The red dust clung to his skin like a second layer of sweat. Marc felt the thick fingers of a man in yellow dig into his arm, nails biting into his flesh like dull blades. He didn’t resist. Not yet. Not here.

  A few paces away, Elena.

  She stood straight under the weight of stares, her hands bound before her with braided leather cord, her black hair plastered to her face by sweat.

  A yellow tunic lifted her chin with a stubby finger. She didn’t flinch. Not right away.

  Marc saw the bite of her lips. The old Elena—the one who had signed contracts with a flick of her wrist and crushed lives with a word—refused to break.

  Then her shoulders sagged. Just enough. Just the right amount.

  No tears. No screams. Just that controlled resignation.

  She’s learning, Marc thought. She’s already learning.

  Another yellow tunic, younger, sneered something into her ear. She didn’t react. Her eyes—those gray eyes that had once ordered Marc to protect the team at all costs—met his one last time.

  No fear. Not really.

  Something worse.

  A promise.

  Or a goodbye.

  Marc wanted to step forward. His muscles tensed, ready to wrench his arms free from the hands holding him.

  But four warriors in blood-red tunics, their tulwars hanging from their belts like silent threats, stood in a semicircle around the lots.

  One of them, a hulking brute with a scar slashing across his cheek, met his gaze and smiled. Not an amused smile. A clinical one. The kind of smile a man wears when he knows exactly where to strike to make it hurt without killing.

  A shield to the ribs. Two broken. Three weeks coughing up blood.

  Marc calculated the angles.

  Three steps to reach Elena. Two armed men to neutralize before they could draw. The third would have time to slit his throat before he even touched the woman he was supposed to protect.

  Statistically losing.

  Strategically suicidal.

  Elena knew it too. Her eyes told him so before she turned her head, before the yellows led her toward the silk awnings where other women were penned, inspected, silently auctioned off.

  Not like him.

  Around Marc, the market roared, a living machine of flesh and metal. Karsaks—that word, he’d understood it now, Karsak, the one they’d screamed at him as they threw him into the cage—were lined up, their rough iron collars riveted to their necks like stigmata. Some wept. Others stared at the ground, resigned. An old man with milky eyes murmured a prayer, lips trembling.

  Marc didn’t pray.

  He watched.

  The yellows taking Elena away wore belts weighted down with those octagonal coins he’d seen change hands for lives. Their fingers counted, prodding the muscles of slaves like assessing a horse’s quality.

  One of them, a squat man with burn-scarred forearms, slipped a silver coin into a guard’s palm. The guard nodded.

  Elena disappeared into the crowd.

  No scream. No struggle.

  Just that way she’d looked at him, as if she already knew what he couldn’t do.

  What he wouldn’t do.

  A dead man saves no one.

  Marc turned his head.

  Julie.

  She was there, a few steps away, her hair tangled, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. Her eyes—those green eyes that had surely laughed at terrestrial sunsets—were now wide, fixed, like those of a hunted animal.

  A guard yanked her head back by the hair, exposing her neck. A simple copper collar waited on a blackened wooden stand.

  Marc clenched his teeth.

  Breathe. Wait. Survive.

  A red—the one with the scar—approached him, a leather scroll in hand. He sized Marc up, the way one evaluates a tool whose purpose is unknown. Then he grunted something, a sharp order. Marc didn’t understand the words.

  But he understood the gesture.

  The man handed him the scroll.

  Inside, a blade.

  Not a tulwar. Not one of those elegant, curved swords the red-clad warriors wore. No.

  Just a dagger, straight, double-edged, its handle wrapped in worn leather. The kind of weapon you give a man you expect to die quickly.

  Marc closed his fingers around the hilt.

  The man’s guard didn’t change.

  First test.

  First choice.

  He could plunge this blade into the man’s throat. He had the strength.

  Then the others would run him through before he took two steps.

  And Elena would still be gone.

  And Julie would still be there, trembling, eyes empty.

  And he’d be dead.

  A dead man saves no one.

