Chapter Text
A crowded marketplace in the heart of the city is no place for men riding to their deaths.
A sea of bodies, broken only by the myriad stalls lining each side of the road, part before the hooded figure like the Red Sea did for Moses. Much like the humble shepherd, they bear the weight of divinity; lining the cage of their ribs with gold and solemn promises of freedom.
Faceless and nameless people go about their daily lives, broken only by the clatter of a horse-drawn cart bearing its sullied cargo to the coliseum gates.
Gladiators, fighting for their lives; prisoners of unfortunate circumstance from all walks of life, forced together like sheep to the slaughter.
These men are not sheep, and the hooded figure is no shepherd.
Children play in a mixture of hay and dirt as they walk past, head low and eyes searching.
A commotion up ahead causes one of the guards to halt the procession; a scuffling of limbs and baseless protests: the perfect diversion.
With hostile eyes and wicked sharp swords out of the way, the figure approaches the open rear of the wagon, silent and determined.
"Champions," they whisper, a voice of rich velvet beckoning the four men to rise from their contemplations of death and vengeance. "It is time you took back what was lost."
Skin bronzed by the sun, with eyes like cold chips of sapphire - bright with god's fire and honed by servitude. Their gazes converge and touch, a wisp of time between breaths. He knows it's time to finally complete his mission.
When the figure reaches between the wooden bars, offering a simple piece of tightly woven rope, he cups it between bound hands and tucks it close.
The figure's lips twitch beneath his cowl; Seth would not argue, not about this.
The man next in line gazes up through dust-ridden bangs, mussed from battle and woven into a tight braid over one shoulder. They know his story; a man steeped in black sorcery and bathed in sinful devices. The guards may have taken his staff, but they could not break his spirit. To him, they give another coil of rope, small enough to fit in the palms of both hands.
The sorcerer takes it with only the slightest bit of hesitation. Perhaps he saw the glint of freedom in the figure's eyes, cloaked in shadow and steeped in mystery.
The scuffle up front is winding down, shouts turning to murmured orders, and they know time is of the essence.
Another man, with dark skin and hair cropped short, stares back with gunmetal in his gaze and a quiet longing in his heart. When they offer the small piece of molded leather, he clutches it tightly in closed fists, a sense of reverence in powerful muscle and ironclad bones.
The last man, pale-skinned and quietly defiant, scoffs as they hand him the most vital piece to the puzzle.
"How will we take back our freedom with a single stone?" he growls, furrowed brows and distrust hurled from icy blue eyes.
"You who are free of sin may cast the first stone," they murmur, stepping away from the wagon, feet silent as the shadows they command. "When the time is right, the gods will appear, and salvation will be at hand."
A guard sidles up to the lead horse, and the hooded figure melts into the crowd without a backward glance.
Hands curled tightly around the sharp fragment, Seto bows his head and bides his time.
In the shadow of a nearby pillar, the figure slips unseen, following the chosen fighters directly to their doom.
The keen eyes of the seer follow the cart as it trundles along the main road, the overcast sky a darkening omen.
None of them speak, for fear of being whipped before their torture even begins.
***
Seto bites his tongue as he slips the stone between leather and metal, an uncomfortable reminder that freedom has a price and he must pay the toll.
He feels like the gods on high are watching, gazing down from their divine providence; judging the mortals they birthed from their own flesh, a meager guiding light in this gritty reality of death.
The guards shove them into separate cells; one by one, their numbers dwindle until Seto is the last. What they lack in wit and skill, they make up for in sheer numbers.
His step father was taking grand measures to make sure his death was drawn out for the entire world to witness. His only regret was not being able to save his little brother from a similarly gruesome hell: watching it all happen, helpless and tiny in adolescence.
Seto hoped he could find some measure of comfort in his last moments to see Mokuba's face, one last time, content in the knowledge that with his death, he may yet be spared.
He hardly spares his fellow captives a glance; flicking his eyes over to the magician every few seconds, calculating the shuffling steps and labored breaths of the doomed should he fall. It's almost a relief when the guard shoves him in a cell, slicing his hands free of their bonds.
He can see the arena from here, a small window into a blood-soaked canvas -- soaring into the heavens and packed to the last corner with screaming men and women, garbed in the security wealth provides them.
