Page 2

Dernin

A sharp sting in his neck was the last thing Dernin remembered before darkness claimed him. His consciousness returned slowly, like swimming through murky water. The cold stone beneath his coiled tail brought him fully awake.

“Where...” His throat felt raw. His tongue flicked out and sampled his surroundings. The air tasted stale, carrying traces of mold and decay.

The holding cell measured barely ten feet across. Moisture seeped down rough-hewn walls, creating dark streaks in the stone. A single light panel flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows.

Dernin pushed himself up, his muscles protesting the movement. His head throbbed where it had been struck at some point during the ambush. He reached up to touch the tender spot, his jaw clenching at the dried blood he found there.

“You disappoint me, warrior.” The voice came from beyond the metal bars. A Jorvlen guard stood there, its slimy, bulky form rippling with amusement. “I expected more of a fight.”

“Remove these bars,” Dernin’s voice came out as a low growl, “and I’ll show you exactly what I’m capable of.”

The guard laughed. “Save that energy. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Dernin’s tail coiled beneath him in agitation as he assessed his prison cell.

The bars looked sturdy, but the mounting brackets showed signs of rust. The stone walls might provide grip points for climbing if he could find the right moment.

His captors had stripped him of his weapons and comm unit, but they couldn’t take away his training.

“The others will come looking for me,” he said, more to himself than the guard.

“Oh? Like your patrol partner?” The guard’s form rippled again. “The one who left you alone? Face it, warrior. You’re exactly where we want you.”

Shame and anger warred in Dernin’s chest. The guard was right—his own overconfidence had led to this. But whatever these Jorvlens had planned, they’d learn the hard way that capturing him was their first mistake.

A bundle of fabric suddenly sailed through the metal bars and landed in front of Dernin. Another Jorvlen guard materialized from the shadows.

“Put those on, snake,” the guard gurgled. “You’ll need them where you’re going.”

Dernin tasted the air again with his tongue, searching for any more clues about his present location.

But there was none. Reluctantly, Dernin picked up the clothes.

They carried the metallic tang of old blood mixed with sweat.

His scales bristled as he unfolded what appeared to be fighting gear—practical, reinforced fabric allowing freedom of movement.

“What is this?” Dernin’s tail coiled tighter beneath him.

“Welcome to the underground.” The guard’s form jiggled with amusement. “Hope you like to fight.”

Before Dernin could respond, footsteps echoed down the corridor. A figure emerged from the darkness—tall and dressed in expensive synthetics. Power radiated from his presence, but it wasn’t the honorable kind Dernin recognized from his commander. This was something altogether more predatory.

“I am Kingpin Fyret,” the figure announced, his voice carrying the weight of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “And you belong to me now.”

Dernin’s muscles tensed. “I belong to no one. I am a warrior of Nirum.”

“Was.” Fyret’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Now you’re my newest acquisition. You’ll fight in my ring, entertain my guests, make me money.”

“I refuse.”

“Refuse?” Fyret laughed, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. “This isn’t a negotiation, warrior. You’ll fight because that’s what you’re good at. You’ll fight because that’s all you have left now.”

Dernin rose to his full height, his golden scales catching what little light filtered into the cell. “You underestimate what I’m capable of.”

“No.” Fyret’s expression hardened. “You underestimate what I’m capable of. Put on the clothes. Your first fight starts in an hour.”

The roar of the crowd hit Dernin like a physical force as the guards shoved him into the fighting ring.

He tasted blood, sweat, and fear in the air.

The arena was circular, maybe thirty feet across, with walls too high and smooth to climb.

Above, behind reinforced barriers, spectators waved credit chips and shouted numbers.

His opponent, a hulking Kraxen with thick arms and chitinous armor, circled him. The creature’s mandibles clicked in anticipation.

“Fight!” The command boomed through hidden speakers.

