Arlen had been pushed forward, aggressively pushed with a sword to his back, as eyes watched him walk down a path that led under the massive bridge rather than into Dazeen proper. Fishermen and scattered children, splashing with sharp hooks into the water, all glared at him as he passed.
Vocht and Senna followed behind him and Lank, who dragged Arlen along. It had all been explained to him, and he had no qualms or reasons to deny what was coming.
Lank explained his ordeal before Senna could. To access entry into Dazeen, he'd need proof of usefulness since he was an outsider. And to gain that trust, even if passing by, he would need to go through the trials that truly hid and functioned as Dazeen's economy. One Senna had not mentioned before this, as if she waited to tell him. But waited too long.
The side of the bridge town had wooden stairs that led down and in through a closed hallway, where the creaks of the upper walkways—the ones he'd not earned yet—swayed slightly. The short end hall had thick beams of logs crossing one another, holding everything in place. As they approached a door at the far end, lit by dim lanterns and guarded by two men in rags with similar swords, Arlen could hear it.
Noise leaked from behind that door, a wide single entrance and exit. As the knob twisted, they stood in silence, as if time suspended, letting Arlen hold his breath, before Vocht cut through the silence.
"This is it, Arlen," he said, as Lank looked back at him and Senna stared forward, her stern, cold glares dimming into faint worry before quickly hardening again, as if forcing herself not to care. "But this place feeds on outsiders, just... Just survive."
Arlen stared blankly at him, wondering what he meant. His heart shuddered as one of the guards pulled back the door.
A faint, almost invisible light stood where the door frame was built. Almost ethereal. A dim white and gold, swooshing in the air. Lank pushed him in, and as Arlen crossed that thin filament, he felt naked, as if his entire body was felt through before it passed. Beyond it was something else.
Hundreds of faces lined the left and right walls, each row elevating higher than the last. Arlen watched as, between the two sides of people on stands, dust rose from the center where fighters clashed fiercely. They'd emerged from the longer end, and Arlen noticed something else.
Flashes every few seconds blinked people in and out of the stadium. A coliseum that ran straight in a line, hidden under the large bridge, under the water, safe.
"What am I looking at?" Arlen muttered, aghast at the scene before him as Lank kept a tight grip on his collar.
"This, boy!" Lank responded. "This is the Proving Pit!"
In the long and wide center, three areas had been split by two wooden fences. In each area, two fighters fought one another, except the far end one, which stood empty.
"The flashes?" Arlen asked, watching people vanish in and out of the place, something he knew was a trait mostly found in the Ablazed.
"Those are hired hands for the high-blooded 'round the world," Lank said. "They come in to watch, long as they don't have intentions to harm the livelihood of the town."
Arlen stared at him, confused by that last part.
"The feeling you got when you entered," Lank continued. "It's the Matron's own Flare, an Ablaze. Our Senna's mother, Dazeen's seer. Ain't no one allowed in here if the field of intentions thinks them wrongly. Guess you ain't so bad if you entered here."
"So everyone here, everyone comes for the show?"
"About as many as you can see," Vocht cut in. "Don't like remembering my first time here. Good luck is all."
"What?" Arlen responded. "You expect me to fight for you, give you all a show? As you can see, I'm injured." He looked to Lank who didn't give much of a shit, then back at Senna, who was the one who patched him up. Arlen caught it again, that look of worry, turning quickly to a coldness only she could pull off.
"A Mazandrian fighter," Lank continued, "Not many of those around here. You'll pose a nice bout and betting scene for the crowd, boy." Lank pulled him back, and Arlen felt something snap inside. The Dead Field, the execution, his brother, his failure to fend for himself, and now this. Getting dragged like some dog.
"Get your fuckin' hands off me!" He yanked Lank's grip from his neck, turning to face the three behind him. "I can walk on my own, tell me where to go!" If anything, this was the moment to prove he wasn't someone to toss around like he'd been these past two days.
It was silent, too silent as the three of them stared at him blankly, Lank with worried eyes.
"What?" Arlen asked.
"Arlen," Vocht spoke up, "so this is the rage you were talking about?" And Lank took one step back.
Arlen looked behind him, following Senna's gaze, where the beams of wood had cracked in hundreds of thin streaks. The floor beneath him deepened with the same cracks. His head banged in pain.
Flashes of his room, his mother, those last words she spoke to him before she—
His chest burned. He gripped it, screamed in pain. It seared and he felt the warmth of a breath in his ear, the tone of Had'rial's existence next to him. He turned but no one was there except for Vocht who'd been holding him up from falling.
"What the hell was that?" Vocht asked.
"I- I don't know."
"Better take him to his holding," Senna said.
"Yeah, better. The boy's a damned headache, get him out of here and I'll let the coordinator know about him."
They actually thought he could fight. Arlen chuckled to himself before the pain subsided, and he stood up on his own.
"I got it," he said, still a bit dazed.
"You sure you want to go on with this?" Vocht asked.
"Yeah," he concluded.
"And get someone to patch up the fuckin' beams before the whole hall falls in!" Lank shouted before disappearing.
"Come on," Senna told him, "follow me." She walked off, this time through a door on the corner of the hall they'd come through. The seams of the frame were too thin for him to notice the first time, hidden among the many wood beams supporting the structure.
Arlen stayed silent as he followed. Truth was, he had nowhere to go, his only destination was essentially anywhere forward, to collect his thoughts and find his place in this world. He knew the Interior Authority would be scouring the countryside by now, looking for the 'killer' who vanished. The Graver who killed the supposed 'Heir', the Reckoner on the loose. And the son of an Emundas. He knew his family would be put through the wringer. But Kael, his brother, was the only reason his family's standing had remained high. A Seared was a golden treasure for a kingdom. And Mazander had very few of them.
He turned back to gaze across the long, thin cracks in the wood flooring before entering the room. It was spacious, with some chairs and a few makeshift cots. For a place welcoming highbloods to view bloodsport, they sure kept to the minimum.
"Just rest here," Vocht said. "We'll be back later tonight. If you do want to go through with this, expect someone to come knocking on your door in a few hours. There are plenty of fights. The majority of the contestants consider this a job rather than a home. It's either give blood or get tossed to the Spine."
Arlen nodded silently, both knuckles on his chin, contemplating recurring thoughts. A wash of moments flashed in his mind, thoughts forming and fading before he heard Vocht and Senna turning to leave.
"Senna!" he called out. She turned to him, Vocht doing the same. "Could I speak to you a moment. Please."
She looked confused, hesitant, glanced at Vocht as if to get his say-so, but he shrugged and left them alone. Arlen could hear him sighing, but Senna stayed, closing the door as she realized he wanted privacy.
"What is it?" she asked.