There’s something altogether otherworldly about the shifting clouds, letting in trickles of golden light from on high. Whether it is the work of divine hands or the planet's own craftsmanship, he'll never know.
Seto's eyes narrow to thin slits as he's unceremoniously yanked from his cell moments later, the glare of the sun fading to a faint pinprick of light as he's led deeper into the coliseum. Guards barge into the other cells, coming away with their prized captive, iron grip steady on the crook of their elbows. The sorcerer can barely stand, but he does not let his exhaustion get the better of him, the brief respite allowing some color to return to his cheeks.
At least if he dies in combat, it will be an honorable sacrifice.
The guards leave them in the dust shrouded arena, closing the double doors behind them with a resounding boom. It echoes across the stands, ushering in silence.
Seto warily eyes his fellow captives, fingers itching to grasp the hilt of a weapon and defend himself.
"Gladiators!" A voice booms, high in the lofty pews. Shrouded in silk on his plush throne, Gozaburo gets to his feet, approaching the balcony to address his people. "Each one of you is here for the same reason: treason against your king." Seto's lips curl, a silent snarl, defiant and sharp. "I therefore sentence you to death by combat."
With a lazy flick of his wrist, the coliseum doors open wide, admitting the largest man Seto has ever laid eyes on. The prisoner to his left curses, spitting into the sand at his feet. Their gazes converge and touch, and if not for the scatter of freckles across the dark arches of his cheeks and the broad spread of his shoulders, Seto could be staring into a mirror.
"How cruel," the sorcerer whispers, tearing their gazes apart. "We must climb the Mountain to win our freedom."
"Sinai?" The prisoner to his right, all corded muscle and hawk-bright eyes, stares into the snarling face of the giant pacing the length of the arena.
"Indeed." The sorcerer picks himself up, tipping his chin back to study their opponent. "My name is Mahaad," he continues, and Seto feels a slight tremor in the air around them, as though the name itself has power. "If we are to work together, I would know the names of my companions."
"Why," Seto blurts, toeing the edge of a short sword. Relatively useless, barely an extension of his arm.
"So that I know who to thank, whether in this life, or the next."
The cryptic statement gives him pause, but if they're all going to die here, he sees no reason to reveal his identity.
"Seth," his mirror offers, gaze tight at the corners, sizing up the muscle and calculating his chances.
"Karim," the other says, taking a fighting stance as the Mountain lumbers closer.
Seto shakes his head, lips pursed. Mahaad sighs, picking up the discarded sword at his feet and hefting it with some difficulty.
"Very well," he murmurs, grip tight on the hilt. "Let me show you what we are up against."
He charges without warning, sword held level before him. It sings through the air, cleaving its way into the Mountain. A hair's breadth from piercing taut skin, the steel blade sweeps over its target entirely, leaving Mahaad wide open.
The Mountain wastes no time, planting a sandal-clad foot in Mahaad's chest and sending him flying back into the dirt. The sword falls, splayed uselessly beside tangled limbs.
The crowd cheers, a roar of noise rising into the heavens. Not even the loving gaze of the Holy Mother or the Pope, resplendent on his throne of lies, can possibly save them now.
Gozaburo's laughter rings through the stadium, disdainful and snide. From the chair beside him, Mokuba bites his lip, struggling to keep silent despite the injustice of it all.
Mahaad struggles to catch his breath, Seth bending over him to check for signs of life. He swats the offered hand away, clutching the crest of his ribs, willing breath back into bruised lungs.
Surrounding the Mountain will do little good; each of them carry different wounds from previous skirmishes, whittling down their strength bit by bit before tossing them into the ring. Seto is not nearly as winded as the sorcerer on the ground, struggling to his knees with each painful breath he takes.
He eyes the Mountain warily, still pacing, flexing and snarling like an unchained beast. Before Seto can stop him, Karim rushes the giant, perhaps intending to take him by surprise from behind.
Next to the Mountain, Karim makes an impressive specimen; Seto himself is a tall man, but Karim is wider in the torso, more stocky. He puts up a decent fight, but seems to favor his left side as he moves. Faster than the beat of a hummingbird's wings, the Mountain has Karim by the throat.