  He slid the dagger into his belt, under the roughspun tunic they’d thrown at him.

  The red nodded, almost imperceptibly. As if he’d expected that. As if he’d wanted that.

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Marc under the guard of the other two, their hands still gripping his arms.

  Julie was sobbing now, silently, her shoulders shaking with stifled hiccups. A guard barked an order at her. She flinched but obeyed, letting herself be led toward the platform where other women stood in line, their copper collars dull in the light.

  Marc didn’t watch.

  The air was thick, heavy with that metallic tang that clung to the skin like a second layer of sweat. Marc stood straight, feet shoulder-width apart, hands open along his thighs—a stance he’d held hundreds of times before superior officers, Legion inspectors, mission chiefs whose names had faded with the years. But he’d never been examined like this. Never been weighed.

  The men in yellow approached in a circle, their amber tunics fluttering slightly in the warm breeze drifting down from the upper terraces. Their badges—tarnished tin pieces shaped like scales—gleamed dully in the coppery light of the massive star that dominated the sky, fastened to their belts by worn leather straps.

  One of them, older, wore a badge of weathered bronze. His face was lined with deep furrows, as if carved by decades spent haggling under this same crushing sun. He held a black wooden rod, smooth and polished by use, which he twirled between his fingers before raising it toward Marc.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He signaled for Marc to turn.

  The voice was hoarse, accustomed to shouting over the din of caravans and auctions. Marc obeyed without a word, pivoting slowly, eyes fixed straight ahead. He could feel their gazes sliding over his skin, assessing every muscle, every scar, every imperfection like a warhorse being appraised before purchase. One of the assistants—a young man with a tin badge, his features still marked by adolescence—crouched near his feet and tapped his calf with the tip of his rod, as if testing the resilience of fabric. The wood thudded dully against muscle.

  The bronze-badged Oskan stepped forward, frowning. He raised his rod and struck Marc’s shoulder lightly, then his bicep, like a blacksmith testing a blade’s resilience.

  The sound was flat, muffled, as if the wood had struck stone wrapped in flesh. He exchanged a glance with his assistant, then, with a sharp motion, pulled aside Marc’s tattered tunic and pressed his fingers against the ribs, just below the last arc.

  Marc didn’t flinch. The man’s fingers sank slightly, as if into dense clay, before moving up to the pectoral. Firm pressure. Calculated.

  The man grunted.

  He stepped back, arms crossed, now observing Marc with renewed intensity. His eyes—eyes seemingly trained to spot the slightest flaw, the slightest deception—scrutinized every detail: the way Marc breathed, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly before relaxing. He was nervous. Not from fear, but from that sour rage that rose in him every time he was treated like an animal.

  One of the assistants, the one who had spoken earlier, approached with a black wax tablet and a metal stylus. He carved a few angular signs, quick, before blowing on the wax to harden it. The bronze Oskan nodded, then, without warning, brought his rod down on Marc’s forearm.

  A sharp crack.

  No pain, not really. Just the vibration traveling up the bone, like a distant echo. Marc didn’t even blink.

  He gestured to the assistants, who began murmuring among themselves, comparing notes. One of them handed a leather flask to his superior, who brought it to his lips before spitting the liquid onto the ground. A drop landed on Marc’s bare foot. The acrid smell of the thick wine mingled with the dust.

  He turned to Marc, eyes narrowed.

  The man spoke to him. The tone was questioning.

  Marc didn’t answer, not having understood.

  A twisted smile stretched the man’s lips.

  Marc remained silent. He wasn’t going to play their game. Not yet.

  The man shrugged, as if the answer ultimately didn’t matter. He turned to his assistants and barked a sharp order. One of them pulled out a rusted iron chain and snapped it between his hands before wrapping it around Marc’s wrists. The metal was cold, but not unpleasant. Just… heavy. Like everything else here.

  — Karsak, the bronze-badged man declared in a voice that brooked no argument.

