Chapter 29 · The Eighth Man at the Ambush

The chains rattled in the dark. Alto's boot hit the bottom rung and he dropped the last three feet, landing in something wet. Not water. The smell hit him half a second later—old blood and piss and infection.

The prisoner sat against the far wall, wrists chained above his head. His face was a mess of bruises and split skin, but his eyes tracked Alto the moment he moved. Sharp eyes. Soldier eyes.

"You're not Shana's usual type," the man said. His voice scraped out rough, but the cadence was wrong for a pit slave. Too measured. "Too pretty. Too clean."

Alto stayed near the ladder. Lira's med kit hung heavy on his shoulder. "Shana doesn't send me anywhere. I came because someone's dying and she's too cheap to waste a medic."

"Lying already." The prisoner shifted and his chains scraped stone. "You came because of what I said. Arlen."

The name sat in the air between them like a blade.

Alto didn't move. Didn't blink. Arlen's instincts were screaming at him—this man knew something, and men who knew things in pits didn't live long unless they had insurance. "That name doesn't mean anything to me.