Muscles coiled tighter than springs, Karim delivers punch after punch, grappling with goliath, never giving an inch.
Then he ends up tossed on his back like so much raw kindling, and Seto wonders if victory might still be possible after all. He feels like a mangled bird in the jaws of a cat; batted this way and that, escape always within reach, but never attainable.
"Fuck this," Seth curses, low and biting.
Seto feels poison curling on his own tongue; cursing the gods, cursing Gozaburo, and cursing himself for not being able to put up more of a fight. Bitterness slithers like hot tar in his lungs, shame and anger finding similar purchase in the long-forgotten furrows of his heart.
He reaches out to grab the closest bit of Seth he can reach, only for his fingers to clench around air and arid sand.
Seth rushes toward the Mountain, fists on guard; juking left and right, he keeps the sun at his back and approaches him with utmost care.
Sinai hears him coming, or there are eyes in the back of his skull.
Seth stands little chance when the back of the Mountain's fist connects with the side of his face, jerking him off his feet and onto the sweat-soaked earth before he has time to blink.
In a grand show of masculinity, he struts a circle around Seto next, pounding his chest and howling his triumph.
The crowd eats it up, the very air ringing with heated approval. From the corner of his eye, he can just see the top of Mokuba's head, navy locks spiking in the slight breeze.
There is no telling what fate has in store for this Kaiba Seto; he'd given up on worship long ago, piety slipping through his fingers the moment Gozaburo stepped into his life. His laughter rings forth from the stands, content to observe from his ivory tower as the prisoners fall, one by one, victims of circumstance and spitting in the face of virtue.
He is the only one left standing, fists clenched in solemn acceptance. If he must go down, he will go down fighting, screaming until his lungs give out, bleeding his last upon the ground and knowing it would never be enough.
Fallen warriors litter the ground like corpses -- still breathing, but only by the grace of god.
Seto decides that he is done being a coward and takes off like a stone from a sling, fists clenched and determination hardening his gaze.
His fist sinks into the Mountain's bracer, and the momentary wince of pain is all he needs to pick Seto up by the back of his leather armor and toss him to the ground.
Breath leaves Seto's lungs in a whoosh of fire, burning a path to the smoky heavens above. His companions lay in a similar state, clutching old and new wounds alike.
Lying in the funerary shroud of premature dusk, all Seto can think of is failure -- beaten into a young heart, grinding it into ash, and molding an impressionable teen into the shadow of a man he could have become.
The cheers of the crowd fade to a dull hum as he blinks the sweat from dark lashes. Mokuba's voice sings down from on high, screaming for Seto to get back on his feet.
I'm so sorry, he thinks, struggling with each breath he takes.
I couldn't save you.
A hand enters his vision, calloused and dark.
"Get up!"
A pair of eyes follow: dark ocean waters bright like the break of dawn, filled with righteous fervor and dangerous as any wild animal.
Seto battles to a kneeling position, swatting the offered hand aside. "I don't need your help."
Seth crumples his brow in a blend of confusion and skepticism, duly unimpressed.
"Would you get your head out of your ass long enough for us to make it out of here alive?"
The question stings, plucking at his resolve with insistent fingers, urging him to his feet. He accepts Seth's hand, gripping tight, rough callouses catching.
The Mountain has wandered off to a far part of the arena, toward a miniature armory set aside for his personal use. He was done toying with them, then, finally content to move in for the kill.
Seth moves off to help Karim regain his footing, which leaves Seto staring down at the sorcerer, measuring what is left of his worth and loathing himself for it. He was trained from starry-eyed youth to take control, calculate situations based on power and wealth and how best they could serve him.
Mahaad had proven his mettle, now it was time for Seto to prove his.
The Mountain wastes precious time agonizing over which weapon to use; how best to gut his prize, prying them open from the inside and scattering their blood to spray against sun-warmed walls.
Seto extends a hand, salvation in the tips of his fingers and rigid muscle edged in stubborn grace. Mahaad casts him a weary look, accepting the offer with only an ounce of hesitation.
They stand in a ragged circle, waiting for death to sweep them into its eternal comfort. The greatest warriors of their time, laid low by a single man and the whims of a vicious dictator.
"Thank you," Mahaad murmurs, voice thick with fatigue.
