The Prize and the Pit

  The pit was still trembling.

  The crowd had become thunder itself — feet stomping, fists hammering the air, a single chant flooding the sky:

  "PHOENIX KING! PHOENIX KING! PHOENIX KING!"

  Hiro stood still — the storm inside him nowhere near settling.

  Lightning whispered across his skin in soft, spiraling flickers — not wild anymore, but waiting. Coiled.

  Around him, the dust refused to settle. It hung in the air, trembling, like even the air was afraid to move before he did.

  Beside him, Phinx perched with wings half-furled, his body steaming where blood met flame, gold eyes locked forward, unblinking.

  He wasn’t a bird anymore. He was a symbol of dominance.

  Around them, the survivors gathered.

  They stood — bloodied, battered, but unbroken.

  Scarred men. Bloodied women. Each one staring at Hiro with a quiet storm behind their eyes — awe, yes. But also pride. He didn’t save them. He stood with them. Bled with them.

  And rose with them.

  The chant only grew louder.

  In the midst of it, a movement cut through the dust.

  Damaric.

  His shield arm bloodied, his chest heaving, he pushed forward — eyes locked on the massive Calydonian boar still twitching on the ground.

  A low, guttural growl rumbled from Damaric’s throat as he stepped forward, gripping a battered sword he had picked off the ground — ready to finish what Hiro had fought to bring down.

  "It's still alive... but today, it dies here," Damaric muttered, voice raw.

  He stepped closer, sword raised — the edge catching the last light of the broken sun.

  But before he could strike—

  Hiro moved.

  Quick, clean — catching Damaric’s wrist in midair.

  The pit still roared around them, but in that space between them — there was only tension.

  Hiro shook his head once.

  "It's done," Hiro said quietly. "It doesn’t need more."

  Damaric’s jaw tightened — his whole body stiff with pride, anger simmering beneath the surface.

  For a heartbeat, it looked like he might resist — might drive the blade downward anyway.

  But then Hiro's grip hardened.

  A pulse of restrained pressure rolled off him — heavy, primal, electric — and Damaric’s breath hitched without meaning to. His knees nearly buckled, instincts screaming at him to yield.

  With a grunt, face burning, Damaric yanked his wrist free — letting the battered sword fall to his side.

  He turned away sharply, stalking back toward the survivors, his silence heavier than a scream.

  ---

  And then—

  Silence.

  It didn’t fade.

  It didn’t die.

  It was crushed.

  Like the air had been sucked from the lungs of the world.

  At the highest edge of the coliseum,

  a figure stepped forward.

  He didn’t speak.

  He didn’t gesture.

  He simply raised a hand.

  And the pit obeyed.

  No trumpet. No decree.

  Just silence. Heavy and absolute.

  Even Phinx shifted slightly, feathers lifting.

  The survivors turned.

  The crowd leaned forward.

  The stone itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Then —

  he laughed.

  "BAHAHAHAHA!"

  A deep, primal bellow that shook the dust from the broken pillars.

  It rolled through the pit like an avalanche — not cruel, not mocking — but massive.

  He leapt.

  One step. One push.

  CRASH.

  He landed in the center of the pit — stone rupturing, cracks spiderwebbing out beneath his boots.

  A crater opened beneath him like the earth itself recoiled from his arrival.

  The crowd gasped.

  He stood tall — broad, brutal, built like war itself — bare-chested beneath a wolf-fur mantle, arms like siege columns,

  the King of Varnokh Darius The Beastbreaker.

  He didn’t speak again.

  He simply walked.

  Each step a drumbeat.

  Each breath a thunderclap.

  Aura farming in real time.

  Not flashy.

  Not showy.

  Inevitable.

  He stopped a few paces from Hiro.

  The two stood face to face — the boy who broke beasts and rose in flame,

  and the warlord who ruled the pit with his silence.

  Dust curled between them.

  Phinx growled low, wings half-flared.

  But Hiro didn’t flinch.

  The King grinned, voice like stone dragged across steel.

  "You made a mess of my arena, boy. Tell me your name... and what corner of the world dares to forge you."

  Hiro didn’t flinch.