  The assistants nodded, satisfied. One of them jotted something down on his tablet before blowing on it to harden the wax. The other approached Marc and seized his chin, forcing his gaze to meet his own. His eyes were cold, calculating.

  He murmured something, as if speaking to himself.

  Then he released him and shoved him forward toward the stairs descending into the lower levels of the city. Marc moved, the chains clinking with each step, the copper sun burning the back of his neck. He didn’t look back.

  He already knew he wouldn’t see daylight again for a long time.

  The circle of men in yellow tightened around Marc, their saffron tunics scraping against his bare arms with a dry sound, like sandpaper on stone.

  The air was thick, heavy with the acrid smell of hot metal and the sweat of bodies pressed together. No one spoke. No one needed to. Their movements were precise, mechanical, like those of men accustomed to handling things, not beings.

  One of the assistants—a squat man with forearms scarred from years of handling chains—grabbed Marc’s wrist and pulled him toward a low door carved into the black stone. The opening was so narrow that Marc had to lower his head to pass through, his shoulders brushing against the doorframe worn smooth by generations of captives.

  On the other side, a humid heat struck his face, carrying the scent of coal, sulfur, and something more organic—the sickly-sweet stench of burned flesh.

  The room was a forge, but not like any he had known. No great bellows, no power hammers. Just a low hearth dug directly into the ground, where glowing embers pulsed like malevolent eyes. Above it, suspended by tongs, a piece of metal heated to a white-hot glow, its surface rippling under the heat.

  A man stood there, leaning against a massive anvil, arms crossed. His thick leather apron was stained with soot and burn marks, and on his left shoulder, a bronze badge depicted a stylized hammer.

  The badge was different. More angular. More… aggressive.

  The man studied Marc in silence, his hazel eyes scrutinizing him as one might evaluate a piece of ore—searching for impurities, weaknesses. Then he nodded slowly, as if he had found what he was looking for. Or rather, what he was not looking for.

  One of the men in yellow—the one who had jotted something on the wax tablet—stepped forward and murmured a few words into the blacksmith’s ear. The man grunted in response, never taking his eyes off Marc. Then, with a sharp motion, he seized the tongs and pulled out the incandescent piece of metal.

  Marc felt his muscles tense instinctively, but he did not step back. Discipline. Always discipline. The metal was a thin, almost elegant blade, heated until its surface became soft, nearly liquid. At its tip, a geometric shape took form—a symbol he didn’t recognize, but whose lines vaguely reminded him of regimental marks, those tattoos or insignia that declared to whom you belonged.

  This is going to hurt, he told himself.

  Two men in red grabbed his arms, their fingers digging into his flesh like vices. He didn’t resist. Useless. And besides, he had endured worse. Much worse.

  The blacksmith approached, the piece of metal trembling slightly in the tongs. The heat radiated in waves, distorting the air between them. Marc clenched his teeth. Not from fear. From habit.

  — One. Two. Three—

  The contact was an explosion of white-hot pain, as if a red-hot nail had been driven into his shoulder. The smell of his own scorched flesh filled his nostrils, acrid and metallic, mingling with the softer scent of the metal cooling abruptly against his skin. He heard a hiss—his own, he realized—but no scream passed his lips. Just a rough, controlled exhale, like the breath one lets out after a well-placed punch.

  The blacksmith stepped back, examining his work. The symbol was now branded into Marc’s flesh: an irregular octagon, bisected by a vertical line, like a sword driven into stone. The metal had blackened where it touched the skin, leaving a dark crust around the mark.

  The men in red exchanged a glance. One of them, a man with fan-shaped scars on his cheek, raised an eyebrow, no doubt surprised that Marc hadn’t cried out.

  The human flesh-smith wiped his hands on his apron, leaving a streak of soot on the worn leather. Then he nodded to the men in yellow.

  Marc felt the blood trickle down his arm, warm at first, then tepid, sticking to his skin. The pain was there, present, but distant, like an echo.

  Somewhere deep inside him, a part of his legionnaire’s mind noted coldly: Test passed.

