, but meticulously maintained. “Mira, right? You said she liked to sing.”
“Everything made her sing. The rain, the sunrise, even the damn dust storms.” He smiled at the memory, then tucked the locket back under his shirt. “She would’ve loved what we’ve built here.”
Below, a child’s laugh echoed off the ancient walls. Both guards tensed instinctively before relaxing. Even after the arena’s fall, joy was still something they were relearning to trust.
“Speaking of building,” Raven said, nodding toward the market, “Old Wei finally got his water purifier working. Says he can supply twice as much now.”
“Good. We’ll need it when—” Koric stopped, his eyes narrowing. “There. By the east entrance.”
Three men moved through the crowd with the practiced grace of predators. Local raiders, judging by their patchwork armor and ritual scars. They were good—staying apart, never quite looking at each other, their weapons concealed but within easy reach.
“I count three,” Raven said, already shifting her crossbow into position.
“There’s always three.” Koric stood, brushing dust from his pants. “Remember that crew from last month?”
“The ones who tried to sneak in through the old servant tunnels?” A rare smile crossed Raven’s scarred face. “You’d think they’d learn.”
“Been a while since we had a proper lesson.” Koric rolled his shoulders, feeling old injuries protest. At forty-five, he was no longer the warrior who had fought beasts and champions in this ring. But he had something now that he’d never had in those days: something worth fighting for.
“I’ll take high ground,” Raven said, already moving toward her favorite vantage point. She paused, touching his arm. “Koric? Try not to enjoy this too much. We’re not them anymore.”
He nodded, understanding what she meant. It would be easy to become what they once were, to let the arena’s bloodthirsty history claim them again. But that wasn’t what Mira would have wanted. It wasn’t what they had built this place to be.
The raiders made their move at the busiest stall, where Wei was demonstrating his water purifier to a crowd of onlookers. The largest raider stumbled, knocking over a jug of precious, clean water. As Wei bent to help, the man’s companions moved to flank the gathering.
Koric walked openly toward them, his hands empty at his sides. “Wrong day to try stealing from my people.”
The leader turned, ritual scars twisting as he smiled. “Your people?” He laughed, the sound like grinding metal. “Arcmire belongs to whoever’s strong enough to take it, old man. Always has.”
The words echoed off the walls, and for a moment, Koric was back in the arena, listening to The Fat Man pronounce the same philosophy over the roar of the crowd. He touched his daughter’s locket, remembering why he fought now.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Koric said quietly. “The Fat Man thought like you. Look what happened to him.”
The raider’s knife appeared like a silver flash in the dying sunlight. Koric felt the familiar surge of arena-born instincts, the urge to destroy, to dominate. But Raven’s words echoed in his mind: We’re not them anymore.
The leader lunged, blade seeking Koric’s throat. Koric stepped inside his guard, catching the man’s wrist and twisting. The knife clattered to the sand, but the raider drove his knee into Koric’s ribs, forcing him back. Pain flared along his side—arena scars remembering old wounds.
The second raider circled wide, drawing a rusted machete. Koric grabbed a merchant’s table, upending it between them. Clay pots shattered, and in the chaos, he drove his fist into the leader’s jaw. Bone crunched beneath his knuckles.
The third man broke for the entrance. He made it three steps before Raven’s crossbow bolt took him in the leg. He fell screaming, clutching his thigh.
The leader staggered up for one final rush. Koric met him with a fighter’s grace, redirecting the man’s momentum to slam him into a stone column. The raider slumped, consciousness fleeing.
Raven limped down from her perch, already reloading her crossbow. “Not bad for arena fighters turned peacekeepers,” she said.”
Together, they dragged the raiders to the gates. The Dread Wastes stretched beyond, a sea of sand under the setting sun. This was the part Koric hated most—choosing who lived and died. But they’d learned the hard way that mercy had to be tempered with protection.
“The Wastes judge all equally,” Raven said as they stripped the raiders of weapons and water. “More justice than we ever got in the arena.”
Koric nodded, watching the men stumble into the desert. He thought of Mira, of songs in the morning, of water purifiers and markets where children laughed. Of all the things worth protecting, even at the cost of hard choices.
The gates closed with a boom that echoed through their reclaimed home. Above them, the desert sun painted Arcmire’s broken walls in shades of blood and gold. Soon the temperature would plummet, and their people would gather in the old throne room—now a communal hall—to share meals and stories.
“You’re brooding again,” Raven said softly.
“Just thinking,” Koric replied, “about how far we’ve come from where we started.”
They turned away from the gates, heading back to their posts. Behind them, the Dread Wastes swallowed their attackers, deciding who lives and who dies. Within these walls, though, their people would remain safe. And in this harsh world, that was enough.
But somewhere in the darkness below, something stirred at the taste of violence above and began to dream of more.