The ropes scraped against his wrists. His shoulders ached, his arms stiff from being bound behind his back. Sharp rocks and stones on the road had cut open the soles of his feet. A few slaves had dropped to their knees and begged for mercy. Their pain was answered with violence—an overseer beat them until their skulls looked misshapen.

Giving up wasn’t an option. Hoping for kindness even less. So Iliyan stumbled on. Head up, gaze fixed on the distance. The way his friend would have walked.

They had been traveling so long he no longer knew how many days had passed. At night he slept from sheer exhaustion, but the rests during the day were always too short. Iliyan hadn’t spoken to anyone. He didn’t have the strength for conversation, and besides—what would he even say to the other prisoners? Encouragement would only earn punishment, and no one cared for hollow chatter.

No one needed to know he had once been a god’s son. If they demanded ransom for his return, he’d rather not hear that his family wouldn’t spare a grain of gold for him. To them, he was dead. The chance to watch him die without dirtying their own hands would suit them perfectly.

He pushed thoughts of home away and focused on the land around him.
Far below, a river rushed over stones as it carried mountain water to the sea. They had followed it for a long time now. It was narrow here, foaming constantly as it collided with rocks. On both sides of the path, hills rose into gentle ridges. The ground was dry, covered in yellowing grass. Cacti and low shrubs dotted the slopes; trees appeared only across the water or much higher up. In the distance, fields of grain gleamed like those that once colored his own valley gold.

Over time, the land grew greener. Irrigation channels appeared, nourishing plots of farmland. Trees thickened around them. Far ahead, the shapes of buildings emerged.

The march was nearly over. The idea brought a twist in Iliyan’s stomach. He could barely take another step, yet he knew all too well that nothing good awaited him there.

Even the walk through the city was humiliating, as they were driven forward naked. A bitter taste filled his mouth while more people crossed their path. He wanted nothing more than to drop his gaze, but he forced himself to keep his head lifted. He had no reason to be ashamed. It wasn’t his choice to be unclothed. His captors were the ones who should be ashamed of this grotesque display.

Iliyan had done nothing to them. He had only said he wished to become a warrior.

Mud-brick buildings with thatched roofs lined the road. Some sagged, worn down by time. Children wrapped in rags watched from doorways—just like in his own valley. The last glimpse he had caught of home: Iliyan's little sister, gripping his war club in her hands.

His fingers curled. They had taken his most precious possession from him.

I’ll get it back.

The prisoners were herded into a large compound, shoved into a dusty room sealed with a wooden door. It felt like a stifling oven—his skin turned damp the moment he stepped inside. He pushed through sweating bodies, aiming for a wall in hopes that the claystone would offer some coolness.

Before he reached it, his foot sank into something soft and sticky. Bile rose as he looked down. Shit. Human shit.

He scraped his foot over the sandy floor. It only smeared further and collected grit. There were no cloths to clean it with, so he forced himself to ignore it.

How different his life had become… He shoved away memories of grand feasts, soft blankets, warm baths. That life was over.

He studied the boys and men around him. The youngest looked twelve, the oldest near forty. None of them wore clothes. Some had infected wounds where rope scraped against raw skin. Iliyan checked his own wrists—red and swollen, but not the worst.

He found a patch of ground that seemed relatively clean and lowered himself. He leaned his head back against the wall—less cool than he’d hoped. He shut out the shuffling, the muttering, the quiet sobbing, and stared downward, bracing for whatever would come next.

No light reached the room, and the torches that had burned earlier were long extinguished. Time slipped away without meaning. Iliyan was so withdrawn he didn’t know whether the door had opened at any point, or if food had been brought. He could go long without eating, though the march had drained him. He didn’t feel strong—despite catching brief, restless sleep—but it was enough to keep him upright.

A heavy silence hung in the darkness. No one whispered anymore; all waited for their fate with hollow resignation. Some had speculated at first about what awaited them, but Iliyan had ignored it. He needed to be ready for anything.

His muscles tensed when the door creaked open and fierce sunlight cut into the room. Five men were yanked to their feet and shoved outside.

The door slammed shut.

