Chapter Five: The Old Ways
The old tunnel rat marks came back to Koric in fragments, like pieces of a nightmare he’d spent years trying to forget. Crouched in his quarters, he sketched them on scraps of salvaged paper—three lines for danger, a spiral for cave-ins, crossed arrows pointing to escape routes. His hands shook as he drew, remembering the taste of stone dust and terror.
Before the arena, before the fights. Running messages through the dark. Mapping paths for those with enough coin to buy their freedom. Until the day The Fat Man’s guards caught him, and his punishment became legend…
A knock at his door scattered the memories. Raven entered without waiting for a response, her face drawn with exhaustion.
“Tam’s getting worse,” she said, settling heavily against his wall. “He won’t eat. Just sits there drawing patterns in the air with his finger. Leta’s beside herself.”
Koric gathered his sketches. “And the others?”
“Half the former fighters can’t sleep. Marcus says the songs are getting louder. Even some of the merchants are starting to hear them now.” She rubbed her scarred eye. “We’re running out of time, Koric. Whatever’s happening down there is spreading.”
The morning market was half-empty, too many residents choosing to stay locked in their rooms rather than face the growing darkness. Those who did venture out moved quickly, eyes darting to the shadows that seemed to writhe along the walls.
Raven watched from her perch as Marcus tried to organize the daily water distribution. The old gladiator’s hands trembled as he measured portions, his lips moving in silent conversation with voices only he could hear.
“The patterns are the key.”
She spun to find Tam standing behind her, his movements unnaturally fluid. The boy’s eyes held that same distant knowledge that made her skin crawl.
“What patterns?” She kept her voice steady despite the chill racing down her spine.
“The ones your friend used to draw.” Tam’s head tilted at an angle that wasn’t quite natural. “In the deep places. Before they caught him. Before they made him fight.”
Torchlight flickering on damp stone. The scratch of chalk marking safe passages. Whispered warnings passed from runner to runner: “Don’t go past the third level. Something down there. Something hungry…”
Koric jerked awake, unsure when he’d dozed off. His sketches had fallen to the floor, but the marks they showed were different now—altered, as if another hand had continued drawing while he slept. The new patterns made his eyes hurt to look at them.
A commotion outside drew him to the window. In the market below, Marcus stood atop a vendor’s table, shouting at the gathered crowd. Even from here, Koric could see the fever in his eyes.
“Can’t you hear it?” the old gladiator cried. “The arena song! It’s beautiful now, so beautiful! We have to go down. Have to answer it!”
Several other former fighters nodded, swaying to a rhythm only they could hear. The rest of the crowd backed away, mothers clutching children close.
Raven appeared from the shadows, her crossbow raised. “Marcus. Come down. We’ll figure this out.”
But Marcus just smiled, his expression eerily similar to Tam’s. “Echo heard it too. He’s down there now, dancing with the old hunger. Soon we’ll all dance together…”
A commotion outside drew him to the window. In the market below, Marcus stood atop a vendor’s table, shouting at the gathered crowd. Even from here, Koric could see the fever in his eyes.
“Can’t you hear it?” the old gladiator cried. “The arena song! It’s beautiful now, so beautiful! We have to go down. Have to answer it!”
Another voice joined his, then another. Koric’s breath caught as he recognized Jana and Thex, both former arena champions, their faces transformed by the same fevered rapture. They began to sway, their movements synchronized to some rhythm only they could hear.
Raven appeared from the shadows, her crossbow lowered but ready. “Marcus, Jana, stop this. Think about what you’re doing.”
But more fighters were joining now. Old Grell, who hadn’t spoken since the arena fell. The Twins, who’d once fought back-to-back against a Baldagaar. Even young Sira, who’d only survived two matches before Lord Solomon’s bombs fell. They gathered around Marcus’s table, their eyes glazed, bodies moving in an unnatural dance.
“Echo heard the song,” Marcus smiled, his expression eerily similar to Tam’s. “He’s dancing with the old hunger now. Such beautiful patterns in the deep dark…”
A woman screamed as her market stall was knocked over, sending precious water jugs crashing to the ground. The crowd of civilians began to back away, but they moved too slow, too cautious, as if afraid sudden movement might draw the fighters’ attention.
Koric vaulted through his window, landing on a lower roof before dropping to the market floor. “Marcus! All of you! This isn’t you, this is something else. Something’s getting in your heads!”
But his words seemed to dissolve in the air as more fighters joined the swaying mass. They were humming now, a discordant sound that made Koric’s teeth ache. He recognized the tune—an old arena chant, but twisted, corrupted into something that scratched at the edge of sanity.
“Get your children inside!” Raven shouted to the watching crowd. “Everyone else, back to your rooms! Now!”
The market erupted into chaos. Parents snatched up their young ones, merchants abandoned their goods, and dozens of people fled for the relative safety of the upper levels. Some stopped to barricade doors and windows, as if mere wood could keep out whatever madness was taking hold.
Koric grabbed Marcus’s arm, trying to pull him down from the table. The old gladiator’s skin burned fever-hot. “Brother, listen to me. Remember who you are. Remember what we survived!”
Marcus turned to him, still smiling that terrible smile. “Oh, Koric. We never survived. We just kept fighting. And now… now the real games begin.” His voice harmonized with the others, creating a sound that wasn’t quite human. “The arena is calling its children home.”
“Koric!” Raven’s warning came just as Marcus’s hands locked around Koric’s throat. The old gladiator’s strength was impossible, fueled by whatever force now moved through him. Koric broke the grip using an arena technique, but the moment of contact sent images flashing through his mind—darkness, shifting stone, Echo’s face transformed by ecstasy or terror.
More fighters were moving now, descending toward the lower levels with that same swaying grace. Their humming grew louder, echoing off the walls until it seemed to come from the stone itself. Those still in the market began to dance, their movements becoming more frenzied, more violent.
“We can’t stop them,” Raven said, backing toward Koric. “There’s too many.”
She was right. Already two dozen fighters moved as one, and more were emerging from their quarters, drawn by the sound.
“The old ways,” Koric whispered, remembering his tunnel rat marks. “They’re going down there. To the deep places.”
“Then that’s where we have to go too.” Raven’s voice was steady despite the fear he heard beneath it. “Before we lose anyone else to whatever’s calling them.”
Above them, Arcmire’s walls seemed to pulse in time with the fighters’ movements. Shadows stretched and twisted along the stone, forming patterns that matched the marks from Koric’s memories. But these were different now, changed into something that spoke of older, darker rhythms.
The arena was calling its children home. And this time, the dance would reshape them all.
In his room above, Tam sat cross-legged in the center of a pattern drawn in his own blood, smiling as he listened to the songs that rose from deep below. The changing was coming. And this time, everyone would hear the arena’s final symphony.