Ironbound

Kain noticed the change before anyone said a word. The camp, usually a mess of noise, had grown quieter. The bandits moved with unusual quickness, checking weapons, adjusting the cages, and murmuring to each other in low voices.

Even the leader seemed different. His usual bravado was nowhere to be found, replaced by something closer to nervous anticipation.

"What's going on?" the old man whispered, his voice barely audible.

Kain didn't answer. He didn't know, but he could feel it too, a tension in the air, that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

By midday, the reason for the tension became clear. Two riders appeared at the edge of the camp, their horses sleek and well-kept, their cloaks free of the grime that clung to the bandits.

The bandit leader straightened immediately, his swagger returning as he strode forward to greet them.

"Welcome!" he called, his voice loud and overly cheerful. "We've been expecting you."

The taller of the two riders dismounted, his eyes scanning the camp with a look of disdain. "Your note said you had something worth selling," he said curtly. "Let's see it."

The leader nodded quickly. "Of course, of course. Right this way."

The captives were herded out of the cage, their wrists bound as they were lined up in the center of the camp. The bandits barked orders, shoving anyone who moved too slowly.

Kain stood at the end of the line, his body stiff and his eyes narrowed. The buyers approached slowly, their gazes cold and calculating as they inspected each captive.

The taller buyer stopped in front of a woman, tilting her head to the side with two fingers. He frowned. "Malnourished. Weak. She won't last long."

The bandit leader forced a smile. "She's a hard worker—"

"Not interested," the buyer interrupted, moving on.

The young girl trembled as the taller buyer approached, her wide eyes darting between him and the bandit leader.

The buyer stopped in front of her, tilting her chin upward with two fingers. He frowned.

"Too young. Too weak," he said, his voice curt. "Not worth the trouble."

The bandit leader chuckled nervously. "She's tougher than she looks—"

"I said no," the buyer interrupted, already moving on.

The young girl sagged with relief as the attention shifted away, her small hands clutching the edge of her tattered shirt.

He stopped in front of Kain next, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied him. "And this one?"

The bandit leader grinned, stepping forward eagerly. "A strong one. Fetched us quite the entertainment. Let's talk prices."

Before the buyer could respond, Torik's voice cut through the exchange. "He's not for sale."

The leader turned sharply, his expression twisting into a scowl. "What are you talking about?"

Torik stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the buyers. "This one isn't ready yet. He's strong, yes, but he's untested. If you want a fighter worth your gold, you'll wait."

The taller buyer raised an eyebrow. "He looks fine to me. Strong, resilient. That's all we need."

Torik's smirk widened. "And you'll get a version of him that's even stronger, more resilient. A few weeks under my watch, and he'll fetch you triple the price you're offering now."

The buyer frowned, exchanging a glance with his companion. "We don't like waiting. Delays cost us."

Torik shrugged. "Then take the others. But if you want him, you'll come back later."

The buyers hesitated, weighing their options. Finally, the taller one nodded. "We'll be back. But he better be worth it."

As the buyers rode off, the bandit leader rounded on Torik, his face dark with anger.

"Do you have any idea what you just cost us?" he snarled.

Torik didn't flinch. "I know exactly what I'm doing. That boy is worth more than you can imagine, but only if we make him ready."

The leader glared at him. "And if he dies before then? If he tries to run again?"

Torik smirked, his confidence unshaken. "He won't. I've seen what he's capable of. He'll survive and when the buyers come back, you'll thank me."

The leader muttered something under his breath but didn't argue further.

The next morning, Torik called the captives into the center of the camp. The bandits gathered around, their laughter echoing through the clearing as they prepared for the spectacle.

Kain stood at the edge of the group, his body tense but his face calm. He had learned not to show weakness, not to give them anything to latch onto.

Torik stepped forward, his voice cutting through the noise."Some of you have potential. Some of you don't. Today, we'll separate the two."

He gestured toward a crude platform at the edge of the clearing, where two bandits stood with spears in hand. "Your task is simple. Endure. Stand your ground against them. Prove you belong."

When it was Kain's turn, Torik's eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Kain stepped onto the platform, his muscles still aching from the previous day's labor. He picked up the wooden shield, its surface splintered and rough, and braced himself.

The first strike came fast, slamming into his shield with enough force to make his arms burn.

The second strike came faster, aimed at his legs. Kain adjusted his stance, letting the blow glance off the edge of the shield.

The bandits struck again and again, their movements coordinated and relentless. Kain's breaths came in sharp bursts, his muscles screaming in protest, but he didn't falter.

"Harder," Torik called out, his voice sharp. "Don't give him room to breathe."

The strikes became more brutal, the spears slamming into Kain's shield with enough force to send him staggering. The crowd roared with laughter, their jeers ringing in his ears.

Blood trickled from his arms where the edges of the shield had cut into his skin, but Kain gritted his teeth and kept moving.

Pain was temporary.

Failure was permanent.

The final strike caught Kain off guard, the spearhead hooking the edge of his shield and wrenching it from his hands. He staggered, his balance faltering, but he didn't fall.

Torik raised a hand, stopping the test. "Enough," he said, his voice calm but commanding.

He stepped onto the platform, his gaze locked on Kain. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

"You lasted longer than I expected," Torik said.

Kain was led back to the cage, his body trembling from exhaustion. The other captives avoided his gaze, their faces pale and drawn.

