MAGNUS BLADE AND THE PIT OF SHADOWS

CONTEXT
On
Magnus Blade and
the pit of shadows

The Pit of Shadows was no place for the weak. Beneath the blackened sky, under the gaze of merciless overseers, Magnus fought. Not for glory, nor wealth, but merely to survive. They had taken him as a boy, a screaming, thrashing thing torn from his family's arms, and thrown him into a world of claw and fang, of steel and sorcery.

The gods watched from their lofty perches, or so the priests claimed, but Magnus saw little of their mercy in the pit. Children with strange gifts, those who could summon fire with a whisper, whose blood ran with the strength of wolves or the charms of elves; boys with hooves that hammered the earth like the war drums of old, their legs animal, their torsos still human, arrows lodged deep in their backs like curses unspoken; young girls who slipped into shadows, their forms coiling into serpents, eyes gleaming with the cold, merciless shine of steel-these were the children cast into the pit, where their gods' gifts were twisted into weapons, and death was the only mercy to be found-
They were pitted against one another for sport, their cries echoing in the dark. The ground beneath his feet was slick with blood and ash, and the waft reeked of sweat, fear, and death. Magnus was no wizard, no beast-born. He was flesh and bone, honed by hunger and desperation, and when he fought, he fought like the devils of old.

He had won, again and again, until the overseers took notice. "This one," they'd whisper, "this boy has the makings of a blade." From the dirt and shadows, Magnus rose, trading the chains of a prisoner for the steel of a soldier. He bled for Balamorea, killed for them, and in doing so, carved a name for himself. Now they speak of him in hushed tones.

Yet Magnus felt the weight of his chains still, even as they lay broken at his feet. Freedom was a lie, a fleeting thing.