The tunnel swallowed the noise of the market behind them.
Kael stumbled as the guard dragged him forward by the rope around his wrists. The stone floor beneath his feet was uneven and damp, and every few steps his frostbitten wrist sent another burning jolt up his arm.
Torches burned along the walls, their smoke trapped in the low ceiling of the corridor.
It smelled like iron.
And blood.
The man who had bought him walked behind without looking back.
His boots struck the stone with slow, confident steps.
They passed several iron doors.
Behind some of them came sounds.
Metal clanging.
Men shouting.
Once, a scream echoed down the hall and died just as quickly.
Kael's stomach twisted.
They reached a heavy iron gate.
One of the guards unlocked it.
Inside was another chamber.
Larger than the cells above.
But darker.
This one held cages.
Rows of them.
Iron bars thick as a man's wrist.
Inside the cages sat men.
Some leaned against the walls, arms crossed, watching silently as the new prisoner was dragged in.
Others lay on the stone floor, resting bruised bodies between fights.
None of them looked surprised.
This was normal here.
The guard shoved Kael forward.
"Inside."
He stumbled through the cage door and caught himself against the cold stone floor.
Behind him more footsteps echoed.
Kael turned.
More men were being brought in.
Slaves from the caravan.
Men his father had traveled with.
And then—
Garrick.
The chains were still around his wrists when they shoved him through the cage door.
For a moment the room disappeared for Kael.
"Dad."
Garrick lifted his head quickly.
His eyes found the boy instantly.
"Kael?"
Relief cracked through the exhaustion on his face.
He crossed the small cage in two quick steps and knelt beside him.
"You alright?"
Kael nodded weakly.
"I think so."
That wasn't entirely true.
But Garrick was here.
Alive.
And for a moment that felt like enough.
Behind them the iron door slammed shut.
The lock snapped into place.
Outside the cage, the tall man who had bought them spoke calmly to the guards.
"Brand them."
The word moved through the chamber like a ripple.
Several of the older fighters shifted.
One man muttered under his breath.
"New stock."
At the far end of the room, a small forge glowed with red coals.
One of the guards stepped forward and pulled a long iron rod from the fire.
The metal tip glowed orange.
Kael smelled it before he understood what it was.
Hot iron.
Another guard unlocked the cage.
"First."
They grabbed one of the men from the caravan.
He fought.
Hard.
But there were too many guards.
They forced him against a wooden post bolted to the floor.
The iron brand touched his shoulder.
The scream echoed off the stone walls.
The smell followed.
Burning flesh.
Kael's stomach lurched.
Garrick's hand closed around his shoulder.
"Don't look," he murmured.
But Kael did.
One by one they dragged the men forward.
Some cursed.
Some stayed silent.
All of them burned.
When they grabbed Garrick, Kael moved instantly.
"No."
A guard shoved him back against the bars.
"Stay."
Garrick didn't fight.
He only looked at Kael once.
"Listen to me," he said quietly.
But the iron was already coming.
The brand pressed against his shoulder.
The sound Garrick made was not a scream.
It was quieter.
More controlled.
But it hurt worse to hear.
They dropped him back into the cage.
His breathing came in short bursts as he leaned against the wall.
Kael knelt beside him.
"Dad—"
"I'm alright," Garrick said through clenched teeth.
But the iron was already glowing again.
One of the guards looked toward the boy.
"This one too?"
The tall man turned.
He studied Kael again.
The bruised face.
The frostbitten wrist.
The fever-bright eyes.
Then he nodded once.
"Yes."
Two guards grabbed him.
Kael fought.
Even weak as he was.
But hunger, fever, and days in chains had stolen too much strength.
They forced him against the post.
His frostbitten wrist screamed when they twisted his arm behind him.
The iron came closer.
Kael smelled it.
Felt the heat.
The guard leaned close.
"Hold still."
Kael spat blood at the man's boots.
"Go to hell."
The iron touched his shoulder.
Pain exploded through his body like lightning.