The young girl whispered as he passed, her voice barely audible. "Are you okay?"

Kain didn't answer. He sat down heavily against the bars, his mind already working.

The morning after the trial, the captives were roused early, their bruised and battered bodies forced into the clearing under the eyes of the bandits.

Kain moved slowly, his muscles stiff from the relentless blows he had endured. Blood had dried on his arms and back, forming crusted lines where the shield and spears had bitten into his skin. Despite the pain, he kept his face blank, his eyes scanning the camp for anything that might give him an edge.

Torik stood near the center, his dagger gleaming in the early sunlight. His smirk was absent.

"Two at a time," Torik continued, gesturing to the captives. "You'll fight each other until one of you can't stand. No weapons, no shields, just fists."

The young girl flinched, her small frame trembling. She glanced at Kain, her wide eyes silently pleading.

Kain ignored her. He couldn't afford to think about anyone else right now.

The first two captives were dragged forward, a wiry man and an older woman. They hesitated, their eyes darting between the bandits and each other.

"Fight," Torik said simply.

Neither moved.

Torik's smirk returned. He nodded to a nearby bandit, who stepped forward and lashed the man across the back with his whip.

The man cried out, stumbling forward, his fists clenched. The woman's hesitation vanished as she threw a desperate punch, catching him in the jaw.

The fight was short and brutal, ending with the man crumpled to the ground, blood dripping from his nose.

Torik clapped once, slow and deliberate. "Good. Next."

When Torik called Kain's name, the crowd grew louder, their jeers and laughter rising in pitch.

Kain stepped forward, his body tense but steady. His opponent was a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek, his expression twisted with rage and desperation.

Torik's smirk widened. "Begin."

The man charged immediately, his fists swinging wildly. Kain dodged the first blow, his movements sharp despite the stiffness in his muscles.

The second punch grazed his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his body.

Kain didn't retaliate immediately. He moved carefully, studying his opponent's rhythm, his weaknesses. The man's movements were clumsy, driven by emotion rather than strategy.

When the man lunged again, Kain stepped to the side and delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs. The man grunted, staggering back, but he didn't fall.

The fight dragged on, the man's attacks growing slower and sloppier as Kain avoided his blows. Finally, Kain saw his opening, a quick feint followed by a brutal punch to the side of the man's head.

The man collapsed, groaning, his hands clutching his head.

Kain stood over him, his fists clenched, his breath steady.

Torik's slow clap echoed across the clearing.

"Well done," he said, stepping closer. "You're learning."

Kain didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Torik crouched slightly, tilting his head to meet Kain's eyes. "But don't think for a second that this means you're safe. You're only as good as your last fight. Remember that."

The fire burned low as the captives were herded back into their cage, the bandits still buzzing with the thrill of the day's fights.

Torik stood near the fire, his dagger spinning lazily in his hand as he surveyed the camp. His eyes flicked toward the cage, where Kain leaned against the bars, his expression blank but unbroken.

"That boy," Torik said suddenly, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

The bandits quieted, their attention snapping to him.

"He doesn't beg. He doesn't cry. And he doesn't stop," Torik continued, his tone calm but sharp. "That's what survival looks like."

The bandits exchanged uneasy glances. A few chuckled nervously, their laughter dying quickly in the heavy silence.

Torik's smirk widened, though his eyes stayed cold.

He gestured toward the cage with his dagger. "That's why he'll outlast all of you."

The bandits murmured again, some nodding while others looked away.

Torik's gaze lingered on Kain for a moment longer, his smirk tightening before he turned back to the fire.

Back in the Cage, the young girl approached Kain.

"You didn't hurt him too badly," she said softly, her voice trembling.

Kain glanced at her, his expression cold. "It wasn't about not hurting him. It was about winning."

She didn't respond, her gaze dropping to the dirt.

The old man, sitting nearby, let out a low chuckle. "You're not making any friends, are you?"

Kain ignored him, his focus turning inward.

Later that night, long after the laughter and jeers had faded, Torik sat alone by the fire. The warmth licked at his face, but it did little to ease the strange weight settling in his chest.

He rolled his dagger between his fingers, the blade gleaming as it caught the flickering light. His gaze drifted to the cage, where Kain sat in his usual silence, his back pressed against the bars. The boy's eyes were half-closed, his face impassive, but there was something about him that unsettled Torik.

Most captives begged. They cried or lashed out. Some shattered so quickly it wasn't even worth the effort to push them. But not Kain.

The boy didn't just endure pain, he absorbed it, wore it like armor.

What disturbed Torik was how calm he was.

Torik's fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger.

He had seen strength before. He had tested warriors, broken men who thought themselves unbreakable. But this boy wasn't like them. There was no bravado, no mask of invincibility. Just silence, sharp and unyielding, like the edge of a blade.

The fire cracked loudly, snapping Torik out of his thoughts.

It wasn't just Kain's strength that got under his skin. It was the familiarity of it.

Torik leaned back, the dagger still resting in his hand. He had seen that same look once before, years ago, staring back at him in the reflection of a bloodstained blade.

When he was younger, before he understood what power truly meant, Torik had been like Kain: raw and clinging to survival with teeth bared.

Torik's lips curled into a faint smirk, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You're a lot like me," he muttered, his voice low and bitter.

But then his expression hardened, the smirk vanishing like smoke.