Page 4

Alaysia

A sharp jolt yanked Alaysia from sleep the following morning. Marcella’s face hovered inches from hers, lined with urgency.

“Up. Now.”

Alaysia’s muscles protested as she climbed down from the top bunk. The cold floor shocked her bare feet. “What’s happening?”

“Bath time. Fyret wants you presentable,” Marcella replied firmly.

They soon walked through winding corridors, each step echoing against stone walls. Alaysia counted the turns—right, left, up a narrow staircase. Different from yesterday’s route.

The private chamber sparkled with polished marble and gold fixtures. Steam rose from a sunken bath filled with rose-scented water.

“Strip now,” Marcella ordered, her voice gentler than before.

Alaysia reluctantly complied, removing her worn linen dress. She stepped toward the sunken bath with hesitation.

The water enveloped her in silken warmth when she finally entered. Two attendants soon scrubbed her skin raw with pumice stones and sweet-smelling oils.

“Careful with her hair,” Marcella barked at an attendant wielding a comb. “It’s her best feature.”

“My best feature is my ability to throw a punch,” Alaysia muttered.

Marcella’s lips twitched. “Save that spirit. You’ll need it.”

After the bath, they dressed her in an emerald silk dress that clung to every curve. The neckline plunged dangerously low, exposing her cleavage.

“Hold still.” Marcella fastened a delicate gold chain around Alaysia’s neck. It felt like a collar.

“I look like a prize animal at auction,” Alaysia said, examining her reflection.

“You look valuable.” Marcella met Alaysia’s eyes in the mirror as she worked through her damp hair, arranging the red waves to frame her face.

Alaysia touched her dress. It restricted her movement, making her vulnerable. But vulnerability could be a weapon, too. Let them think she was just something pretty to look at.

“There.” Marcella stepped back to examine her work. “Beautiful.”

The crowd parted as Alaysia walked through, her emerald dress swishing against the polished floor. Every step felt like walking on needles in the heeled shoes they’d forced her to wear. The fighting ring’s main hall buzzed with activity—gambling, drinking, and deal-making happening in every corner.

Marcella’s presence beside her was both a comfort and a cage. “Eyes forward,” she murmured. “Don’t engage.”

A drunk Jorvlen reached for Alaysia’s hair. Marcella’s hand shot out, blocking his path. “The prize is not to be touched.”

The way they looked at her made her skin crawl. Like she was meat at the market. She kept her chin high, though, counting exits and noting guard positions. Three doors to the east, heavily watched. Two to the west, less security but required crossing the main floor.

They climbed carpeted stairs to a private viewing box. The elevated position gave her a perfect view of both the fighting ring and the crowd below. Plush velvet chairs lined the railing.

“Sit,” Marcella commanded, positioning herself between Alaysia and the box’s entrance.

Below, two fighters circled each other in the sand-covered ring. Blood already stained the ground from earlier matches. The larger competitor lunged, his fist connecting with a sickening crunch.

“This is barbaric,” Alaysia whispered.

“This is business,” Marcella replied flatly.

A roar went up from the crowd as one fighter went down. Alaysia’s stomach turned at the spray of blood.

As the fighting matches continued, Marcella told Alaysia about the different fighters as well as their strengths and weaknesses.

“That one there,” Marcella pointed to a scarred fighter with cybernetic enhancements, “fights dirty. Keeps plasma charges in his artificial arm. Half the time they malfunction and explode in his face.”

Alaysia leaned forward, her silk dress rustling against the velvet chair. She studied the various combatants. Any intel on them might be useful to her later.

“The tall one with the tentacles? Slower than he looks. Gets tangled up in his own limbs when he’s tired.” Marcella’s commentary continued as fighters rotated through matches.

The crowd’s roar shifted to hushed whispers as the next fighter emerged.

Alaysia’s breath caught in her throat. A Naga entered the ring, his powerful tail leaving serpentine patterns in the bloodstained sand.

Golden scales caught the harsh arena lights, creating an ethereal shimmer across his muscled torso.

Each movement was precise, calculated, deadly grace personified.

