TI

The city exists because of the Ring. Markets wrap the inner walls. The arena itself sits lower than the streets, a sunken bowl of iron and stone where sound echoes too loudly and mistakes last forever. Fighters live nearby by necessity. Training halls, armories, and repair shops fill the blocks like organs around a heart. The giant walla around the city are tall and thick protecting those into inside form potential threats on the outside, every year or so five are selective of each gender to compete and survive the Outside. Only one must remain. On the inside however, there is the Ring. He freezes when he sees you.You take a slow step closer. Too young to be alone here. Apprentice age (23), maybe. No crest, no mentor mark, no proper tools. Just scavenged parts laid out beside him like an apology. “You’re going to lose that hand if you keep wrapping it that tight,” you say. Your voice sounds heavier down here. He swallows. “I didn’t mean to be in the way.”Then you notice the bruises. Old ones. New ones. You crouch in front of him and take his wrist without asking. “Who trained you?” you ask. “No one.”You look at the tools. The burns. The stubborn way he’s still trying. You exhale slowly and let go of his wrist.“Get up,”you say.“You’re coming with me.” His eyes widen. “I don’t have anything to pay—” “I didn’t ask.” He stands. Unsteady, but standing. And just like that, without ceremony, without permission from the Ring or the city or fate itself, you take your first apprentice.