  Lightning danced faintly at his shoulders, eyes sharp beneath the dust.

  "Hiro of Athens."

  King Darius tilted his head, a flicker of amusement beneath the furrow of his brow.

  "No lineage? No house?"

  Hiro’s voice held.

  "Just the name. That’s all that’s needed."

  King Darius grunted, half-laughing.

  "Well, Hiro of Athens... you and the bird put on the best show this pit has ever seen."

  He stepped forward one more pace, voice low but carrying. He reached out his hand.

  Hiro reached out — their hands clasped in silence.

  A subtle, heavy shift passed through the arena — not from Hiro, but from Darius.

  He was exerting pressure so immense around him you could see a deep red aura oozing from his body. The survivors and the crowd gasped as the air grew thick.

  They all could feel it, the wrath of the king.

  As if in answer, a slow ripple of heat shimmered the air. Then came the sparks — lightning crawling quietly over Hiro’s skin, coiling tighter at his forearms. Then Hiro exerted his own power. A force of lightning and fire, exuding heat. It felt like moving even an inch might draw lightning down your spine.

  Phinx let out a low, resonant cry.

  It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

  The survivors closest to them took a step back without realizing.

  Even Darius paused for half a breath — not in fear, but in recognition.

  The pressure between them built — heat and force radiating in waves from both warriors.

  The crowd dared not move. Some warriors pressed fists to their chests without knowing why. The stone cracked faintly beneath their boots.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  And yet, in the eye of the storm, Phinx didn’t even blink.

  His wings flared wide, flames dancing harmlessly over feathers. He stood between them not as prey, but as something sovereign — untouched by kings or storms.

  Still. Grounded. Watching. But undeniable.

  At the edge of the coliseum, Homiros stood — quill in hand, scroll unrolling slowly like fate itself. He said nothing. Just watched — as the boy with lightning met the Beastbreaker’s gaze. One stood tall. The other, taller still. But the weight they carried? That was equal."

  Darius released Hiro’s hand. The pressure faded — but it didn’t vanish. It simply settled, like magma cooling beneath the crust.

  He tilted his head.

  “You’ve got the pit’s ear, boy. Speak your want.”

  Hiro glanced once at Phinx, then at the silent crowd — survivors, warriors, killers — now waiting for his words.

  He took a step forward.

  “I don’t want gold. Or glory.”

  “I want your allegiance.”

  The crowd stirred — a ripple of disbelief spreading like a storm’s first wind. Even some of the survivors looked at each other.

  Darius didn’t blink.

  He stepped closer again, until their foreheads were nearly aligned.

  “You want Varnokh?”

  A pause.

  “I want your strength. With me. In the wars to come.”

  The King let the words hang, heavy as stone.

  Then he grinned again — this time, like a wolf.

  "Then you’ll have to earn it."

  He turned, his voice rising just enough to carry to the crowd still held in breathless silence.

  "Tomorrow, you face one final trial. One more proving inside the Den." "At dawn, we see if you're worthy of such a request."

  The pit murmured, some in awe, some in grim anticipation.

  Darius looked back at Hiro, the grin still there — sharper now, edged with challenge.

  "Don’t die before the war begins, boy."

  A beat of silence.

  Then the pit exploded.

  The crowd erupted with a roar that shook the coliseum — louder even than before. Warriors slammed fists to chests. Some shouted Hiro’s name. Others chanted Darius’s. But all of them knew:

  They had just witnessed the forging of something new.

  At the edge of the coliseum, Homiros dipped his quill.

  Ink met parchment with reverence.

  "The trial is not over," he whispered. "But will the legend rise or fall?"

  From the edge of the survivors, Damaric said nothing. His gaze lingered on Hiro, unreadable. Then he turned, silently walking toward the barracks — his fists clenched.

  Ash in the Wind

  The stars blinked overhead, distant and cold.

  Somewhere beyond the trees, wolves howled—not beasts of corruption, just wild things calling to one another. The kind of danger Hiro had once found comfort in.

  He sat cross-legged with his eyes closed beside a dying fire, lightning crackling faintly across his shoulders in slow pulses, like a second heartbeat.

  Phinx dozed nearby, feathers twitching in dream-fire.

