When the adrenaline receded, only hunger remained.
Kaelen plunged into the narrow, labyrinthine backstreets of the Crimson Market. The roar of the crowd behind him persisted, but he was no longer a phantom; he was a walking target.
The guards would return. They would not come with mere crude cleavers next time, but with the Inquisition's hounds, perhaps even alchemical weaponry. Silas's warning echoed in his mind: You cannot enter through the main gate.
He had not entered through the gate, but he had kicked the city's door off its hinges.
His stomach cramped. The spasm was so violent he was forced to lean against a rusted metal barrel for support.
GRIEF was heavy upon his back. The sword was sullen. The fact that Kaelen had not killed those guards had left the metal hungry. The runes on the scabbard had dimmed, and the heat of the blade had been replaced by a disconcerting chill. Kaelen was fighting not just his own biological starvation, but the hunger of the parasite strapped to his spine.
Damn it, he whispered.
A dense, spicy aroma wafted from the corner of the street.
A street vendor was boiling an unidentifiable stew in a massive cauldron. A few laborers gathered around it were greedily spooning grey slurry into wooden bowls.
Kaelen swallowed. His mouth watered. Groth's memory knew the taste of that stew: salty, fatty, and likely made of rat meat. Yet at this moment, it looked like the most exquisite meal in the world.
He took a step forward.
But a shadow blocked his path.
Kaelen stopped abruptly. His right hand went to the hilt beneath his cloak.
The man facing him did not resemble the guards from earlier. He wore no armor. Instead, he was clad in a vest of high-quality black leather, with a necklace of teeth around his neck. He was clean-shaven, his hair slicked back, possessing a cleanliness that stood in stark contrast to the filthy atmosphere of the Rust District.
Yet the true danger lay not in his appearance, but in his posture. He was relaxed. The relaxation of a predator.
I would not recommend drawing that sword, the man said. His voice was soft, like velvet, but with an underlying ring of steel. You have already drawn enough attention, Stranger.
Kaelen narrowed his right eye slightly. The man's aura was... strange. It was not blurred like the guards'. It flickered with a sharp, purplish hue. This man possessed magic—or some form of alchemy.
Step out of my way, Kaelen rasped.
The man smiled. One of his teeth was gold.
I am trying to help you. There are Inquisition patrols at the head of this street. On the other side, Scavengers are waiting to sell you for a bounty. There is no way out for you.
The man toyed with a silver Cog between his fingers.
My employer watched you. The way you felled that guard with a single blow... it was impressive. Crushing armor with just a scabbard, without even drawing the steel? There are very few here capable of such a thing.
Who is your employer?
Someone important, the man said. He tilted his head toward the dark alley behind him. We have a proposal for you. A hot meal, a clean bed, and a sanctuary where the Inquisition will not find you.
At the mention of food, Kaelen's stomach growled again. His will might be made of iron, but his biology was on the verge of collapse.
And what do you want in return?
The man's smile widened.
Only your talent. Come with us.
Kaelen hesitated for a heartbeat. This was a trap. Everything in this city was a trap. But did he have another choice? He was about to faint from hunger, and the sirens of the guards were drawing closer.
Lead the way, Kaelen said. But if your hand moves toward a weapon, I won't be hitting you with the scabbard this time.
The man chuckled. Fair enough.
The man in the black leather vest took the lead, with Kaelen following closely behind, his hand ready.
They moved through back alleys, smoky passages, and secret stairways known only to locals. Finally, they reached the rear entrance of that gargantuan structure: the Crimson Market Arena.
The door was made of rusted iron, adorned with a massive boar's skull.
When they stepped inside, the noise became deafening.
These were the Guts of the arena.
Hundreds of fighters were preparing in the narrow corridors. Some were wrapping their fists, others sharpening weapons, and some were praying in corners. The air stank of sweat, blood, cheap alcohol, and fear.
His guide led him into a grated iron elevator. It groaned as it ascended, eventually opening into a spacious, dimly lit office.
One wall of the office was entirely made of glass—or a transparent crystal resembling it. This window overlooked the sandy floor of the arena below.
Down on the sands, two massive mutants were tearing each other apart. The crowd cheered like madmen.
Fine view, isn't it?
The voice came from a desk in the corner of the room.
Kaelen turned.
Behind the desk sat a woman in a mechanical chair that resembled a wheelchair but was powered by steam. She was not old, perhaps in her forties. Half of her face was covered in burn scars, while the other half possessed a noble beauty. She held a long, thin cigarette.
My name is Madam Vex, she said, blowing smoke into the air. This is my junkyard. And you...
She fixed her eyes on Kaelen's right eye.
...you are my new favorite toy.
Kaelen released Grief's hilt but did not relax his posture.
I am no one's toy.
Vex laughed. The sound was like the rustle of dry leaves.
Everyone is someone's toy, darling. I pay Lord Arthus's taxes, the fighters shed blood for me, and the spectators pay for the thrill. A chain reaction.
She gestured toward a silver tray on the desk. On the tray sat fresh bread, roasted meat, and a flagon of wine.
Kaelen's eyes locked onto the food.
Eat, Vex said. It isn't poisoned. A dead fighter is of no use to me.
Kaelen approached the desk. He snatched the tray and shoved the meat into his mouth. The taste was... like life itself. Fat, salt, protein. His body trembled as it accepted the fuel. He drained the wine in a single draught.
Once the food hit his stomach, his mind cleared slightly.
What do you want from me? he asked, wiping the corner of his mouth.
Vex moved her mechanical chair forward.
I saw you. The way you crushed that guard. There is... training in your movements. You are no street brawler. Nor are you a soldier. You are something older.
She narrowed her eyes.
Are you a Witcher experiment? Or a mistake?
I am a traveler, Kaelen said. And I need to go up. To the Silver Tower.
Vex burst into laughter. This time, her laugh was mocking.
The Silver Tower? To go there, you must either have wings or be Lord Arthus's bastard. The elevators leading there are only for nobles and the Perfect Knights.
Then she turned serious.
But... there is another way.
Kaelen leaned in. What is it?
The Ascension Tournament, Vex said. The great fight held every year. The winner doesn't just get the grand prize. They are brought before Lord Arthus and given a post in the Silver Tower. A guardianship. A knighthood.
Vex tapped her fingers on the desk.
The tournament begins in three days. I can get you in. False identity, entry fee, equipment... I will handle it all.
In return?
When you win, Vex said, her eyes gleaming. Half the bets are mine. And believe me, the odds on an unknown like you will make me a fortune.
Kaelen looked down at the arena. Blood had splattered onto the sands. The crowd was booing the corpse of the fallen mutant.
It was slavery. But it was also a ticket.
If I refuse?
Vex shrugged. The door is over there. The Inquisition is outside. You likely won't survive the night.
Kaelen touched his right eye. The Void energy throbbed beneath his skin. That inexplicable compass in his mind, that unbearable pull, pointed upward. He had to go there, to the source of that white light. He didn't know why, but he felt he would die if he didn't. And this bloody staircase was the only way to climb.
I accept, Kaelen said.
Vex smiled. She pulled an iron medallion from a desk drawer and tossed it to Kaelen.
Good. Now go rest. Training begins tomorrow.
Kaelen caught the medallion in the air. It bore a symbol, not of a wolf's head, but of a broken sword.
As he turned to leave, Grief vibrated slightly on his back. The sword was satisfied.
For Kaelen had not just been invited to a meal, but to a war. And war was Grief's favorite feast.