Nox walked down the dark corridor, not knowing where he was going or what fate awaited him. The only light came from torches mounted sporadically along the stone walls, their flames flickering weakly and casting dancing silhouettes.
Along the way, they passed a series of identical wooden doors. Nox wondered if Torven or Abram were behind one of them. For a moment, he felt the urge to call out to them, but he quickly abandoned the idea. He didn't want to put anyone else at risk. So he followed the two slavers in silence, the chain dragging from his ankle.
Eventually, they reached massive iron gates. The guards stopped. The taller of the two disappeared from view for a moment, and after a few minutes returned carrying Nox's sword. Without a word, the other removed the chain from his leg and opened the double doors. They shoved him outside, tossing his sword right after him, and slammed the gates shut with a thunderous bang.
Nox found himself standing on a sandy, brightly lit surface resembling a combat arena. He looked around. The light was blinding, preventing him from seeing the spectators clearly, but he could feel their eyes on him. His instinct took over; he was being watched, judged. Dozens, maybe hundreds of eyes followed his every move. He slowly picked up his sword without dropping his guard.
At the opposite end of the arena, another set of doors opened. It was Torven who was shoved inside.
They approached each other disoriented, each with a sword in hand.
"I have been here before," Torven said quietly. "I have fought in this place."
"Do you know how to get out?" Nox asked, whispering.
Torven shook his head.
"First, we have to defeat our opponent."
They stood back to back, weapons raised, waiting. But no one came.
And then something happened.
Nox felt a jolt inside, something cold and foreign, now invading him from within. The voice in his head was not his own. His body moved against his will. He tried to scream, to warn Torven, but could barely whisper through gritted teeth:
"Torven...Run..."
A split second later, his sword came crashing down with full force. Torven barely dodged it.
"Nox! Stop!" he shouted, but his words echoed uselessly off the arena walls.
Nox's eyes were full of terror. His arms kept striking again and again. Deep inside, he knew, he had no control. It was someone else who was pulling the invisible strings. He desperately tried to drop his sword to the ground, but without any luck. Anger grew inside him.
I have to stop this! I have to break free. But how...? The thought screamed through his mind, frantic and desperate, as panic surged in his chest.
He tried to remember, 'think, think!' how he had broken free from Blint's grip before. Back then, something had shifted inside him, a sliver of clarity cutting through the fog. He had managed to block the intruder out, to push back and reclaim himself. But how had he done it? What had he felt?
Now, nothing responded. He was a prisoner in his own body, limbs moving with a purpose that wasn't his. Blow after blow, relentless and automatic, each strike carried his power, yes, but not his will. Not his choice.
Torven staggered under the assault, struggling to deflect the hits. He was quick, but fatigue was slowly setting in.
"Nox! You can do it! Break the connection!" Torven cried out, voice raw with urgency.
But Nox's body didn't listen; he continued his strikes and slashed at Torven's ribs, relentless and mechanical. Torven parried another blow, but the very next one caught his shoulder, tearing his tunic and drawing blood.
Nox wanted to cry out and again throw his weapon away, but his body refused to obey. His grip tightened instead, driving him forward with even greater fury.
"I don't want this!" Nox managed to whisper through gritted teeth, sweat pouring down his face. But it didn't matter. The force manipulating him pressed harder, more cruelly, somehow twisting his every muscle into motion.
Torven staggered, blocking another overhead strike, then gasped silently as Nox's blade scraped across his thigh.
"Nox! Wake up!" He shouted again.
And then something shifted.
Nox stopped trying to calm down.
Instead, he let the storm within him rise.
He thought of the loss of his brothers. Of Blint's voice in his head. He also thought about Torven and his gentle actions. Then again, of the pain that he went through and how everything had been taken from him, piece by piece: his father's death and his younger brother's kidnapping.
Those last memories hit like a blow to the chest. Right now, he was letting it all out. The helplessness and the hate, and the raw, howling grief he'd never had the strength to face.
He let it boil up in his chest until it became fire. That deliberate fury started in his chest and spread through his limbs.
Something within him was changing. Some kind of resistance.
And then, behind all of it, he felt it, that unnatural tug deep inside of him, like a thread tied to someone else but him. Someone's control. That invisible leash.
And he needed to tear it loose.
He gathered every ounce of fury, grief, and love he'd ever buried and hurled it at that presence. He seized the pressure in his mind and started tearing it away.
A scream tore from his throat, raw and primal, like something being split apart from the inside. His muscles seized, his body convulsed, but it was his scream. His pain and his release. The sound echoed off the stone walls like a war cry.
He raised his head to face Torven, who was standing right in front of him. Nox was sweaty and exhausted, but when their eyes met, he smiled slightly.
Suddenly, the doors burst open with a crash, and hordes of slaves began to pour into the arena. Nox and Torven stood side by side, cutting down each opponent one by one. Blood flowed in streams.
Nox quickly noticed that some of them didn't seem focused on the fight; their eyes were vacant, their movements erratic. He understood at once: they were being controlled just like he was moments earlier. Used and discarded like broken toys. He felt sorry for them; none of this was their choice. They weren't soldiers but mere puppets, victims, caught in a war they didn't start and couldn't escape. He was only hoping they would find the person responsible for this.
But he and Torven had no other choice either; if they wanted to survive, they had to stand their ground. They fought with grim determination, slowly regaining control of the chaos.
"If you see a blond warrior, not much younger than me," Nox shouted to Torven, "don't kill him! He might be my brother!"
Torven nodded. Moments later, he was climbing the stands, cutting through slave traders with cold precision. Among them was the same bored-looking man who had once purchased him when he was a child. Now, that man sat slumped in his chair with his back twisted at an odd angle, eyes wide open, a deep sword wound carved across his chest.
Meanwhile, Nox finished off the remaining fighters. They were winning. Blow by blow, they were taking the arena back.
Torven ran back down from the stands and leapt into the arena once more. They were the last ones standing. Alive.
He grinned at Nox, and Nox returned the smile. They were ready to face whatever came next.
Torven pushed open the heavy metal door, the exit from the arena, and both of them entered one of the dark corridors. Torven walked first, and Nox followed right behind him. It was almost pitch black, and eerily quiet; there were no signs of any enemies ahead.
At some point, Torven came to a halt.
Nox looked at him.
A bloodied sword protruded from Torven's back.
"N–Nox...!" was all he managed to cry out before he began to collapse to the floor.