White.
Blinding.
The scream tore from his throat before he could stop it.
Then it was over.
They shoved him back into the cage.
Kael collapsed beside his father, shaking violently.
The mark burned against his shoulder.
Alive.
Angry.
Permanent.
Across the room the tall man watched the cages for a moment longer.
Then he turned away.
"Clean them up."
The torches flickered against the stone walls.
Beyond the tunnels, far above them, the distant roar of an arena crowd echoed faintly through the underground halls.
And inside the cage…
Kael lay against the cold stone floor, breathing hard.
The brand on his shoulder throbbed.
The frostbitten wrist burned.
The fever still lingered.
The smell of burned flesh lingered in the chamber long after the branding ended.
The guards moved down the cages methodically, pressing iron into skin, dragging men back into their cells when the screaming stopped. The brand hissed every time it touched flesh.
Kael barely heard any of it anymore.
He was on his knees beside the wall of the cage, his shoulder pressed against the cold stone. The brand burned there like a living coal buried under his skin.
His vision swam.
The fever had already been chewing through him for days. The cold from the night chained to the tree had sunk deep into his bones, and the frostbitten wrist throbbed with a sharp, pulsing pain every time his heart beat.
Now the brand had taken what little strength he had left.
His breathing came fast and shallow.
The room tilted.
He tried to steady himself by pressing his hand against the floor, but his fingers slipped on the damp stone.
"Kael," Garrick said quietly.
The boy didn't answer.
His head hung low.
The brand on his shoulder pulsed again.
A wave of heat rolled through him, followed immediately by a deep chill that made his body shudder.
"Kael."
Garrick shifted closer, ignoring the pain still burning across his own shoulder.
"Look at me."
Slowly, Kael lifted his head.
His eyes were glassy.
Unfocused.
"…yeah," he murmured faintly.
"You with me?"
Kael tried to nod.
The movement made the chamber spin.
The torches on the walls stretched and twisted in his vision like they were underwater.
His stomach turned.
"I feel…" he started.
The words faded.
His body swayed forward.
Garrick caught him before he hit the floor.
The boy weighed almost nothing in his arms.
"Kael."
No answer.
The fever had taken hold fully now.
His skin burned under Garrick's hand, but his body still shivered weakly from the cold that had never truly left him.
One of the older fighters in the cage nearby glanced over.
"Kid's crashing."
Garrick's jaw tightened.
"Kael," he said again, softer this time.
The boy's eyes opened halfway.
For a moment they focused.
"…dad?"
"I'm here."
Kael blinked slowly.
The torches blurred again.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm tired."
Then his body went slack.
Garrick tightened his grip instantly as the boy collapsed against him.
"Kael."
Nothing.
The fever had pulled him under.
Around them the cage had gone quiet.
Several of the other fighters watched silently.
One of them, an older man with a scar running across his nose, leaned against the bars and spoke quietly.
"Let him sleep."
Garrick didn't respond.
He just shifted carefully, lowering Kael onto the stone floor but keeping the boy's head resting against his leg.
The brand on Kael's shoulder glowed angry red in the torchlight.
His wrist was pale and swollen where the frostbite had taken hold.
The boy's breathing was shallow but steady.
Alive.
For now.
Across the chamber the tall man who had bought them paused for a moment, watching the cage from a distance.
Then he turned away again.
"Get the fighters ready," he said to one of the guards.
"The next matches start tonight."
The guards moved.
Chains clanked.
Some cages opened.
Men were dragged away toward the roaring noise of the arena tunnels.
But in the corner of that one cage…
A seven-year-old boy lay unconscious against the cold stone.
Fever burning through him.
Body finally collapsing after days of hunger, cold, and pain.
The cage grew quieter as the guards left.
Men were dragged out one by one, chains clanking as they were hauled down the corridor toward the distant roar of the arena. The echo of the crowd drifted faintly through the stone halls like thunder trapped underground.
But Kael didn't hear any of it.
He lay motionless against the floor, his head resting against Garrick's leg.