  Hiro exhaled. The storm within was slower now, but it hadn’t settled. Not fully.

  “You’re getting too used to the cheers,”

  came Damaric’s voice from the shadows.

  Hiro didn’t flinch. “And you’re still allergic to gratitude?”

  Damaric stepped into the light. He wasn’t smiling. “I don’t care about gratitude. It wasn’t my name they were shouting. Do you even know what this means? I care about what happens after the crowd stops chanting your name.”

  Hiro’s eyes narrowed. “Then say what you came to say.”

  Damaric crossed his arms. “Back in the pit—you hesitated. You let that beast live.”

  “I chose to let him live. That was mine to make.”

  “That’s not a warrior’s instinct. That’s a god’s curiosity.”

  The fire popped between them.

  Hiro stood slowly. “So now you’re afraid I’m becoming one of them?”

  Damaric’s silence was louder than any accusation. Then:

  “No. I’m afraid you’re starting to believe you’re above all this. That you think the rules don’t apply because your flames burn brighter.”

  “And what if they don’t apply?” Hiro said sharply. “What if I’m the only one who can change the game?”

  “Then wake up,” Damaric said, stepping forward. “Before it's too late and Athens is burning to the ground. Don’t forget what it cost to get this far. You bleed like us. You hurt like us. That means you can lose like us.”

  A long pause.

  Phinx stirred awake, sensing the tension.

  Then Damaric added, quieter:

  “If you ever stop fearing the fire in you… I promise I'll be the one to stop you.”

  Hiro's eyes flicked up, sharp. “Is that a threat?”

  Damaric said nothing, he simply turned and walked off into the dark.

  ---

  Later, alone—

  Hiro sat again. His fists clenched in his lap.

  The cheers echoed in his head like ghosts: “PHOENIX KING! PHOENIX KING!”

  But now they sounded… hollow.

  He touched the ground. It didn’t feel steady anymore.

  Was I really playing god?

  He didn’t know.

  And somewhere, deeper still—he wondered if Damaric was right.

  If the fire was changing him.

  If one day, it might burn everything he loved.

  ---

  Then came the rustle of feathers.

  Phinx approached in slow, deliberate steps, his eyes glowing dimly in the firelight. Not fierce this time. Not wild. Gentle.

  The phoenix lowered his head beside Hiro’s shoulder, letting his warm feathers brush lightly against the boy’s cheek.

  Hiro didn’t speak. He just closed his eyes.

  Phinx let out a soft, hollow trill — not a cry of battle, but something closer to a lullaby. A song of storms remembered. A song that said you’re still you.

  Hiro leaned into the warmth. He didn’t cry. But for the first time since the pit, he let himself be still.

  Maybe mercy wasn’t weakness. Maybe fear kept him human.

  No lightning. No fire. Just a heartbeat shared in silence.

  Phinx stayed beside him until sleep finally took him — and even then, the phoenix didn’t move.

  He simply watched the stars.

  And listened for the next crack in his king’s heart.

  The Den Before Dawn

  Morning came like smoke — soft, heavy, and quiet.

  Hiro stood alone, hands wrapped in fresh cloth, shoulders bare beneath ceremonial black armor traced with gold. The air was brisk. Clean. Not yet tainted by noise or heat.

  Homiros was on the first floor of the inn. Scroll tucked beneath one arm, expression taut.

  “The King awaits in the Den. Today is your final proving.”

  Hiro nodded to him.

  Damaric was already there, waiting by the blackened stone gate, his great hammer slung across his back and gaze unreadable. He didn’t speak either. Just turned when Hiro arrived and walked with him.

  The survivors lined the path.

  No chants this time. No cheering.

  Only the sound of boots over gravel, and wind.

  Phinx flew overhead in slow circles, trailing sparks. Watching.

  ---

  The Den.

  The arena of kings past. Built beneath Varnokh's heart — stone tiered and sacred, with enough space to seat ten thousand roaring souls.

  And today, it was packed. Warriors, elders, champions, and survivors filled every ledge, their voices rising in a chorus of drums and cheers that shook the earth.

