The cell they dragged him back to wasn't the same one from before. This one was deeper—colder, darker. The air filled with sweat and scorched metal. No chains hung from the walls. No cracks lined the floor.
This wasn't a prison.
It was a waiting room.
Cyril collapsed against the wall the moment he was released , his body finally claiming the exhaustion it had been denied. His arm throbbed, the torn flesh tacky with half-dried blood. His head swam with adrenaline and questions.
The Flow.
The pulse.
That thing inside him.
He had no name for it—but it answered. And now it wouldn't stop humming.
He could still feel Breaker's ribs shattering beneath his palm. Still feel the way the world moved for him, as if for a heartbeat, he hadn't just survived the fight.
He'd owned it.
The cell door opened again, quiet this time. Cyril looked up, expecting another guard.
It was her.
Miren.
Same ragged clothes. Same unreadable eyes. But this time, she carried a bundle wrapped in cloth and a look that could carve through stone.
"You're still breathing," she said, stepping in.
"That's more than I gave you."
Cyril managed a smirk. "Good to know you believe in me."
"I believe in what wakes up when you bleed," she said simply, setting the bundle down beside him.
"And you bled a lot."
She knelt, unwrapping the cloth. Inside—bandages, a flask of water, a knife, and a strange triangular stone that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
He eyed it warily.
"You always bring gifts to guys who almost die in the dirt?"
"Only the ones who may be worth the trouble."
She handed him the flask first.
"Drink. You're going to need every drop if you want to stay conscious for what comes next."
He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. Every swallow brought a flicker of clarity.
She began cleaning the wounds on his arm, fast and efficient. It stung like hell. He hissed and flinched, but she didn't stop.
"What you did out there," she said as she wrapped his arm,
"Was raw Flow manipulation. Instinctual. Dangerous. But real."
Cyril looked at her, tired but sharp.
"So that wasn't magic?"
"Magic is a word for people who don't want to understand." She tightened the wrap.
"The Flow is law. It binds all things. Energy, motion, intention. You tap into it, you don't command it."
"How do I learn to control it?" he asked.
"Because that thing I did—I didn't even know I could."
She sat back on her heels and finally picked up the strange triangular stone.
"You start by listening." She held the stone out toward him.
"And then you survive the consequences."
Cyril stared at it. The stone looked harmless, like a shard of polished obsidian. But the second his fingers brushed it, heat exploded across his palm.
Images—flashes of light and sound and movement—slammed into his mind.
Fire. Screaming winds. The sensation of falling upward. A void filled with threads of silver and black and gold, each one humming in a different frequency. Like he'd just been dunked headfirst into a storm that had no sky.
He jerked back, gasping, the stone falling from his grip. It clattered harmlessly against the ground.
"What the hell was that?"
Miren didn't smile. "The Flow, in its unfiltered state. You touched it—just a sliver—but that's what you're made of now. That's the current you ride."
He stared at the stone, breath still ragged.
"It felt like… like drowning in lightning."
"You're not wrong."
She picked up the stone again, this time pressing it into his bandaged hand. He resisted, but she didn't let go.
"Again," she said.
"Feel it. Endure it. Let it show you what you are."
Cyril grit his teeth—and held on.
The pain didn't lessen. The visions didn't slow. But something inside him shifted. The terror began to fold into recognition. The storm had shape. The threads had rhythm. A current he could almost follow.
He felt the sand of the arena again. The roar of the crowd. The impact when Breaker hit the wall.
And underneath it all—the whisper of something waiting.
Good Sovereign
When he let go, his whole body was shaking.
Miren finally smiled.
"Good," she said.
"You're not broken yet."
"Feels like I'm close," he muttered.
She stood and crossed the room, retrieving the cloth bundle
"They're going to throw you into the pit again. Sooner than you think."
He looked up.
"That bastard still not tired of my face?"
"Nope," she said, looking back at him with something almost like respect.
She paused in the doorway.
"Tomorrow, you bleed again. Not for survival this time, but for power."
Then she vanished.
Cyril sat alone in the flickering dark, the stone still pulsing faintly in his palm.
He didn't feel like a slave anymore.
He felt like a match waiting to be struck.
And when the fire came again—he was going to burn the whole cage down.