The boy's breathing had grown shallow.
Each breath came a little too fast.
A little too weak.
Garrick rested one hand carefully against his son's forehead.
It was burning.
Not warm.
Burning.
"Damn it…" Garrick muttered under his breath.
He looked around the cage.
Most of the other fighters had turned away again. They had seen this before. Too many times.
New slaves came in broken all the time.
Some didn't last the first night.
One of the older fighters in the corner finally spoke.
"Cold fever."
Garrick glanced toward him.
The man sat with his back against the wall, arms folded loosely over scarred forearms. His beard was streaked gray, and his face looked like stone worn down by years.
"Kid got frozen," the man continued. "Then burned."
He nodded toward the brand.
"Body can't keep up."
Garrick didn't like how calmly he said it.
"What happens?"
The man shrugged.
"He either wakes up."
Or he doesn't.
Garrick clenched his jaw.
Kael stirred weakly against his leg.
Just a small movement.
His fingers twitched.
"Kael," Garrick said quietly.
The boy didn't wake.
But his lips moved faintly.
Something barely audible slipped out.
"…mom…"
The word cut through Garrick like a blade.
The boy's face twisted slightly as the fever dreams pulled at him.
Snow again.
Blood.
The knife.
His mother's voice.
Kael…
His body trembled faintly.
Garrick pulled his coat loose and draped it over the boy as best he could.
It wasn't much.
But the stone floor was freezing.
"You're alright," Garrick murmured, though the words sounded hollow even to him.
"You're tougher than this."
The brand on Kael's shoulder pulsed red in the torchlight.
His frostbitten wrist had turned blotchy and swollen now, the skin angry and painful.
Every so often his body shuddered weakly.
Fever.
Cold.
Pain.
Everything fighting inside him at once.
The chamber slowly emptied as more fighters were dragged toward the arena.
Soon only a handful of cages remained occupied.
The gray-bearded fighter watched quietly for a while.
Then he shifted slightly and spoke again.
"He's young."
Garrick nodded once.
"Seven."
The man whistled under his breath.
"Too young for this place."
Garrick didn't respond.
He just looked down at the boy.
For a moment the memory hit him too.
Kael standing on a wooden crate in the forge.
Holding a toy sword twice the size of his arm.
Asking endless questions.
Dad, do sparks listen?
Garrick swallowed hard.
Down here in the dark underground cages…
That boy felt very far away.
The roar of the arena crowd surged again in the distance.
Somewhere men were fighting.
Bleeding.
Dying for the entertainment of people sitting comfortably above them.
But in this cage…
The youngest fighter lay unconscious.
Burning with fever.
The torches burned low along the walls of the chamber.
Smoke gathered near the ceiling, turning the air heavy and stale. Every so often the distant roar of the arena rolled down the tunnels, a wave of sound that made the iron bars tremble faintly.
But inside the cage, everything had gone still.
Kael lay where Garrick had lowered him.
The heat coming from him was wrong.
Too hot.
Fever had taken hold completely now.
Every few breaths Kael's chest hitched unevenly. His skin burned beneath the layer of dirt and bruises, and sweat dampened his hair despite the cold of the chamber.
The brand on his shoulder had begun to swell.
Angry red skin stretched around the fresh mark, heat radiating from it in pulses that matched the frantic rhythm of his heart.
Garrick watched it all in silence.
His jaw had tightened so hard the muscles along it trembled.
Across the cage, a man with a thick scar across his nose leaned back against the bars and studied the scene quietly.
"You keep touching his head like that," he said after a moment, voice low, "you'll feel the heat more than he will."
Garrick didn't look up.
"Fever's bad," the man continued. "Kid's body's trying to fight too many things at once."
Cold.
Burn.
Hunger.
Exhaustion.
Too much for someone so small.
Kael stirred faintly.
His head rolled slightly against Garrick's leg, lips parting as a weak breath escaped him.
"…no…"
The word slipped out barely louder than a whisper.
