Ascension of the Abyss*

Mira's office was dim, the candle on her desk flickering against the ink-stained maps and ledgers that detailed Riverend's underbelly. The scent of parchment and wax mixed with the faint trace of steel—Mira's ever-present dagger spinning idly between her fingers as she watched him. There was something in her gaze tonight, something different.

Expectation.

"You've made quite the name for yourself in the pits," she said, not looking up from the blade she was twirling.

Alex leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. Mira never wasted words. If she was bringing this up, it wasn't a compliment. It was a prelude to something else.

"Word travels fast," he said evenly.

"Twenty fights. Twenty wins. And not just victories—domination," Mira continued. "Some say you're improving too fast. Almost like it's unnatural."

The abyss stirred. A low whisper, curling through his mind.

You are unnatural. They will never understand.

Alex clenched his jaw and pushed the voice aside.

Mira's gaze met his, assessing, calculating. "I know talent when I see it. And right now, I have an opportunity for you."

Alex narrowed his eyes. "An opportunity, or a test?"

Mira smirked. "Maybe both. The Iron Fangs. They need fresh blood. And you…" she gestured toward him, "have proven yourself."

His thoughts flickered to Roderic—the sharp-eyed warrior who had measured him like a blacksmith weighing steel before forging a blade.

"Roderic."

Mira's smirk widened. "So you remember him. Good. Because you'll be working under him."

Alex exhaled. The pits had been about survival, instinct, strength. But this? This was different. Fighting for money, for contracts, for someone else's orders. Would it feel the same? Would he be expected to kill without question?

The abyss whispered, curling its tendrils around his hesitation.

Coin is power. War is inevitable. Choose your side before someone chooses for you.

His fingers tightened slightly against the armrest of his chair.

Mira leaned forward. "You have doubts."

"Doesn't everyone?"

She chuckled, tapping her dagger against the wood. "Some do. The ones who survive. But if you're serious, you'll need to register with the Mercenary Guild. No guild, no contracts. No contracts, no coin."

"And the fee?"

"Ten silver."

Alex hesitated. That was everything he had earned in the pits. Trading blood for more blood.

Mira shrugged. "Once you're in, you're in."

The air outside Mira's office was thick with the scents of Riverend—woodsmoke, damp stone, and the distant tang of metal from the forge district. The streets were quieter than usual, the deep blue of the evening sky stretching overhead, broken only by the flickering of lanterns swaying in the breeze.

Alex walked with purpose, but his mind was tangled with thoughts.

Was this the right choice?

He had fought for survival in the pits, but mercenary work was something else entirely. He wouldn't just be fighting to live—he'd be fighting for coin, for people he didn't know, following orders without question.

The abyss pressed against his thoughts, its whisper curling around the doubt.

Kill for yourself. Not for them.

He forced himself to push the voice away, but it lingered, like a shadow clinging to his heels.

The Mercenary Guild loomed near the city's heart, a fortress of stone and iron. Massive banners bearing the crossed sword and axe—symbols of the kingdom's recognized mercenaries—hung above the entrance. The moment Alex stepped inside, he felt the weight of it.

The air was thick with steel, sweat, and ale. Warriors, bounty hunters, and killers filled the hall. Some laughed over drinks, boasting about past victories, their scars proof of their survival. Others whispered in shadowed corners, discussing contracts, bounties, and noble wars.

It wasn't just a guild.

It was a battlefield waiting for the highest bidder.

Alex approached the registration desk. Behind reinforced iron bars sat an old man with grizzled gray hair and a missing ear. His nameplate read: Garrick.

The old man barely glanced up. "Name?"

"Alex."

"Surname?"

Alex hesitated.

Garrick raised an eyebrow. "No surname?"

"Just Alex."

The man grunted, flipping open a heavy ledger. "You know the rules?"

Alex exhaled. "Enlighten me."

Garrick sighed. "Once you're in, you're in. You take contracts through the guild, get paid through the guild, and if you break guild law—" his gaze sharpened "—we don't save you."

A slow weight settled in Alex's chest.

"If you betray the guild, if you turn your back on a contract, don't bother running. We don't do second chances," Garrick continued.

The abyss stirred. Binding yourself in blood. Foolish. Dangerous.

Alex swallowed the unease. What was the alternative?

"And the cost?"

"Ten silver."

The pouch of coins in Alex's hand felt heavier than before. More than just money—this was a choice.

Something in the air shifted. The abyss whispered.

Something is watching. Something is listening.

Garrick smirked, as if sensing his hesitation. "Second thoughts?"

Alex exhaled sharply. No second thoughts. He dropped the silver onto the counter.

Garrick nodded, pulling out a small dagger. "The blood mark. Every mercenary signs their contract in blood. It binds you to the guild's records."

Alex took the blade, pressed the tip against his palm. A single drop of blood welled up and fell onto the parchment.

The ink shimmered.

For just a moment, Alex felt something pull at him.

Garrick stamped the parchment. "Welcome to the Riverend Mercenary Guild."

Alex turned from the desk—and immediately felt eyes on him.

"Didn't think I'd see you here, pit fighter."

A young man stood near the entrance, arms crossed, golden eyes gleaming with arrogance. He was lean, tall, built like a duelist, his movements too fluid to be untrained. His armor was finer than most—a fitted leather coat reinforced with metal plating. A polished rapier hung at his hip.

Alex had seen him before. Watching from the Fighting Pits.

The man smirked. "Let me guess. You got tired of fighting nobodies and decided to become a real mercenary?"

Alex remained silent.

"Name's Viktor Dain." He tilted his head. "You've probably heard of me."

Alex hadn't.

Viktor's smirk twitched, irritation flashing across his face. "You will."

Alex studied him. This wasn't just some arrogant fool. He had a presence. Other mercenaries glanced at him with either respect or quiet contempt.

"You're with the Iron Fangs?" Alex asked.

The smirk vanished.

A sharp, cold flash of anger flickered in Viktor's expression—not directed at Alex, but at the name.

"No," Viktor said, his voice clipped. "I wouldn't work under that traitor Roderic if you paid me triple."

Alex frowned. Traitor?

Before he could ask, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Problem, Viktor?"

Alex turned.

Roderic.

Viktor scoffed. "Didn't think you'd show your face here, Roderic."

Roderic smirked. "And yet, here I am."

Viktor's golden eyes flicked toward Alex, his smirk returning. "And this is what you're bringing to your ranks? A pit fighter?" He let out a low chuckle. "Didn't think you'd fallen this far."

Roderic's expression remained unreadable. "We all start somewhere."

"Some of us start higher than others," Viktor muttered.

The tension cracked between them.

Viktor finally scoffed, stepping away. "Fine. If you want to throw your lot in with him, pit fighter, good luck."

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

Roderic exhaled. "Ignore him."

Alex wasn't sure he could. He had just made his first real enemy in this world.

Roderic clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. We've got work to do."

Alex followed. This wasn't just survival anymore.

This was war.