It happened again. And again. The third time, a man’s hand seized Iliyan’s arm and dragged him into the light.

My turn. Iliyan squinted as sunlight stabbed his eyes. He followed without resistance, down a narrow alley into a square courtyard. A wooden platform stood on one side. A man waited atop it—arms folded, feet apart—clearly a warrior, likely a commander. More warriors encircled the courtyard like stone sentinels.

“Today is important for you all,” the man said, voice booming. “You will prove your worth. He who has the heart of a true warrior and remains standing the longest may embrace his fate as a Muchika fighter. Those who fail will offer their blood to the land that gives us life—so it may give life anew.”

A ritual battle. Rare in his own valley—performed only in years of severe drought.

He looked at the four men taken out with him. It was a good thing he hadn’t spoken to them. It would only have made killing harder. Now, they meant nothing to him.

Two clutched each other’s hands—brothers, most likely. One barely twelve, the other a little older. The younger cried quietly, and the older didn’t bother to comfort him. They had already accepted death.

The third was a muscular man with a scar along his jaw, glaring at the crowd with burning eyes. A dangerous one.

The last was near Iliyan’s age—tall, not used to hard labor by the looks of him. A stubborn set to his jaw suggested he wouldn’t go down easily.

“Choose a weapon.” The warrior motioned to a rack of discarded clubs and blades.

Iliyan strode toward it. His bound hands made the wood clumsy to grip. He pushed aside worn clubs and pulled one free at random. Instinctively, his thumb searched for the familiar notch—a thumb’s width from the end—but it wasn’t there.

It doesn’t matter. Once I win, I’ll get the real one back.

He tightened his hold and stepped aside. While waiting for instruction, he scanned the courtyard. No cover. No place to hide. Only bare stone.

A warrior approached him with a knife. Finally, those cursed ropes gone. Iliyan held his wrists out. The blade wedged between them—three quick cuts—and he was free.

He flexed his hands, stretching muscles unused to any position but behind his back.
But relief lasted only a breath—he now had to survive.

They formed a rough pentagon. The older brother stood to his left.

If his own brother were here, he would have been the first Iliyan attacked. But the terror in these two boys’ eyes left no doubt: they feared nothing more than facing each other. Perhaps it was mercy, then, when a whistle shrieked and Iliyan charged the older brother.

The pain in his feet dulled beneath the urgency. He had to win.

The young man froze, clueless how to wield the club. He tried to dodge but was too slow. Iliyan swung for the ankles—
The boy crashed down.

Iliyan raised the club and hammered it into his skull. The cry told him the hands raised in defense were useless. He planted a foot on the boy’s throat and pressed down, scanning the courtyard. The two older men fought each other. The youngest brother—

Iliyan swallowed hard.

The child screamed, tears streaking his face, watching helplessly as Iliyan crushed the windpipe of the one he loved.

A memory flashed: Ilyian's head rolling on dirt. His father standing over it, expression blank.

Iliyan had been innocent. So were these boys.

Killing them makes me no better than him. But what choice do I have?

Only one would leave alive. Dying here was not an option. Charging the stage with only a club would be pointless—surrounded by trained soldiers.

He had to choose himself.

He pushed down with all his weight. A crack sounded beneath his heel.

Hands clawed at his ankles, struggling weaker. End it. He struck the head again. And again. And again.

Guilt chilled him with every blow.

A strike to his ribs knocked him aside. Pain flared through him. The younger boy shrieked and swung wildly—eyes drowned in hate.

I don't have a choice. I really don't.

But the lump in his throat didn’t ease. This boy’s final emotions would be terror and rage.
A mirror of himself.

Another swing—clumsy, desperate. 

Iliyan blocked it, punched him hard, then jabbed the club’s butt into his eye. The boy collapsed.
One more strike—blood blossomed across the stone.

Triumph never came. Just a sour, burning shame.

He turned away from the brothers. Three fighters had started. Only two remained.

His next opponent limped, wielding a long knife. Better to take him—with someone his own size—than face that beast of a man alone. He needed every advantage if he wanted to live.

He moved wide. The bigger man saw him and pivoted—

Iliyan sprinted forward, raising his club—shouting: “Hit him!” He hurled the club. The spear knocked it aside.