His brow furrowed as the fever dragged him somewhere else.
Somewhere warmer.
Sunlight across the village road.
The smell of bread from the baker's window.
His mother's voice calling from the doorway.
"Kael, don't run with that stick inside the house."
"I'm training."
"You're destroying the furniture."
"It's combat."
Her laughter.
Then the memory twisted.
Fire rising over rooftops.
Snow turning red.
The knife.
Her hand reaching for him.
Kael…
Back in the cage his fingers curled weakly.
Garrick felt it and leaned forward slightly.
"Kael."
The boy's eyelids fluttered.
For a moment they opened.
The torchlight reflected in them strangely, the fever making everything unfocused and slow.
"…dad?"
"I'm here."
Kael blinked once.
"…my shoulder…"
"I know."
"It burns."
"I know."
His voice had grown rough.
Kael's eyes drifted toward his shoulder.
Even that small movement seemed to drain him.
"…did they win?"
Garrick hesitated.
Above them the arena thundered again.
Another fight.
Another crowd cheering for blood.
"No," Garrick said quietly.
"They didn't."
Kael nodded faintly.
As if the answer made sense.
His eyes closed again almost immediately.
This time when he went still, his breathing did not race quite as wildly.
The fever had burned through the worst of the shock.
For now.
Across the cage, the scarred man watched for a moment longer before shaking his head slowly.
"Seven," he muttered.
"Gods."
Garrick didn't answer.
He just sat there in the dim torchlight, one hand resting lightly against the boy's back, counting each breath that rose and fell.
Beyond the bars the guards continued their work, dragging fighters toward the arena gates.
Chains rattled.
Boots scraped.
The crowd roared again somewhere far above the stone tunnels.
But in that one cage, beneath the city, time seemed to slow.
A father sat in the dark holding what little warmth his son still had.
And inside the fevered silence of Kael's mind…
Lightning flickered again.
The roar from the arena swelled again.
Louder this time.
Closer.
Even deep beneath the city, the sound rolled through the stone corridors like thunder trapped underground. The iron bars of the cages hummed faintly with it.
Boots scraped across the floor outside.
Keys clinked.
The guards had returned.
Garrick looked up before they even reached the cage.
He knew that sound.
The scarred fighter across the cage glanced toward the corridor and muttered quietly under his breath.
"Break-in fights."
The cage door rattled as a guard shoved a key into the lock.
Metal scraped.
The door swung open.
"Up," the guard barked.
Several men inside the cage looked up slowly.
They already knew.
When new fighters were bought, the arena didn't wait long.
They wanted to see what they had purchased.
And the fastest way to find out…
Was blood.
The guard pointed into the cage.
"You."
His finger landed on Garrick.
Garrick didn't move at first.
Kael's head still rested against his leg.
The boy's breathing remained uneven, fever pulling him deeper into unconsciousness.
"Move," the guard snapped.
Another stepped forward and kicked Garrick's boot.
"Up."
Garrick carefully slid his leg free from beneath Kael's head.
For a moment the boy stirred faintly at the loss of warmth, a small sound escaping him.
But he didn't wake.
Garrick adjusted the coat around him before standing.
The brand on his shoulder throbbed the moment he straightened.
Fresh.
Raw.
Still burning under the skin.
But he ignored it.
Two guards grabbed the chains on his wrists and dragged him toward the door.
As he passed the bars, the scarred fighter spoke quietly.
"Don't die too fast."
Garrick gave a small humorless breath.
"I'll try."
They hauled him into the corridor.
Behind him, the cage door slammed shut again.
Inside, Kael remained where he lay on the stone.
The fever had taken him deeper now.
His breathing quickened slightly as the dreams twisted again.
Snow.
Fire.
The sound of his father's hammer striking iron.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
"Dad?"
"Hm?"
"Do sparks listen?"
"I hope not."
The memory blurred.
Back in the corridor, Garrick was shoved forward down the long stone hall.
The sound of the arena grew louder with every step.
