Cyril's eyes snapped open to a suffocating silence.
No clanking chains. No shouted orders. No morning sun baking the quarry walls.
Just cold.
Not the cold of winter or death—but something more subtle, more insidious. A silence that pressed down from all sides like a shroud, encasing his aching body in stillness.
He lay on the hard floor of a stone cell, chained at the wrists, arms suspended just high enough to keep him off balance. Stone damp beneath him. Iron cuffs bit deep into his skin, bruising flesh that had already seen too much abuse. His body screamed—but beneath it all, somewhere deep in his core, a warmth pulsed.
The aftershock of yesterday's outburst still lived within him.
He breathed slowly, deliberately. The Flow—he could feel it again. Dim, like fading ember, but there. A subtle hum beneath his skin, echoing in the hollow of his chest. He tried to summon it, to force the metal cuffs to bend or the stone beneath him to crack.
Nothing.
Just the heavy silence and the weight of restraint.
"Not yet," he whispered, voice raw and hoarse.
"Not yet."
Time crawled. Hours passed—or maybe it was minutes Cyril had no way of knowing. The only proof that the world still moved came when the door opened.
A quiet click. Then the slow grind of iron hinges.
A beautiful woman stepped inside.
She was clad in the same rags he had, hinting toward her being a fellow slave, her footsteps eerily quiet. The aura she carried was unmistakable—controlled, deadly. She wasn't here to gloat like the guards or drag him back to work.
She observed him with detached interest.
"You're the one who cracked the quarry floor," she said softly, as if testing the weight of the words.
Cyril straightened with a grimace, muscles screaming in protest.
"That's what they're saying?"
"Rumors spread faster than ash in wind," she said, kneeling to run her fingers across the faint spiderweb fractures in the stone beneath him.
"They say you released a pulse. Shattered the ground. Broke a man's spine with no blade in hand."
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
She stood again.
"No training. No channeling technique. But you pulled from The Flow like it belonged to you…"
Cyril blinked.
"The Flow? What the hell is that?"
Her head tilted slightly, then she ignored the question entirely and pulled a glass vial from lord knows where. Inside, a pale green liquid shimmered faintly.
"Dren's punishment is brutal. Pain like that—most don't wake up. This'll numb it long enough to get you on your feet."
She handed him the vial, expression unreadable.
"If you're serious about surviving, drink."
Cyril hesitated, staring at the vial. In this world of chains and cruelty, trust wasn't just rare—it was dangerous. But something about her—her presence, her knowledge—grated against his instincts in all the right ways.
And more than trust, he hungered—for knowledge, strength, power. For the means to rise and never fall again.
He drank.
The warmth spread immediately, like fire licking through frozen veins. His aches dulled tremors stilled. He exhaled, tension bleeding from his body.
The woman—Miren, she called herself—smiled faintly.
"Pain makes the strong. Power keeps them alive. I can teach you how to stop being prey. If you survive today."
"Today?"
She stepped back, already fading into the shadows, her voice a whisper.
"They're taking you to the arena."
And then she was gone, as if swallowed by the walls themselves.
Cyril was dragged through stone corridors moments later.
His wrists still bound, but his steps had strength now. The guards flanking him didn't speak, didn't jeer. Maybe they'd seen what he'd done—or maybe they just wanted to see him bleed in the pit like everyone else.
As they approached the final corridor, another door opened with a clang. Master Dren stood waiting.
The bastard looked the same as always—stiff, angular, dressed in his crimson high-collared coat with golden trim. His expression stone.
"You've caused quite the stir," he said as Cyril was shoved to his knees before him.
Cyril spat blood to the side and looked up.
"You're welcome."
Dren's lip twitched. Whether it was annoyance or amusement, Cyril couldn't tell.
"You're too unstable to be kept in the quarry. But too interesting to kill outright…"
He circled Cyril slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.
"So we give the people a show. You enter the pit. Maybe you survive. Maybe you don't. Either way—order is restored."
Cyril met his gaze.
"I'm not some sideshow freak."
"No," Dren said quietly.
Stopping his circling, a mysterious red energy formed above his palm—possibly The Flow Miren mentioned. Stepping towards Cyril, he placed the palm on his shoulder.
"ARGGHH!" Cyril suddenly screamed in agony.
Dren smiled at the sight.
"You're a dog who bit its master. Now we see whether you're a wolf in disguise… or just a mad pup needing to be put down."
He snapped his fingers. The guards yanked Cyril upright and dragged him through the final gate.