Page 3

Alaysia

The rough fabric of the blindfold scratched against Alaysia’s eyelids as unseen hands guided her forward. Her bare feet padded across what felt like polished stone, cool and smooth beneath her toes. The air shifted—warmer, stuffier—suggesting they’d entered a room.

The hands released her shoulders. Heavy footsteps echoed and then a door clicked shut behind her. The silence pressed in, broken only by the soft whisper of expensive fabric and the measured breathing of someone else in the room.

“My latest acquisition,” a voice purred from somewhere to her left. “I am Kingpin Fyret, your new owner.”

Footsteps circled her, deliberate and slow. Alaysia’s skin prickled. Though she couldn’t see him, she sensed his gaze crawling over her body. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

“Such exotic coloring,” Fyret mused. “That hair—such a bright red. Rare among humans. No wonder you went for such a high price at the auction house.”

The footsteps stopped. A waft of spiced cologne preceded his presence as he moved closer. Alaysia fought the urge to step back, knowing it would only amuse him. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

His breath fanned across her neck, hot and damp. He inhaled deeply, like a predator savoring the scent of prey. The tip of his nose brushed her skin, sending a violent shudder through her body.

“Perfect,” he whispered, his lips nearly grazing her ear. “You’ll do nicely.”

Alaysia’s throat constricted. Her mother’s warnings about the cruel whims of powerful men echoed in her mind.

Fyret’s fingers soon brushed against Alaysia’s temple as he untied the blindfold.

The fabric slipped away, and she blinked against the sudden light.

The office materialized around her—all polished wood and gleaming metal, wealth dripping from every surface.

A massive desk dominated the space, carved from what looked like expensive wood.

Fyret stepped back slightly, and Alaysia’s muscles coiled tightly, preparing for him to reach for her clothes next. Instead, he circled back to lean against his desk, crossing his arms with a satisfied smirk.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.” He gestured to an ornate chair. “Sit.”

Alaysia remained standing, her chin lifted. “I’d prefer not to.”

“Spirited. Good.” His lips curved. “You’ll need that fire. You see, you’re not here for the usual... entertainment. You’re going to be something far more valuable—the grand prize.”

The words hit her like cold water. “Grand prize?”

“For my tournament.” Pride colored his voice. “The winner gets you—permanently. My fighters need proper motivation, you understand. Nothing drives a male quite like the promise of such a... unique reward.”

Bile rose in Alaysia’s throat. The room seemed to tilt sideways as the full meaning sank in. She’d be passed over like a trophy, handed off to whatever brute managed to beat the others into submission.

“And if I refuse?”

Fyret’s laugh scraped against her ears. “Refuse? My dear, you’re property. The only choice you have is whether to accept your role with grace or make things unnecessarily difficult for yourself.”

“I’m not property.” The words came out steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I’m a person.”

“No, a human.” He waved dismissively. “Which makes you property by law. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure whoever wins you is worthy of such a prize.”

Fyret pressed a button on his desk, and the door swung open. Two Jorvlen guards entered, their heavy boots thudding against the polished floor. The taller one’s scarred face twisted into a leer as his gaze landed on Alaysia.

“Take her to the slave area.” Fyret’s voice hardened. “And spread the word—anyone who touches her before the tournament ends will answer to me personally. She’s to remain... pristine for the winner.”

The shorter guard grabbed Alaysia’s arm. She yanked away, earning a warning squeeze.

“I can walk on my own.” The words came out sharp enough to cut glass.

“Feisty little thing.” The scarred guard chuckled. “Sure you don’t want us to break her in a bit first, boss?”

Fyret’s eyes narrowed. “Did I stutter? She’s worth more untouched. Now get her out of my sight.”

Before long, they escorted her down a dimly lit corridor. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and blood. The underground fighting rings weren’t far. Alaysia’s stomach churned. Her mother had warned her about these places, where slaves were forced to fight until their bodies gave out.

The guards’ boots echoed off stone walls as they descended deeper into the complex. Other slaves pressed themselves against the walls as they passed, their eyes downcast. None dared meet her gaze.

“Fresh meat,” someone whispered.

“Poor thing won’t last long.”

“Shut it,” the scarred guard barked, and the whispers died.

Alaysia’s mind raced, mapping their route. Three right turns, one left, down two flights of stairs. The complex was a maze, but every maze had an exit. She just had to find it.

“Lucky you,” the shorter guard sneered, his breath hot against her ear. “Getting to be some champion’s prize. Better than ending up in the rings yourself.”

Alaysia’s lip curled. “I’d rather fight.”

The guards laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Careful what you wish for, pretty thing.”

The guards soon pushed Alaysia through a doorway with a heavy metal door. It appeared to be the slaves’ living quarters. The space opened into a common area filled with worn furniture. The musty air carried traces of cheap soap and desperation.

A woman with graying temples and sharp eyes approached, her movements slow but purposeful. “I’m Marcella. You must be our... prize.” She dismissed the guards with a wave. “I’ll take it from here.”

Alaysia’s shoulders remained tense until the door clanged shut behind the guards. Her fingernails dug half-moons into her palms.

“Come.” Marcella guided her to a secluded corner where a threadbare couch sagged against the wall. “You’re safe here, at least from unwanted advances.”

“Safe?” Alaysia’s laugh came out hollow.

“Fyret’s word is iron, dear. No one will touch you before the tournament ends.” Marcella’s gray eyes softened. “He may be a monster, but he’s a businessman first. Damaged goods don’t fetch top coin for him.”

The couch creaked as Alaysia sank into it. Her mother’s lessons on survival echoed in her head—adapt, endure, wait for opportunity. “And after the tournament ends?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Marcella settled beside her. “For now, you’ve got me watching your back. The other girls, too. We take care of our own here.”

“Why?” Alaysia studied the older woman’s face. “You don’t know me.”

Marcella’s hand found Alaysia’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Sometimes, having someone in your corner makes all the difference between breaking and surviving.”

The knot in Alaysia’s stomach loosened slightly. She wasn’t alone. It wasn’t much, but it was something to hold on to in this underground hell.

“Thank you,” she whispered, meaning it despite her lingering anger and worry.

“Rest now.” Marcella stood and walked away.

Alaysia got up from the couch and walked over to the sleeping area.

Several bunk beds were lined up in rows.

She climbed onto the top bunk of one, the thin mattress creaking under her weight.

The scratchy blanket rubbed against her skin as she lay down.

Water stains created abstract patterns above her, and she traced them with her eyes, her mind spinning with possibilities.

Three right turns, one left, down two flights. The route played on repeat in her head. She’d need to know every detail to find her way back out. The guards’ patrol patterns, the timing of shift changes—all crucial pieces of the puzzle.

The ventilation system hummed overhead. Alaysia mapped its path with her eyes, noting the size of the ducts. Too small for escape, but maybe useful for hiding something. Her fingers absently traced the metal frame of her bunk. Sharp edges could become tools with enough patience.

Marcella meant well, but survival wasn’t enough. Not anymore. Alaysia refused to be passed around like a trophy, refused to accept the fate others had chosen for her. The tournament wouldn’t happen for a while—plenty of time to learn the rhythms of this place, to find its weaknesses.

She closed her eyes, pretending to sleep while her mind cataloged everything she’d seen. Any little detail could be the difference between freedom and the unknown.

Let them think she’d accepted her role. Let them believe she was just another pretty prize waiting to be claimed. They’d learn too late that she was something else entirely—a survivor, yes, but more importantly, a fighter.