Her fingers gripped the chair’s armrest as he circled his opponent. The Naga’s jaw clenched, his golden eyes focused with predatory intensity. A network of small scars marked his skin—testament to countless battles. His opponent, a burly Jorvlen, charged forward with a battle cry.

The Naga moved like liquid gold. His tail swept low, knocking the Jorvlen off balance. In the same fluid motion, his upper body twisted, delivering a devastating strike. The fight was brutal, efficient, and beautiful.

Sweat gleamed on the Naga’s skin. His muscles rippled as he grappled with his opponent, using his superior strength and agility to his advantage. Alaysia found herself holding her breath, mesmerized by the raw power on display.

The match ended swiftly. The Jorvlen lay unconscious in the sand while the Naga stood victorious, his chest heaving from exertion.

“The house always wins,” Marcella continued her commentary, but Alaysia barely heard her.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the Naga as he left the ring, his tail leaving another intricate pattern in the sand.

The memory of those golden scales and fierce eyes burned into her mind.

Something about him seemed different from the other fighters—less savage, more controlled. More dangerous.

Before long, the last match ended with a thunderous cheer from the crowd. Alaysia’s feet ached in the heeled shoes as she followed Marcella down from the viewing box. The emerald silk of her dress whispered against her legs with each careful step on the stairs.

“That Naga warrior,” Alaysia said, keeping her voice low as they navigated through the dispersing crowd. “Who is he?”

“Dernin.” Marcella guided her past a group of rowdy gamblers collecting their winnings. “He showed up here six months ago. Rising star in the ring—undefeated so far.”

Alaysia’s steps faltered. “He’s a slave, too?”

“I’m not sure, but most of them are.” Marcella’s hand settled on her elbow, steadying her. “Some volunteer for the money and glory, but most?” She shook her head. “Captured, sold to pay debts, or tricked into contracts they can’t escape.”

The silk dress suddenly felt too tight, constricting.

Alaysia watched a cleaning crew sweep blood-stained sand from the ring when they reached the ground level.

She thought of Dernin’s controlled movements, the way he’d fought with precision rather than brutality.

Not like the other fighters who seemed to revel in violence.

“He doesn’t belong here,” she murmured.

“None of us do.” Marcella’s voice carried a sharp edge. “But here we are.”

Alaysia’s heels clicked against the stone floor as she made her way through the dimly lit corridor toward the slave quarters. Her dress caught on rough patches of wall, making her curse under her breath.

A guard’s sharp whistle pierced the air. “Marcella! Fyret needs you.”

“The slave quarters are just past the holding cells. You remember the way?” Marcella asked.

“Down the corridor, left at the fork, and then right,” Alaysia replied without hesitation.

“Do you feel comfortable walking that short distance alone?” Marcella asked, her voice tinged with slight concern.

“Yes, I can handle myself,” Alaysia replied confidently.

Marcella nodded, and her footsteps soon faded away.

The musty scent of the underground level filled Alaysia’s nostrils. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. Her skin prickled as she passed the holding cells, conscious of eyes following her movement.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The slimy voice froze her in place. His massive form blocked the corridor ahead, his filaments writhing in the dim light.

“Just heading back to quarters.” Alaysia kept her voice steady, though her heart started beating faster.

“Dressed like that?” His dark eyes roamed over her body. “Seems a waste to rush off.”

“I need to go.” She tried to step around him.

His hand shot out, pressing against the wall beside her head. His skin glistened with an oily sheen. “Come on, pretty thing. Let’s have some fun. My name’s Bariv, but you can call me anything you want.”

“I’m Fyret’s prize. No one’s allowed to touch me.” The words tasted bitter.

“What Fyret doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” His other hand reached for her hair.

Alaysia ducked away, her back hitting the cold stone wall. “Back off.”

“Or what?” His bulk pressed closer, trapping her. The stench of his breath made her gag. “You gonna tell on me?”

Her fingers curled into fists. One good shot to his throat…

“Such fire.” Bariv’s filaments brushed against her cheek. “I like that.”