The arena is a cage of stone and metal, where the walls feel like they've been scarred by time itself. The air is thick, stifling, weighed down by the heat of the crowd's collective breath. The floor is a sickly shade of brown—stained by countless battles and broken bodies. There is no escape from it. The arena is a cycle that repeats, endlessly.
I sit in my cell, the same spot I've occupied for as long as I can remember. The cold iron bars are a constant reminder of my place here. The screams from the arena drift through the stone walls, muffled but unmistakable. It's like the city itself breathes violence.
From my cell, I watch Margaret. She's the one the guards are watching most closely, whispering to each other in low voices. They all think she's some kind of miracle—an almost impossible prodigy, born for this. But I don't see it. Not in the way they do. Margaret is just another face in the crowd, another body to be thrown into the arena. But there's something unsettling about the way she moves, something too… deliberate. Too precise.
And always, always those eyes.
She doesn't look like a fighter. Not in the way that Scar does. She's small, barely more than a child. She has the build of someone who should be running and playing, not fighting to survive. Yet, there's something in her eyes that makes her seem far older than she is. She looks at the world differently, like she already knows what's going to happen.
That look unsettles me, even though I can't explain why. It's as if she's already seen the end of all this, as though she's already lived it before. The way she watches me... it makes me feel like I'm a part of something she's already experienced, something I can't escape.
When the bell rings, I know it's time. The air shifts—charged, thick with anticipation. I feel it in my bones, the way the crowd's noise intensifies. It's time for Margaret's fight.
Scar stands at the other side of the arena. He's huge. A half-orc with bulging muscles that ripple beneath his skin, his red-tinted body marked by countless scars. He towers over her, a terrifying figure. He's fought in the arena for longer than most of us have been alive, a survivor in a place where survival means nothing. His eyes are cold, like the stone beneath our feet.
Margaret doesn't flinch when he steps forward. She takes a deep breath, eyes narrowing, as though she's already calculated everything. The crowd quiets, anticipating the start of the fight.
"Fight!" the announcer shouts. The roar of the crowd follows, but it feels distant now. I can hardly hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.
I can see the tension in Margaret's shoulders. She's scared, and I know it. Not for herself, but for something more—something bigger than this fight. She's a kid. She shouldn't have to carry this weight. But she does. She knows that if she slips up, if she falters, she'll die. It's as simple as that. Scar isn't like the others. He's been through too many battles, his instincts honed by years of fighting for survival.
She can't make a mistake.
The fight starts fast. Margaret moves with an unnatural grace, darting around Scar's massive swings. She's fast, but it's clear she's outmatched in strength. Scar's blows are brutal, each one carrying the weight of his experience.
Margaret's body barely manages to dodge the first few strikes. Her small frame twists and contorts as she avoids the full force of Scar's fists, but the air around her crackles with the tension of every missed hit. She's faster than him, but it's a gamble, a constant dance between life and death.
Her eyes flick to the crowd for a moment, but I catch something in her gaze that unsettles me further. It's like she already knows how this fight is going to end. It's not just about survival for her; it's about something else. Something buried beneath her calm demeanor.
Scar roars, swinging his greatsword down. The strike lands, but Margaret, with a swift movement, spins and narrowly avoids it. She uses her speed, darting in to strike, but it's not enough. Scar's massive fist connects with her side, and she is sent flying across the arena, crashing into the stone wall with a sickening thud.
For a moment, there's silence. The crowd holds its breath.
Margaret is motionless on the ground.
Then, slowly, she stirs. The blood on the floor stains her clothing as she pushes herself back up, her face drawn but focused. I can see it now—the glimmer of determination in her eyes. She doesn't look afraid. She looks angry.
With a sudden burst of energy, she charges forward again, a streak of light in the chaos of the fight. She's not playing for a victory anymore. She's playing for survival. She's playing for the chance to keep moving, to stay in the game.
Her sword slashes across Scar's chest, leaving a deep wound. He howls in pain, stumbling back. The crowd cheers, but it feels hollow to me.
Margaret keeps going. She doesn't stop. Her strikes are fast, relentless, each one drawing more blood. And then, finally, with a quick move, she plunges her sword into Scar's gut. He lets out a strangled roar as his body goes up in flames, his aura consuming him.
Margaret stands over him, breathing heavily. Her hair is now a vibrant red, a mark of her Sun Guardian powers. But she doesn't smile. She doesn't celebrate. She looks... vacant, like the victory means nothing to her. Like it's just another step in this endless cycle.
As the guards approach to escort her out of the arena, her eyes flicker toward me for a brief moment. It's the same stare, sharp and knowing. I feel it again—the weight of her gaze. She doesn't need to say anything. She doesn't have to. It's like she knows everything, as if she's already lived this moment countless times before.
And I wonder—what is it she sees in me? Why does she keep looking at me?
The guards move her away, and I'm left standing in my cell. The arena quiets, but it's not over. The city of Nubilis will continue. The cycle will continue. And for some reason, I'm starting to believe it's all about to change. But I don't know how. Not yet.