  Darius stood at its center, arms folded, his wolf mantle hanging like judgment from his shoulders. Warriors ringed the edge, silent, expectant.

  The firelight crackled in half-burnt braziers. The stone floor bore scars of hundreds of trials — but none like what was to come.

  Homiros raised his voice.

  “Hiro of Athens. You stand in the Den not as a challenger, but as one who seeks alliance. Prove that your strength is more than flame.”

  Darius stepped forward. His voice was steel.

  He looked once at Phinx, then at Hiro.

  “Will the bird fight with you? Or does he only soar after the killing’s done?”

  Phinx’s feathers bristled — with irritation. A low, crackling hiss escaped his beak as if he wanted to respond.

  “I am the Beastbreaker, Hiro. At least give me the chance to break your beast.”

  A faint ripple of laughter passed through the warriors. But it wasn’t mockery — it was tension trying to bleed itself.

  He raised his aura — red and heavy, a crownless pressure.

  Hiro dropped into his stance, eyes narrowed. “The rules?”

  Homiros answered without flinching. “There is none. Leave everything you are in this ring.”

  Hiro breathed in. Lightning whispered across his shoulders. Fire coiled deep within his lungs.

  He stepped forward.The ground cracked faintly beneath his bare feet.

  Their auras collided — slow, heavy, like two gods nodding.

  Not battle. Not ego.

  Recognition.

  The ground around them turned to dust — brittle remnants of yesterday’s clash, already fractured and scorched from the chaos that had unfolded.

  A heavy silence grew throughout the arena.

  Then, Darius dropped his arms.

  And balled up his fists.

  For a heartbeat, everything was still.

  Then—

  Hiro surged forward, low and fast — a blur of black and gold across the scarred arena.

  Darius didn’t move at first. He waited, unmoved, like a mountain daring the storm to strike.

  Hiro twisted mid-run, ducking beneath Darius' extended reach and drove his shoulder into the warlord’s ribs. The impact sent a sharp grunt from Darius and staggered him back half a step — enough to make the crowd gasp.

  But Darius came back like a falling tower.

  He swung a massive backfist, and Hiro barely slid under it. The blow crushed the stone behind him — spraying dust and rock.

  Before Hiro could recover, Darius grabbed a chunk of debris with one hand and hurled it like a cannonball.

  It flew faster than Hiro expected.

  “Too big to dodge,” Hiro thought. His muscles tensed — then ignited.

  Lightning burst from his calves, fire surged up his arms — and with a single explosive strike, Hiro punched the stone. It shattered into molten fragments.

  But Darius was already there, leaping through the smoke — his fist aimed like judgment.

  Phinx screeched overhead.

  Six blazing orbs spun into formation and launched toward Darius in a flurry of phoenix fire.

  The warlord raised his arms to shield himself. Flames exploded against him, forcing him to skid back. Not harmed — just halted.

  Hiro didn’t hesitate. He bounded through the broken debris, using chunks of shattered stone like springboards.

  He launched himself off one — lightning at his heels — and came in low.

  Feint right. Step left. Fire behind the elbow.

  Darius caught it — not clean, but solid. His hand clamped around Hiro’s arm.

  The two locked. Pressure surged.

  Their auras flared.

  Dust blasted outward from the force.

  Then, they broke apart.

  Darius grinned, eyes gleaming.

  Hiro landed hard, chest heaving.

  It hadn’t been long. But it had been enough.

  The crowd erupted — chanting both names.

  A King. And the flame that dared to rise beside him.

  Darius chuckled, rolling his shoulder.

  “Bwahaha! You’re like a little firecracker.”

  The crowd laughed. Some roared with pride. Others cheered with renewed awe.

  Then—

  All the torches in the Den extinguished at once.

  No wind. No warning.

  Just silence, so sudden and complete it swallowed the sound mid-cheer.

  Phinx shrieked — not in warning, but in fear.

  A voice rose from above them, soft and amused:

  "All these delectable souls in one place... so much sin in my eyes."

  Spotlights of unnatural light flickered into existence, revealing the King’s throne — now occupied.

  Alecto.

  She sat atop the throne with one leg crossed, pale and poised, draped in ash-dark robes. Her fingers tapped the armrest with mocking patience.

