Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The blood of the fallen gladiator clung to The Boy like a second skin, thick and warm as it dried in the midday heat. He stood in the training yard, the coppery scent of blood filling his nostrils, watching as the other children gave him space. The ritual was complete, and he was no longer just another nameless boy in the arena. He had been marked, baptized in the blood of a defeated warrior, and now, the real journey would begin.

But unlike the older children, he was not being thrust into combat—not yet. The overseers, cold and calculating as ever, had other plans for him. They did not want him broken too soon. They needed to mold him, refine him, until he was more than just another body in the pit.

One of the overseers—a tall man with a gaunt face and eyes like dead coals—approached him. His voice was a harsh rasp. "You're not ready for the pit," he said, his gaze sweeping over The Boy's small, blood-slicked form. "But you will be. You'll train harder than the others, and when the time comes, you'll be sent in. For now, though, you learn."

The Boy said nothing. He had learned early that speaking too much—or at all—was dangerous. Silence was safer.

The overseer gestured for him to follow, and The Boy trailed behind, his feet sinking into the hot sand with every step. They passed the other children who were still watching him, their eyes filled with a mixture of awe, fear, and resentment. No one spoke to him, and he didn't expect them to. He had been marked by blood, but he was still an outsider in their world.

The overseer led him through a narrow passage that connected the training yard to the deeper levels of the arena complex. The walls were rough-hewn stone, damp and cold, a stark contrast to the sun-soaked sands outside. The sounds of the arena—grunts of effort, the clash of steel, the ever-present roar of the crowd—faded as they descended deeper into the bowels of the complex.

They arrived at a long, low chamber that smelled of old sweat and rusted metal. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting long shadows across the room. Along the far wall were racks of weapons—wooden swords, spears, and shields for training, all worn and splintered from years of brutal use. In the center of the chamber, several boys and young men were already at work, practicing their forms under the watchful eye of another overseer.

The overseer who had brought The Boy here shoved him forward without ceremony. "This one needs to be hardened," he said gruffly to the man overseeing the training.

The training overseer, a shorter, stockier man with a face as weathered as the stone walls, sized The Boy up with a quick, appraising glance. "He's small," the man remarked, his voice rough but not unkind. "But I've seen smaller boys become killers." He turned to The Boy, his eyes narrowing. "You listen, and you learn. Disobey, and you'll find out how short life in the arena can be."

The Boy nodded once, still silent.

The overseer tossed a wooden practice sword at his feet. "Pick it up," he commanded.

The Boy crouched down, his small fingers wrapping around the rough handle. It was heavier than he expected, the wood thick and splintered from years of use. He felt the weight of it settle in his hands, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

"You'll start with forms," the overseer said, turning back to the other boys who were already practicing their drills. "Watch them. Learn from them. You'll be training with us every day until you can move like them."

The Boy took his place at the edge of the group, his eyes fixed on the older boys as they moved through their drills. Their bodies were lithe and strong, their movements precise. Even with wooden weapons, they fought with an intensity that spoke of experience—every strike was measured, every block calculated. They weren't playing at war; they were preparing for it.

The Boy tried to mimic their movements, but his limbs were still too small, too uncoordinated. His strikes lacked the fluidity and power of the older boys, and more than once, his practice sword slipped from his grip, clattering to the stone floor. The other boys smirked, whispering among themselves as they watched him struggle. But the overseer didn't yell at him. He simply watched, his expression unreadable.

"Again," the overseer barked, his voice cutting through the whispers. "Do it again until you get it right."

And so The Boy did. For hours, he moved through the drills, his small hands gripping the practice sword until his fingers ached. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the remnants of blood that still clung to his skin. His muscles burned with every swing, every block, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. The overseer's eyes were always on him, and the other boys—those who had been training for years longer than he had—were waiting for him to fail.

But he wouldn't fail. He couldn't afford to.

The day stretched on, and by the time the overseer finally called for a break, The Boy's arms felt like lead, his legs weak beneath him. He collapsed onto the floor, his chest heaving as he sucked in air. The older boys, more accustomed to the brutal training, barely spared him a glance as they moved to the far side of the chamber to drink from a trough of water.

One of the boys—a tall, lanky boy with a cruel smile—walked past him, kicking dirt in his direction. "You'll be dead before you ever reach the pit," the boy sneered. "The overseers are wasting their time with you."

The Boy didn't respond. He couldn't. His body was too exhausted, his mind too focused on keeping himself upright. He had no energy for their taunts.

After what felt like only moments, the overseer's voice rang out again. "Back to work! The sand waits for no one!"

The Boy forced himself to his feet, every muscle protesting the movement. His hands shook as he picked up the practice sword again, his grip weak but determined. He was the smallest of the group, the least experienced, but he knew that none of that mattered. Only the strong survived in the arena, and if he wanted to live, he had to make himself stronger. The overseer would not wait for him to catch up. The pit would not wait for him to be ready.

The next round of drills was harder. The overseer pushed them to move faster, to strike harder, to anticipate their opponents' moves before they even happened. The older boys excelled at this, their years of training showing in the fluidity of their movements. The Boy struggled to keep up, his arms heavy, his legs sluggish. He was falling behind.

At one point, his practice sword slipped from his hands again, clattering loudly on the stone floor. The overseer's eyes snapped to him, narrowing in displeasure.

"You drop your sword in the pit, and you're dead," the overseer growled, walking over to The Boy. "Pick it up."

The Boy bent to retrieve the sword, his fingers trembling. His body screamed for rest, for food, for water, but he ignored the pain. He couldn't show weakness. Not here. Not now.

The overseer crouched beside him, his voice low but firm. "I don't care how small you are. I don't care how tired you are. In this place, you either fight or you die. Do you understand?"

The Boy nodded, his grip tightening on the sword.

"Good," the overseer said, straightening up. "Now again. This time, don't drop it."

The Boy's legs wobbled as he returned to the group. His throat was dry, and his arms felt like they would give out any second, but he raised the sword again, forcing himself to move through the drills. He couldn't afford to stop. Not here. Not in the heart of the arena, where only the strong survived.

Hours passed, and as the sun sank lower in the sky, the overseer finally called an end to the day's training. The other boys sheathed their practice swords and filed out of the chamber, their steps steady and sure. The Boy, however, could barely stand. His muscles were knotted with exhaustion, his hands bruised and raw from gripping the practice sword for so long. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he knew that rest was a luxury he could not afford.

As he limped out of the training chamber, he caught sight of the pit beyond the iron gate. The bloodstained sand glistened in the fading light, and he could hear the faint echoes of the crowd above, their hunger for violence never fully sated. One day, he would be in that pit, facing death with a sword in his hand. One day, he would be ready.

But for now, he would train. He would endure. And when the time came, he would fight.

Because in this world, survival was the only victory that mattered.

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