Rudra sat beside Raghav, arms folded, watching the unconscious figure on the other side of the cell. The dim light from the torches along the corridor barely reached Arya's face, casting shadows over his still form. "Arya," Rudra whispered, voice tense. No response. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, but he remained lost in unconsciousness.
The twins shared a glance. Their situation was worse than ever. No allies, no weapons, and Chorpatta was out of reach. They had no way of knowing if anyone even realized they were missing. Their minds ran through every possibility—would anyone come for them? Had Arya's men already given up, thinking them dead? And if not, how long before Yatnish decided they weren't worth keeping alive?
Outside, the world continued as if nothing had changed. The roar of the crowd beyond the prison walls was deafening, waves of cheers and screams rising and falling in chaotic rhythm. The fights had begun.
A sudden uproar broke out near the entrance of the prison. More prisoners were being hauled in, their faces battered, their limbs dragging against the stone floor. Blood smeared the walkway where the bodies were dropped like sacks of grain. The pit had claimed more lives today, and it would demand more tomorrow.
A groan. A shift.
Arya moved. His fingers twitched, his head rolled slightly to the side, and then, finally, his eyes flickered open. He winced, his limbs stiff, the pain in his body sending slow waves of agony through his nerves.
"Arya!" Raghav hissed, gripping the iron bars. "Wake up!"
A heavy exhale escaped Arya's lips as he tried to sit up, but his muscles fought against him. His head pounded, the weight of his ordeal pressing down on him.
"Where… where am I?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Prison," Raghav answered bitterly. "Yatnish and Marketu did this. They set us up."
Arya squeezed his eyes shut, his memories flooding back in broken pieces. The office chamber. Yatnish's smirk. Marketu's grip on the twins. The betrayal.
His hands curled into fists.
"Why?" he muttered. "Why go through all of this? I never even wanted the throne. If he had asked, I would have given it to him."
Rudra exhaled sharply. "Maybe. But power isn't something people ask for, Arya. It's taken."
A chilling silence filled the cell. Arya stared at the ground, his thoughts a storm inside his mind. He had never wanted this. None of it. He never asked to be dragged into this world of war and treachery. He had fought to survive, nothing more. But the world didn't care about his wants—it only cared about who was strong enough to claim it.
The clang of iron echoed through the chamber as the guards dragged away another prisoner. The prisoners who were taken rarely returned. The ones who did came back barely able to walk.
Arya glanced at the small window in the cell. The sky beyond was still blue, untouched by the horrors unfolding below. He watched as the next fighters were forced into the pit. Some staggered forward, already wounded, others fought back, struggling against their captors. None of them had a choice.
Soon, it would be him.
He leaned back against the cold stone wall, his breath steadying. He had spent his life running—from the streets, from Upendra, from fate itself. Even now, in chains, the same question loomed over him.
Was this all life had to offer?
Survival? Struggle? A slow, inevitable fall?
His gaze moved to Raghav and Rudra. They were watching him, waiting for his reaction. He saw it in their eyes—the uncertainty, the quiet fear that neither of them would ever admit to. They needed him to decide what came next.
He thought about Yatnish, sitting in his stolen seat of power, laughing, drinking, plotting. If Arya didn't fight back, that man would own everything. The Pit. The city. The people who depended on them.
No. That wasn't an option.
He pressed his palms against the floor, pushing himself up despite the pain in his ribs. His voice, though quiet, held no weakness.
"We need to get out of here."
Raghav and Rudra exchanged glances.
Arya had made his choice.