  As her voice echoed, people in the crowd began to collapse — gasping, weeping, clutching their heads.

  Some screamed apologies. Others begged forgiveness from no one.

  Homiros whispered, "They're... remembering their sins."

  Panic erupted.

  The crowd surged for the exits — only to find the gates sealed, the air shimmering as if time itself bent inward.

  “None of you are leaving,” Alecto cooed. “Not until I’ve had my moment.”

  She stood.

  And as she stepped down from the throne, the arena floor bled — red veins spreading from her bare feet. Snakes, spectral and smoke-wreathed, slithered alongside the blood, coiling in perfect rhythm with her pace.

  She descended slowly, unhurried.

  “You know… I was looking for you.” Her gaze pinned Hiro. “We sensed a soul that should’ve been ours. One that disappeared before the river took him. I always knew you’d return one day… but why are you a child?”

  Hiro took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m only ten years old.”

  Alecto tilted her head. Her smile twisted.

  “Hmm? Then you must be his son. That means Athena’s still alive. I’ll kill that bitch.”

  Hiro drew his sword. Phinx spread his wings, fire sparking at his feathers.

  “Calm down,” Alecto said. “I just want to talk... for now.”

  Damaric stepped forward, voice low: “There’s a—”

  Before he could finish, she raised her hand.

  A whirlpool of black water erupted beneath him, hurling him backward with crushing force.

  She now stood across from Hiro, Phinx, and Darius.

  “Where is your father, boy?”

  Hiro’s grip tightened on his sword. “I’ve never met my father.”

  Alecto hissed. Her form flickered — then she was in front of him, lifting him by the collar as if he weighed nothing.

  Phinx lunged, wings flared and talons ignited with flame, but Hiro waved him off and he stopped just short. His entire body trembled, a protective snarl escaping his throat — not out of fear, but pure instinct. One wrong move and Hiro would burn, or worse.

  Still, he hovered close, circling, fire dancing along his wings like a storm waiting for release.

  Hiro's feet dangled above the ground, his sword clattering uselessly from his grip.

  The crowd didn’t move. Couldn’t.

  Darius clenched his fists — but didn’t rush in. Not yet.

  Hiro gasped. Her hand was cold — not like ice, but like drowning.

  He looked into her eyes.

  And he saw something he couldn’t explain — not rage, not fire.

  But the memories of the condemned.

  He saw a man with his same face being pulled from a river of blood. Athena's hand reaching — not in victory, but in desperation. Her mouth moved, forming words:

  “No! Please—don’t do this!”

  And the man, voice ragged with sorrow and urgency, turned to her:

  “Get out of here. You have to protect our child.”

  “Nooooooo!!”

  Then he looked at Hiro — and vanished into the current.

  But the vision didn’t end.

  Hiro saw Athena again — this time on her knees in a field of scorched flowers, her robes soaked in blood. Her hands trembled as she cradled a broken body in her arms.

  A man’s body.

  She was sobbing — not quiet tears, but raw, primal weeping.

  And then, as she lowered him into a shallow grave lined with golden leaves, she screamed:

  “Noooooooo!!”

  The sky cracked open — not with thunder, but with silence.

  Then it vanished.

  Hiro gagged. He fell to one knee as she dropped him, the world spinning. His stomach turned — not from pain, but from sheer disorientation. Whatever he’d seen, whatever she'd shown him — it wasn’t meant for mortal eyes.

  He doubled over and vomited onto the stone, gasping in the cold silence.

  The crowd didn’t move. Still locked in place.

  Then — a voice broke through the silence. A man near the upper terraces shouted, “She’s not a god! Someone stop her!”

  He ran for the nearest exit.

  A moment later, his scream cut short — not by pain, but by the weight of something unseen. He collapsed mid-stride, clutching his chest.

  Another man tried to help him, but fell to his knees, weeping uncontrollably.

  Panic spread again — but no one could leave. No one could even scream.

  “There it is,” Alecto whispered, almost sweetly. “The fear. The truth beneath the fire.”

  She leaned in, breath brushing his ear:

  “Your flame is borrowed. Your soul, stolen. And today… I will return it.”