Shouting.
Cheering.
Metal striking metal.
Blood roaring crowds.
They reached another gate.
Iron bars thicker than the rest.
One of the guards pulled it open.
Bright light spilled through.
Torches.
Sand.
The smell hit him immediately.
Blood.
Sweat.
Fear.
The arena floor stretched out beyond the gate like a pit carved into the earth.
Hundreds of people sat in the stone stands above it.
Their voices roared like a storm.
The guard shoved Garrick forward.
"Break him in."
Across the arena floor another gate opened.
A man stepped through.
Broad shoulders.
Scarred chest.
Older.
But strong.
A veteran pit fighter.
The crowd grew louder.
The announcer's voice echoed through the arena.
"New blood tonight!"
Cheers erupted.
Garrick stood in the sand, chains still around his wrists, the brand on his shoulder burning beneath his torn shirt.
High above the arena…
The city watched.
Below it…
A father prepared to fight.
Not for glory.
Not for coin.
But because somewhere beneath the arena, in a dark iron cage…
His son was burning with fever.
And Garrick had no intention of dying tonight.
The cage had grown quieter after the guards left.
Most of the fighters sat in silence now, saving what little strength they had. Some leaned against the bars. Others stretched out on the stone floor, resting battered bodies between the fights the arena demanded of them.
In the corner, Kael lay where Garrick had left him.
The coat still covered part of his chest.
But the warmth was fading.
The fever had not.
For a long time nothing moved.
Then Kael's fingers twitched.
Once.
Twice.
His breathing hitched sharply, like someone surfacing from deep water.
His eyes snapped open.
For a moment he didn't understand where he was.
The ceiling above him was wrong.
Stone.
Dark.
The air smelled like rust and smoke instead of herbs and forge-fire.
He pushed himself up too quickly.
Pain tore through his shoulder.
The brand burned.
His frostbitten wrist screamed.
Kael gasped and grabbed his arm, teeth clenching hard.
"…dad?"
His voice came out thin and cracked.
No answer.
He blinked around the cage.
Men sat nearby.
Strangers.
Scarred faces watching him quietly.
But Garrick wasn't there.
Kael's chest tightened.
"…Dad?"
Still nothing.
The panic rose instantly.
Fast.
Hot.
His mind was still tangled in fever and dreams, reality slipping in and out like water through his fingers.
The last thing he remembered clearly—
Snow.
The wagon.
His father beside him.
Hot metal.
Kael pushed himself to his feet.
The room swayed violently.
The fever made the torches smear across his vision like streaks of fire.
He grabbed the bars of the cage to steady himself.
"Where is he?"
No one answered right away.
One of the fighters across the cage rubbed his beard and said quietly,
"They took him."
Kael's head snapped toward him.
"Where?"
The man nodded toward the tunnels.
"The pit."
The word landed like a hammer.
Kael's heart began pounding in his chest.
"No."
His grip tightened around the bars.
"No."
Another fighter sighed.
"They take new ones quick. See what they can do."
Kael shook his head hard.
"No no no—"
His breathing quickened.
The fever twisted everything inside him.
The arena roared again somewhere down the tunnels.
The sound hit Kael like a knife.
He slammed both hands against the bars.
"HEY!"
The shout cracked through the chamber.
Several men turned their heads.
Kael grabbed the iron bars and shook them violently.
"HEY!"
The frostbitten wrist screamed in pain.
He didn't care.
"LET ME OUT!"
The guard down the corridor looked up.
"…what the hell."
Kael slammed the bars again.
"I SAID LET ME OUT!"
The guard walked over slowly.
"You're loud for a half-dead kid."
Kael glared up at him.
"Where's my dad?"
The guard smirked.
"In the sand."
"Then open the door."
The man laughed.
"That's not how this works."
Kael shoved the bars again.
"Open it!"
The guard leaned down slightly.
"What are you gonna do if I don't?"
Kael's fever-bright eyes locked on him.
"I'll break it."
The guard blinked.
