They reached a room.
One larger than any Ian had ever been in, closest perhaps was the pits arena itself, but where that place rang with bloodlust and steel, this one exhaled warmth and silence.
The floor was marble, polished until it reflected the soft amber glow of floating magical lights.
In the center of the room lay a pool, wide and still, its surface veiled by gentle steam. The air greyed with heat, not from fla or coal, but sothing more refined—magic.
Ian stepped inside slowly, boots echoing softly against the stone. His body ached in a way that was familiar, a fatigue deep in his bones despite the healing he had endured.
He stopped at the edge of the pool, letting his gaze linger on the softly churning water.
Elise stood a few paces behind him, arms crossed beneath her cloak, her expression as unreadable as it always were. Her dark hair caught the light just enough to halo her head.
"Take off your cloak and top," she said, voice even, eyes locked on him with clinical detachnt.
Ian raised a brow. "What the hell? Aren't you going to at least buy dinner first?"
Elise blinked. "What?"
He sighed, muttering, "Forget it…"
Apparently sarcasm hadn't made the cultural leap into this world.
With a grunt, he unfastened the blood-crusted cloak from his shoulders, the material cracking in places where dried gore had stiffened the fabric.
It dropped to the floor with a wet thud. He followed by peeling off his top, the once-sturdy fabric now in tatters, barely clinging to his fra.
What remained was a canvas of war.
Muscles hardened from constant battle, carved into definition not by luxury or training, but by necessity and pain. His body looked forged—more weapon than man. Veins pulsed under the surface, and with every breath, the cords of his neck tightened and relaxed like cables under tension.
But what drew Elise's attention most were the scars.
They were everywhere.
So small and jagged, others long and surgical. A lattice of healed violence marked his chest, his sides, even his back. So were fresh enough to still appear pink beneath the skin, others had faded to pale ridges.
She stared a mont longer than necessary.
"You can heal," she said, not accusing, but curious. "So why? Why do these scars remain? And why so many?"
Ian paused, turning slightly as he glanced over his shoulder at her.
"I got cut through. Impaled. My chest and gut sliced open more tis than I can count." He looked down at himself, tracing a finger along a deep scar that twisted beneath his ribs.
"Each ti the wound would heal. At first, they vanished like they were never there. But after a while… they stopped healing completely. The skin closed, but the scars stayed. I like to think of them as reminders."
"Reminders?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
"Of what I paid for this strength. Pain. Blood. Suffering. The forest didn't give it freely. I earned every piece of what I am now."
Elise didn't reply. She simply stepped back and gestured toward the water.
"Get in," she said.
Ian walked forward, each step echoing louder as the rest of the room held its breath. He dipped a foot into the pool, the heat washing over him like a blanket of fla.
But it didn't burn—it welcod.
Slowly, he descended the steps until the water rose to his chest. Steam curled around his skin, and the blood that had hardened to his flesh began to lt away in thin crimson ribbons.
He exhaled sharply as his body relaxed for the first ti in days.
The ache in his limbs began to fade, the weariness not disappearing entirely, but receding, like the tide drawn back into the sea.
He felt lighter.
Not healed—his soul essence had done that already.
"The water heals to an extent," Elise said, stepping to the edge of the pool and sitting on a nearby bench. "But that's rather useless to you. For most, it helps nd bruises, restore balance. But for you, with your regenerative system, it's the rejuvenating and cleansing qualities that are more valuable."
"I see," Ian murmured, watching as more blood uncoiled from his arms and dispersed into the water. "I'm grateful… though this seems a bit much for a slave."
"Believe it or not, Ian," Elise said, a faint smile playing on her lips, "you've beco quite the important slave."
Ian huffed a breath of amusent but didn't reply. He leaned back against the side of the pool, arms resting on the stone rim behind him, steam curling over his face.
He stared at the dancing light across the ceiling, then finally spoke.
"Who is the council?" he asked.
The words hung in the air for a long mont.
Elise chuckled quietly. "Oh, where do I even begin?" she mused. "It's best you understand it all now. You've been pulled into our dangerous world, whether you're ready or not."
She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees as her voice dropped into sothing more conspiratorial.
"The Council of Ten. Ten noble houses that rule the city of Esgard and the surrounding territories. Each house is old, powerful, and controls a specific domain—military, trade, magic, politics. They maintain balance… barely. Their alliance is one of necessity, not trust."
Ian listened silently.
"They each have champions in the Arena," she continued. "Gladiators, warriors, mages—any tool they can use to climb higher. Glory in the arena ans influence. Favor with the people. Access to resources. You've already been chosen, Ian. By Her Highness. And that choice ans you now stand on a board where the pieces are people, and the stakes are kingdoms."
Ian looked down at the water, watching a swirl of diluted red vanish into the current.
"So I'm not just fighting for survival anymore," he said. "I'm a pawn in a political war."
"No," Elise said, standing. "You were a pawn. But after what you did in the Blackblood… you may be sothing more now."
She turned to leave, her steps soft across the polished floor. At the door, she paused, glancing back at him.
"Rest while you can. Because soon, the Arena will call your na."
And with that, she was gone.
Ian sank lower into the water, letting the steam rise past his lips, his eyes glowing faintly in the low light.
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