The Crucible's muster ground buzzed like a hive torn open.
The air reeked of old iron, sweat, and wet stone.
The morning fog clung to the broken pillars and mud-churned yards, ghosting through the crowds like smoke from an unseen fire.
I stood near the battered old listmaster's stand, my breath steaming in the cold air, my hand loose on the strap of my sword.
Around me, the crowd pressed in.
Mercenaries.
Knights' bastards.
Nobles' second sons and third daughters.
Desperation and pride braided tight across their faces.
---
A small platform had been hammered together overnight — nothing more than a raised square of splintered boards, roped off by fraying hemp lines.
**The First Arena.**
Not grand.
Not beautiful.
A pit for dogs.
---
A dozen betting stalls had sprung up around it, manned by sharp-eyed bookmakers shouting odds to the restless crowd.
Coins clinked and rattled in filthy sacks.
Names scrawled on parchment faster than the clerks could read.
---
"Five Crests on the north wall fighter!"
"Ten on the red-haired brat! Double if he guts the fancy boy!"
"Copper or Silver, no Gold for first blood rounds, you dogs!"
---
**Crests.**
The currency of our broken world.
Copper for beggars and farmers.
Silver for soldiers and merchants.
Gold for kings and fools.
---
I caught snatches of the crowd's muttering.
Whispers sharper than blades.
"Westenra name, eh?"
"Fallen nobility."
"Shouldn't have survived the Academy."
"Trash."
"Maybe he's lucky."
"Maybe he'll die."
---
Good.
Let them bet.
Let them jeer.
None of it mattered once the blades crossed.
---
The herald climbed onto the wooden stand, the scroll trembling slightly in his gloved hands.
He cleared his throat.
Called the first number.
---
"Number **877**! Atlas Westenra, House of the Fallen Tiger!"
---
The crowd stirred.
Heads turned.
Eyes pinned me.
A ripple of ugly amusement ran through the press of bodies.
---
"The trash gets first blood," someone snickered.
---
I stepped forward.
No words.
No grand gestures.
Just the slow, measured pace of someone who understood that death smelled sweeter when you walked toward it willingly.
---
"And his opponent," the herald croaked, unrolling the scroll further, "Number **714**! Markus Hent, Second Son of Baron Hent of Grey Vale!"
---
More murmurs.
Markus Hent.
A graduate of the Southern Dagger Academy.
Known for fast kills.
Known for being cruel to weaker foes.
A favorite for early bets.
---
I felt the odds shift like a weight against my chest.
More money slapped onto tables.
More curses and laughs.
More silver crest coins flashing between grubby fingers.
---
I stepped into the roped-off square.
The boards creaked under my boots.
Across from me, Markus swaggered in — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing steel half-armor etched with his house's fading sigil.
His sword was long and narrow — a duelist's blade, meant for speed and bleeding, not messy kills.
His grin was wide and easy.
---
**[Markus Hent POV]**
*Easy.*
*Another name to carve into my belt.*
*Fallen noble. Probably more bones than muscle. Maybe a nice scream when I open him up.*
He flexed his grip on his sword, feeling the perfect tension in his wrists.
The betting odds screamed in his ears.
Almost too easy.
But money was money.
And the Crucible didn't reward mercy.
---
**[Atlas POV Resumes]**
Markus twirled his blade once, showy and casual.
The crowd whooped.
Silver flashed from hand to hand.
I simply unsheathed my sword.
No tricks.
No flourishes.
Steel hummed once as it cleared the battered scabbard.
---
The herald's voice cut through the fog.
"Begin on the toll!"
---
We both lowered into our stances.
His was textbook-perfect: high guard, blade extended, feet wide.
Mine was... mine.
Low.
Compact.
Breathing measured.
The stance of someone planning not to fight fair.
---
The bell above the arena tolled once.
A heavy, ugly sound.
---
Markus moved first.
---
He came in fast, blade flashing for a shallow opening cut — a taunt strike, testing reach.
---
I didn't bite.
I shifted just enough, letting the tip whisper past my shoulder.
Felt the breath of it.
Felt the crowd exhale.
---
He adjusted smoothly, feet light, eyes bright.
Good.
Smart.
Not a fool.
---
We circled.
Slow.
Measured.
My heart beat steady in my ears.
The boards groaned underfoot.
The cold kissed the sweat starting on my palms.
---
He lunged —
— a perfect thrust aimed for my gut.
I stepped sideways.
The blade scraped my coat.
Too close.
---
Pain flared across my ribs — a shallow line.
---
The crowd roared approval.
Coins changed hands.
---
Markus grinned wider.
Pressed in.
---
His strikes were a storm now — slashing low, thrusting high, feinting and weaving like a dancer drunk on bloodlust.
Fast.
Faster than most.
Better than most.
---
I gave ground carefully.
Not panicked.
Not desperate.
Watching.
Waiting.
---
Waiting for the first real mistake.
---
He saw it as weakness.
He pressed harder.
---
And when he overextended just slightly — just enough for his back foot to slip half an inch in the mud—
I moved.
---
Breath deep.
Anchor the core.
Weight on the front foot.
Drive.
---
My sword snapped up —
—not in a wide arc, not in a flashy counter—
—but in a brutal, short upward slash meant to cripple, not dazzle.
---
Markus jerked back.
Too slow.
---
The tip of my blade tore a bloody line across his bicep, slicing clean through the mail links.
He hissed, stumbling.
---
I stepped in, breath tight and burning in my lungs.
Another shallow cut across his thigh.
Another step closer.
Another heartbeat stolen.
---
**[Markus Hent POV]**
*This wasn't supposed to happen.*
*He's faster than he should be.*
*No, no, not faster—smarter.*
*Like a viper.*
---
Markus snarled, swung hard—
—a heavy two-handed sweep aimed to drive me back.
---
**[Atlas POV Resumes]**
I ducked under it.
Felt the wind of it scream past my ear.
Came up inside his guard.
---
Drove my pommel into his gut.
---
He staggered.
Bent double.
Gasping.
---
The world narrowed.
---
Breath deep.
Blood roaring.
Steel rising.
---
My sword slid across his throat in a clean, precise line.
Not deep enough to decapitate.
Just deep enough.
---
Markus fell backward, hands clutching his neck, gurgling.
Blood spilling through his fingers like red silk.
---
The crowd went silent.
---
No cheers.
No jeers.
Just a stunned, wet, ugly silence.
---
I stood there.
Breathing.
Sword dripping onto the broken boards.
---
The herald stumbled forward.
Raised a trembling hand.
Voice cracked across the empty morning.
---
"Victor... Atlas Westenra."
---
Slowly, like a waking nightmare, the crowd began to move again.
Coins dropped.
Bets settled.
Whispers coiled like snakes.
---
I stepped out of the ring.
Passed men who couldn't meet my eyes.
Passed others who watched me too closely.
---
877 was no longer just a number.
It was a warning.
---
I slid my sword back into its sheath, feeling the dried blood stick.
My hand was shaking slightly.
Not from fear.
Not from adrenaline.
From the simple, stupid effort it took not to sink deeper into the killing rhythm.
---
First blood.
First grave.
First scar left in the Crucible's teeth.
---
And the day had only just begun.