Then barked a laugh.
"You're seven."
Kael lifted his chin stubbornly.
"And you're ugly. Open the door."
A few fighters nearby snorted quietly.
The guard's smile faded slightly.
"You got spirit."
Kael slammed the bars again.
"LET ME OUT!"
The man stepped forward suddenly and shoved the bars hard, rattling them so violently Kael nearly lost his grip.
"Sit down before I give you something else to scream about."
Kael didn't move.
The panic in his chest had grown too big.
Too sharp.
His father was down there.
Fighting.
Bleeding.
And Kael had already watched one parent die.
His voice cracked as he shouted again.
"I'M NOT LOSING HIM TOO!"
The words echoed off the stone walls.
For a moment even the guard stopped smiling.
Kael's hands trembled against the bars.
His fever had flushed his face bright red now.
His breathing came fast and ragged.
"Let me out," he said again, quieter this time.
"I have to help him."
The guard stared at him a moment longer.
Then shook his head.
"You're not helping anyone."
He turned and walked back down the corridor.
Kael slammed the bars again.
"HEY!"
The arena roared again in the distance.
Louder.
The fight had begun.
And in the cage beneath the arena, a fevered seven-year-old boy gripped the bars with shaking hands, refusing to sit down.
Because he had already lost too much.
And he refused to lose his father too.
The roar from the arena surged again.
This time it was louder.
Closer.
The sound rolled through the tunnels like a living thing, vibrating along the iron bars and stone floor. Somewhere far down the corridor, metal struck metal and the crowd answered with a wall of noise.
Kael froze against the bars.
His breathing caught halfway in his chest.
That was the sound of fighting.
The sound of someone being hurt.
His father was up there.
For a moment he just stood there gripping the iron, knuckles white, eyes locked on the dark hallway like he could see through the stone.
Then the fever twisted the fear into motion.
Kael shook the bars again.
Harder.
"HEY!"
The shout echoed down the corridor.
No answer came back.
"HEY!"
His frostbitten wrist screamed as the metal rattled under his grip. The pain shot up his arm in sharp bursts, but he barely felt it over the pounding in his chest.
"LET ME OUT!"
A guard farther down the hall shouted something to another man, annoyed, but neither of them came back.
Kael slammed the bars again.
"OPEN IT!"
The gray-bearded fighter who had spoken earlier rose slowly from the wall.
"You'll hurt yourself."
Kael didn't even turn toward him.
"I don't care."
He shoved the bars again, trying to wedge his arm between them, testing the gaps like there might be some way through if he pushed hard enough.
There wasn't.
The iron didn't move.
The fever made the whole room sway.
"Kid," the older man said again.
Kael whirled around suddenly.
His eyes were wild now, bright with heat and panic.
"He's up there!"
The words burst out of him.
"He's fighting!"
"Yes."
"So open it!"
"I can't."
"Then break it!"
The man didn't answer that.
Kael turned back to the bars and kicked them.
The clang echoed through the chamber.
Again.
Again.
The impact rattled up his leg and into his ribs where bruises still lingered from the caravan.
Still he kicked again.
"LET ME OUT!"
The sound of the arena exploded once more.
A massive cheer.
Followed by another.
Kael's stomach twisted violently.
His voice broke when he shouted this time.
"DAD!"
The word ripped through the chamber.
Some of the fighters in nearby cages turned their heads.
Others looked away.
None of them spoke.
Kael grabbed the bars again.
His arms trembled now.
Not just from anger.
The fever was draining him fast.
His skin burned but his teeth had started to chatter again, body caught somewhere between heat and chill.
"Dad…" he whispered this time.
The iron felt cold against his forehead as he leaned into it.
For a second the world tilted sharply.
The torches stretched and blurred.
His knees buckled.
The gray-bearded fighter caught him before he hit the floor.
"Easy."
Kael shoved weakly at him.
"Let go!"
"You're going to drop."
"I don't care!"
"You will in a minute."
Kael tried to twist free.
His legs barely held him.