  Another man stepped forward. Younger, his face still smooth beneath a thin layer of soot, but with that same expression of cold concentration shared by all who worked metal here. A tin plate—dull, worn—hung from his belt, fastened by a fine chain. He held something in his hands. A circle. Not a weapon. Not a tool. Just a ring of raw iron, thick as two fingers, wide enough to encircle a man’s neck.

  Marc didn’t look away. He didn’t step back. He had seen men chained before. Prisoners. Deserters. Enemies. But never like this. Never with this… finality.

  The man with the tin badge lifted the ring. The metal was dull, without luster, as if it had been forged in haste or indifference. No engraving. No symbol. Just iron. The iron of nails. The iron of chains. The iron of what must not—cannot—be removed.

  Marc felt the cold air on his nape as the ring closed around his neck. A sharp click. Then another. No lock. No complicated mechanism. Just a rivet. One. Hammered with a precise, clean, professional strike. The metal bit into his skin, just enough for him to feel the pressure, not enough to bleed. Not this time.

  The man stepped back. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. His work was done.

  Marc raised a hand to his neck. The iron was cold. Colder than the air around him. Heavier, too, in a way that had nothing to do with weight. It was the weight of a decision. Of a status. Of a place.

  — Karsak.

  The word reached him, murmured by one of the men in red, like a confirmation, like a verdict. Not an insult. Not a title. Just a fact.

  Marc lowered his hand. He didn’t try to lift the ring. He already knew it wouldn’t budge. Not like this. Not without a tool. Not without brute force applied at the right spot, at the right angle, at the right moment.

  He looked ahead. The men in yellow waited, impassive. Those in red watched, some with curiosity, others with that polite indifference professionals reserve for unimportant details. One more. One less. It changed nothing for them.

  But for him, it did.

  He touched the metal one last time, as one checks the sturdiness of a weapon before battle. Then he let his hand fall.

  So be it.

  If they wanted to mark him, he would bear their mark. If they wanted to bind him, he would wear their chains. But he would decide what they meant. He would decide what to make of them.

  As he had been taught, long ago, under another sun, in another desert.

  March or die.

  The staircase descended like a scar into the mountain’s flesh. Each step was hewn from veined rock, streaked with reddish veins that glowed faintly in the torchlight.

  Marc felt the heat rise as he descended, a thick, humid warmth laden with the smells of sweat, burned metal, and a hint of sulfur that stung his nostrils. The air was heavier here, as if compressed by centuries of human breath and forced labor. There was no wind, only that stagnant, tepid current that plastered dust to his skin.

  The torches, spaced five meters apart, cast a reddish glow on the walls. Their flames flickered in bursts, as if something deep below was drawing oxygen in spurts. The rhythm of hammers rose from the depths, a steady, mechanical beat that seemed synchronized with the guards’ footsteps.

  Clang. Clang. Clang. Like a heart of metal. Marc counted the grilles.

  Three levels already passed, each guarded by two men in brownish tunics, their dull metal badges hanging from their belts. Not quality steel this time. Copper, perhaps. Or tin.

  Lower-grade men, if terrestrial logic held. Soldiers of a lesser rank, relegated here because they hadn’t fought well enough, or because they had disobeyed. Or simply because someone, somewhere, had decided that this Pit—this hell—was their place.

  He noted how they held their spears. Not like warriors, but like jailers. Not to kill, but to contain. Their eyes slid over him without stopping, as if he were already just another number on a list they had long since stopped reading.

  Behind him, other Karsaks descended, chained in groups of five. Their chains clinked with each step, a dry, metallic sound that echoed against the walls.

  No one spoke. No one groaned. Just the scrape of chains, the ragged breath of those who had made this journey too many times before, and that stubborn rhythm of hammers, growing louder as they sank deeper.

  Marc clenched his teeth. The gravity here was the same as on the surface, but something in the air, in this endless descent, made him feel as if he were being pulled downward.

  As if this Pit were not just a place, but an open mouth, ready to swallow him.

  He did not resist. He advanced.