Dernin’s tail coiled beneath him as he took a defensive stance. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of—

The Kraxen’s fist whistled past his head. Dernin weaved, dodging another strike. His opponent was fast, but Dernin was faster. He blocked a third punch with his forearm, the impact jarring his bones.

“What’s wrong, snake?” The Kraxen’s mandibles clicked. “Too noble to fight back?”

Dernin’s jaw clenched. He slipped under another wild swing, his movements fluid and controlled. The crowd’s disappointment rolled over him in waves.

“Fight properly!” Fyret’s voice cut through the crowd. “Or we’ll find other ways to motivate you.”

The Kraxen’s next attack caught him in the ribs. Pain exploded through his side.

Something inside Dernin snapped. His tail whipped out, catching the Kraxen’s legs. As his opponent stumbled, Dernin struck. His fist connected with the creature’s thorax, finding the weak spot between armor plates. The Kraxen wheezed.

Dernin pressed his advantage. He grabbed one of the Kraxen’s arms, using the creature’s momentum to slam it into the arena wall. His tail wrapped around another arm, immobilizing it.

“Yield,” Dernin growled.

The Kraxen spat and thrashed. Dernin tightened his grip, his muscles straining against his opponent’s strength.

“I said yield!”

The Kraxen’s free arm went limp. “I... yield.”

The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and angry shouts as guards rushed in to separate them. Dernin’s chest heaved as they grabbed his arms, but he didn’t resist. He’d won without killing—small comfort.

As they led him from the arena, Dernin caught Fyret’s calculating stare. The kingpin’s smile promised this was only the beginning.

The guards shoved Dernin into a larger holding area, his tail sliding across the rough stone floor.

The room stank of sweat and desperation, mixed with the distinct odor of various species crammed together.

Other fighters lounged on metal benches bolted to the walls or paced in tight circles, their movements carrying the restless energy of caged predators.

A Jorvlen approached, his bulky form rippling with each step. Filaments along his slimy skin twitched as he moved. The creature’s scent carried notes of violence and old blood.

“Fresh meat.” The Jorvlen’s deep voice gurgled. “I’m Bariv. That was quite a show you put on.”

“I don’t perform for anyone’s entertainment,” Dernin growled.

“That’s what they all say.” Bariv’s form pulsed with amusement. “Yet here you are, same as us. Fighting. Surviving.”

“I won’t be here long.” Dernin’s jaw clenched.

“Planning an escape?” Bariv leaned closer, his voice dropping to a wet whisper. “Three fighters tried last month. Want to know what happened to them? Their pieces decorated the ring for days. Made quite an impression on the crowd.”

Dernin’s muscles tensed, but he held his ground. “I’m not like the others.”

“No?” Bariv circled him, filaments writhing. “You’re exactly like us. Property. The sooner you accept that, the longer you’ll live. Fyret owns you now, warrior. Your honor, your pride—none of that matters here. Only the fight matters.”

“You sound like someone who’s given up.”

Bariv’s form rippled violently. “I sound like someone who’s survived. But by all means, keep your delusions. They’ll make it more entertaining when Fyret breaks you.” The Jorvlen then moved away.

Dernin coiled his tail under him as he settled into a corner of the holding cell, his golden scales scraping against the rough stone wall. The constant drip of water from somewhere above matched the rhythm of his mounting frustration.

“Stupid,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “So damned stupid.”

The taste of his own failure lingered bitter on his tongue. A warrior’s first lesson: Never patrol alone. Yet he’d dismissed it like some fresh recruit.

His jaw tightened as he watched the other fighters mill about the cell. The air hung thick with the stench of fear and resignation.

“I’m a warrior of Nirum,” he whispered to himself. “And warriors find a way.”

He flexed his muscles, testing the soreness from his recent fight. The Kraxen had landed some solid hits, but nothing was broken. He could work with that.

“They expect me to break,” he said under his breath, his tail tightening with renewed determination. “But they don’t understand what it means to be Niri.”

He’d find a way out—not through brute force like the others had tried but with patience and precision. The warrior way.