The fever had drained what little strength he had left.
He staggered back against the wall instead, breathing hard.
The man crouched nearby, watching him carefully.
"You want to help him?"
Kael nodded instantly.
"Yes."
"Then listen."
Kael glared at him.
The man's voice stayed steady.
"If you collapse, you're no good to him."
Kael's chest heaved.
The logic didn't quiet the panic in his mind.
But his body was already betraying him.
His hands shook.
His legs trembled.
The brand on his shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat.
"I can't just sit here," he rasped.
The man nodded once.
"No."
Kael looked back toward the tunnel.
Another roar rolled through the stone.
His throat tightened.
"…he'll come back," the older fighter said.
"You don't know that."
"No."
The man leaned his head back against the wall again.
"But I know fathers and if he is your father, he'll fight like hell to get back here."
Kael sank slowly down the wall beside the bars.
Not because he wanted to.
Because his legs finally gave out.
His eyes never left the corridor.
His hands still gripped the iron.
And every time the arena thundered again, his heart lurched in his chest…
Waiting to hear if the noise meant his father was still alive.
The stone walls trembled again.
Another roar rolled through the tunnels, louder than the last. Somewhere beyond the corridor, iron struck iron and the crowd answered with a violent wave of cheering.
Kael's fingers tightened around the bars.
His head rested against the cold metal now, breath fogging faintly in front of him. The fever had begun to make everything feel distant, like the world was tilting slightly out of place.
But he still listened.
Every sound mattered.
Boots.
Chains.
Shouting.
The crowd.
Anything that might mean—
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Kael's head snapped up instantly.
The guards were returning.
Two of them.
Dragging someone between them.
For a moment Kael's heart stopped.
Then the torchlight hit the figure between them.
Garrick.
His father's feet scraped across the stone as the guards hauled him forward. His shirt had been torn open during the fight, streaked with blood and sand. One side of his face had already begun swelling where something heavy had struck him.
But he was still walking.
Barely.
The cage chamber stirred.
Some of the fighters lifted their heads to watch.
Kael shot to his feet.
"DAD!"
The guards ignored him as they unlocked the cage door.
One of them shoved Garrick inside.
He stumbled forward two steps before catching himself against the wall.
The iron door slammed shut behind him.
For a moment Garrick just stood there, breathing hard.
Then he looked up.
Kael was already halfway across the cage.
"Dad!"
He threw his arms around him without thinking.
Garrick sucked in a sharp breath as the movement jarred the fresh bruises across his ribs.
But he wrapped one arm around the boy anyway.
"I'm alright," he muttered hoarsely.
Kael pulled back enough to look at him.
Blood.
Bruises.
Cuts across his knuckles.
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine," Garrick said automatically.
Kael blinked.
"…really?"
Garrick managed the faintest crooked smile.
"No."
The lie was obvious.
But the attempt was enough.
Kael's shoulders sagged slightly with relief.
"You won?"
Garrick nodded once.
"Still breathing."
The gray-bearded fighter across the cage gave a low grunt of approval.
"First fight's always the worst."
Kael looked up at his father again.
"I tried to get out."
Garrick raised an eyebrow.
"I noticed."
"The guard's ugly."
A few men nearby chuckled under their breath.
Garrick let out a slow breath.
Even beaten, even bleeding…
His son was still being himself.
That alone felt like a miracle.
Then he noticed the heat coming off the boy again.
Garrick's hand moved to Kael's forehead.
The fever hadn't broken.
If anything…
It felt worse.
"You should be lying down."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
Kael shook his head stubbornly.
"You were fighting."
"And you're burning alive."
Kael tried to argue.
But the room tilted again.
His knees buckled slightly.
Garrick caught him before he hit the floor.
"Sit."
This time Kael didn't fight it.
He sank down beside the wall again, breath shaky.
The arena roared once more in the distance.
Another fight had started.
But in this cage…
For the moment…
Father and son were still alive.
And that was enough to survive one more night underground.