Everything now rode on his unwanted ally.

Relief surged when the limping young man drove his knife into the giant’s armpit just as the spear arced toward Iliyan. A roar tore from the man’s throat and he dropped the spear.

Iliyan grabbed his fallen club, swung at the back of the man’s skull while the other man stabbed his knife again, this time into the giant's gut.

The man collapsed and didn’t rise.

Iliyan gasped for air, sweat slicking his palms. His thumb found no familiar notch. The wood was rough.

Only one opponent left.

They stared at each other across the fallen body.

His club was twice the length of the knife—but useless if the other got too close.

His eyes darted to the spear, only two steps away.

Can I—?

The man leapt, knife flashing.

Iliyan dove aside; pain ripped through his ribs. He hit the ground, rolled, and grabbed the spear, keeping the club tight in his other hand. He stood. Blood trailed from his side, but it was only a graze.

He could still fight.

Nerves wired his limbs with fire. I’m so close. I'm not going to lose now.

He pictured dark eyes filled with faith in him.  "Find the stillness, my little condor. It will tell you where to strike—and when."

A breeze stirred. A shiver ran down his spine, like fingers brushing his neck.

The crowd, the dead, the blood, it all vanished from thought.

His opponent waited—legs bent, knife clenched.

Iliyan held the advantage. Two weapons. Perfect distance.

He tested the spear’s weight, drew his arm back as if to throw. 

The other flinched left.

He’s inexperienced. I can take him.

Iliyan stepped in and threw for real. The young man lunged aside again.
Iliyan swung for the knife hand; the arm snapped back, weapon falling. He didn’t hesitate, blow after blow.

No glory.
Just the end.

When the body stilled, Iliyan straightened and met the gaze of the commander.

A bored flick of the man’s hand sent a warrior forward to drag Iliyan away. He didn’t crave praise, but the indifference stung. Even animals honored in a Ritual Hunt received more reverence than naked men marching to their deaths.

They brought him to a clay dwelling—simple, like the home his lover once lived in. It felt right. Better than any godhouse that would remind him of betrayal.

Inside were six sleeping mats with wool blankets, and a small hearth beside worn but colorful cushions. A boy with shoulder-length hair sat playing a flute. He grinned when he saw Iliyan.

“New blood! Hope you don’t snore as badly as the last one.” His accent was sharper—clearly from another region. As he limped closer, Iliyan noticed the bandaged lower leg. “I’m T’ukri.”

“Iliyan.”

“T’ukri,” he repeated. “Welcome to what they call the warriors’ quarters. I don’t walk great, but I can show you around.” He paused, eyeing the wound at Iliyan’s hip. “I’ll stitch that first though—you’re leaving a trail.” He sighed. “You’d think they’d take better care of their chosen warriors, right? The ones blessed by the gods?” He gestured toward a mat in the corner. “That one’s yours—your tunic’s waiting.”

Iliyan sank onto it, numb. Not only had the love of his life died for him; now four others had fallen so he could live. And even that wasn’t freedom. Just fewer ropes.

T’ukri returned with water and a sponge, cleaning the cut. Iliyan stared up at the thatch above.
Since fleeing the Valley of the Condor, no one had touched him. He hadn’t spoken properly to anyone. He used to enjoy conversation—now the thought made him tense.

But T’ukri didn’t feel tense at all. “Where are you from?”

“The cloud forest,” Iliyan muttered.

“The cloud forest?” T’ukri blinked. “Have the Muchika conquered you too? I thought they were focusing north first.”

“I was alone.”

“You lived by yourself in the forest?”

Iliyan had hoped that answer would end things. It didn’t.

He pushed himself upright despite the pain and grabbed the tunic. The fabric was rough—nothing like the robes he used to wear—and light brown with a few orange diamonds for decoration. Ordinary. Forgettable. Perfect for his new life.

“I’ll walk you to the river,” T’ukri said. “You can wash there.”

Iliyan stood. Once, he’d never have stepped outside naked. Now he didn’t care.
Shame had worn off long ago on the road. There was no one left to impress. No one left to care.