The scent of sweat, ale, and anticipation clung to the air as Severus stepped into The Cinder Circle. The wooden-floored arena hummed with tension, a rough battleground where brawlers, mercenaries, and pit fighters tested their mettle. His presence did not go unnoticed—strangers eyed him with curiosity, assessing his frame, his weapons, his demeanor.   The bookmakers whispered among themselves. A new challenger? A wildcard? They always bet cautiously on the first day.   Severus smirked and adjusted his coat. He was here to fight, to prove himself, and to bleed, if necessary. But more than that, he was here to entertain.   His first opponent was Dorn the Stonemason, a broad-shouldered brute who fought with fists like bricks. The match was a raw, unpolished brawl—Dorn swung wide, attempting to crush Severus in sheer strength, but the bard danced out of reach, slipping through the gaps like shadow and song. The audience cheered as Severus capitalized on Dorn’s sluggish defenses, finishing the fight with a flourish of a clashing rapier and a stunning note of dissonant whispers. The brute staggered, ears ringing, before collapsing.   Victory.   The crowd loved it.   A few silver coins found their way into Severus’s pocket, tossed by amused spectators.   -----------------------------------------------   Word spread fast in The Cinder Circle. The poetic fighter. The talker. The silver-tongued combatant who played the ring like a stage. Some scoffed. Others watched with wary interest.   His next challenger, Sera "The Lash" Valden, was a whip-wielding former mercenary with an eye for cruelty. “You dance well,” she sneered, “but I wonder how well you sing when you’re bleeding.”   The fight was fast, brutal, beautiful. Sera’s whip cracked through the air like lightning, lashing at Severus’s arms and legs. But he anticipated her movements, weaving in and out of range, waiting for an opening. The moment came in a single heartbeat—he flicked his rapier, caught the whip mid-swing, and disarmed her with a flourish that sent the weapon spiraling into the crowd.   The pit roared with approval.   Sera conceded, laughing. "You’re a flashy bastard, bard. I’ll give you that.”   Another 30 gold in winnings.   ------------------------------------------------------------   The third fight was not a simple duel—it was survival.   Korvax the Gravedigger was a veteran of Isondale’s pits, a towering menace armed with spiked gauntlets. There was no flair in his movements, only brute, crushing power.   Severus knew he couldn’t win this with elegance alone. The first strike landed hard—his ribs ached as he rolled away, barely escaping a stomp that could have shattered bones. The second, he parried, but the force sent him skidding.   Then he remembered. He wasn’t just a fighter. He was a performer.   Instead of retreating, he played the audience. A clever quip here, a stagger that seemed more dramatic than pained. He made it look like Korvax was swinging at a ghost, growing increasingly frustrated as his blows missed or hit air. The crowd began to laugh, sensing the shift.   And in the moment Korvax let his anger lead him—Severus struck true, piercing the joint of the gauntlet and forcing a surrender.   A hard-earned victory.   50 gold in winnings.   That evening, as Severus rested near the pit’s gathering hall, he overheard drunken fighters murmuring about the Wyvern Mountains. Strange howls, like wind through broken stone, but with a haunting, guttural depth.   "Something unnatural is moving out there," one of them muttered. "And I’ll tell you this—villages are going missing overnight."   The other fighter scoffed. "Bah, you mean the beast? That’s real. Saw it myself near the river town of Hollowbrooke. Massive, unnatural thing. Whole place is gone now, just ruins and silence."   Severus listened. The rumors lined up with what he had heard before. The beast. The destruction. And now… the mountains were stirring.   -------------------------------------------------------   At midday, he was approached by an old acquaintance.   Raesh.   The towering warrior had been here for months now, refining his skills, fighting to keep himself sharp. He, alongside Siobhan Shockscale, held a position in the Silver Tier, two steps above Severus’s current standing of Iron Tier.   "You’re holding your own," Raesh remarked, arms crossed. "But you’re fighting like a lone wolf. You ever consider tag-team fighting?"   Severus chuckled. “You suggesting I take on a partner?”   Raesh grinned. "I’m suggesting you prove yourself first."   And so, that day, Severus fought one of the Iron Tier duos in a 2v2 match.   His partner? A reckless young fighter named Luca Nightfall, a dual-wielding hothead eager to make a name for himself. The opposing team, Kerran & Jule, were seasoned combatants who had fought together for years.   The fight was chaos. Luca lunged too quickly, forcing Severus to cover for him. But Severus adapted—using his bardic abilities to inspire, to mislead, to weave deception into battle. A well-timed Minor Illusion made Kerran swing at an enemy that wasn’t there. A cutting insult broke Jule’s focus. And when Luca finally landed his reckless strike, Severus was there to finish it with precision.   A hard-won victory.   Raesh gave a slow, approving nod. “Maybe you do belong here.”   By the end of the day, Severus was approached by a guild official.   “The Gladiatorial Guild is watching you,” the man said. “If you’re interested, we can start you as an Initiate.”   An official offer to join the Gladiatorial Guild.   ----------------------------------------------------   For the first time, Severus chose not to fight.   Instead, he performed.   In the heart of the pit, he sang—his voice carrying through the wooden-floored ring, telling tales of warriors past, of battles fought and won, of lovers lost and found. The crowd, usually filled with gamblers and bloodthirsty spectators, listened.   For a moment, the pit was not just a battlefield. It was a stage.   That night, more rumors surfaced. Hollowbrooke was not the only town to fall. Two more villages had been abandoned, their inhabitants gone. No signs of battle, no bodies—just eerie silence and clawed ruins.   ----------------------------------------------------   It happened in whispers. Someone recognized the name Sszaryn.   An old fighter, a retired pit champion, approached him. “I once fought alongside a Bloodfang years ago. A warrior named Sszaryn. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”   Severus hesitated.   “Not anymore,” he finally said.   The man laughed. “Good. That bastard was an arrogant prick.”   Severus laughed too—but deep down, the words lingered.   By the end of the night, the pit masters advanced him to the Bronze Tier.   No longer just a beginner—he was now established among the Isondalian fighting arenas.   ----------------------------------------------------------   By the final day, Severus had earned respect. The fighters knew his name. The crowd cheered for him.   He fought one last battle—a duel against a rival bard, Felix the Lyricist, whose rapier was as sharp as his wit. It was a battle of style, of rhythm, of who could control the flow of combat through words and steel.   Severus won.   And with the final earnings pushing him to 200 gold, he walked away victorious.   Severus left The Cinder Circle an Iron Tier fighter, 200 gold richer, and with an open invitation to join the Gladiatorial Guild.   But most importantly, he left a mark on the pits.   And they would not forget his name.