He can barely stand, and Seto knows he will be the first to die should the giant wrap those hands around the delicate column of his throat. Perhaps that is the thought that rekindles strength in tired limbs, breathes life into his blood, and makes his veins sing with a sparkling note of triumph.
Seto vows to go down swinging, choking on the strains of a final goodbye and allowing it to seep all the way down to the marrow, to the very fiber of his being.
“We need a plan,” Karim says, wiping the dust from his brow, dark hair curling damp at the temples.
“You’d better think fast, then,” Seto mutters, eyes trained on the Mountain. “We can’t do anything in our condition.”
It aches deep in his core, putting words to failure -- admitting his own faults that may well lead to his demise.
Seth’s lips part in strained humor, laughter breaking like dawn from his mouth, strong and bright and deep.
“Maybe we can’t,” he says, pearls of low light gleaming in the whites of his eyes. “But he can.”
He follows the direction of Seth’s gaze, noting with some degree of awe the figure shrouded in a dark cowl, stark against the crowded backdrop of red and gossamer-thin wisps of cloud.
“Him? The one who gave us the--” Seto pauses, the dig of the stone against his wrist more palpable than before.
Seth produces the short length of rope from inside his tasset, unwinding it with deft movements. “Do you trust me?” he asks, a giddy note seeping into his voice, the suns in his eyes dancing like wild, star-bright flames as they travel from one warrior to the next.
Still short of breath, clinging to consciousness with every heated breath to parched lungs, Mahaad quickly nods, the hand clutching his side leaving to rummage in his sleeve.
“I do,” Karim says, rough, weary, and dust-smeared, with exhaustion clinging to his limbs like lead.
Seth looks to him then, and in the short seconds they have left to spare, Seto nods, producing the stone from his leather bracer.
What choice does he have, really; either he can struggle for survival, one more time, watched by devil and gods alike – or he can die in the dirt like a dog, bowing to a cruel master as he gives up the last vestiges of life.
Each of them holds the piece to a grand puzzle – one that may yet lead to their salvation.
Seto nods, sealing his fate in stone.
“Here,” Seth hands over the coil of rope, just as Karim offers the cured bit of leather.
“Why me?”
Karim is certainly stronger, and although Mahaad is weakened, his magic would no doubt be far more useful.
“Have faith, warrior,” Seth replies, just as Mahaad shoves the other coil of rope into already full hands.
Faith, Seto thinks, is for someone who has nothing else to gain by their own merit, so they turn to the divine for answers.
“Seto,” he supplies, aware of the Mountain stalking closer, chosen weapon dragging along the ground. “My name is Seto.”
“Seto,” Seth repeats, tasting the name on his tongue, fragments of delight tinting the edge of his grin warm. “Here he comes.”
Seth jerks his chin toward their encroaching death, and Seto scrambles to figure out the tools given to him. Stringing one length of rope through a loop in the leather, tying it off with the next and cinching it tight.
“Wait,” Mahaad murmurs, grabbing the stone. His eyes flicker shut and the air around him shifts, an auric nimbus of energy bathing the pebble in his hands. His shoulders slump, breath ragged with the effort. Karim’s hands are firm on the dip of his shoulders as Mahaad hands the stone back. “You have one shot. Make it count.”
The figure’s cryptic words from before slip to the forefront of his thoughts as he turns to face the Mountain, stone snug in the improvised sling.
You who are free of sin may cast the first stone.
There is power in words, far greater than himself. Maybe it was time Seto listened to them.
He twirls the sling, building momentum, even as the goliath charges forward, battle axe in hand and gunning straight for him.
Seto imagines the figure watching from his lofty haven and pictures sunsets, long nights spent among holy pillars, and amazing grace curling like sweet song between his lungs.
With a powerful flick of his wrist, he lets the stone fly: a simple prayer turned into a weapon of war.
It slices cleanly into flesh, right between the Mountain’s eyes; stopping him in his tracks and swaying drunkenly on unsteady feet.
His grip slackens, the axe dropping into the dirt -- a final sacrifice that takes Seto more than a moment to analyze for what it really is: victory.
The Mountain drops to his knees, a thin trickle of crimson painting the jut of his brow, expression slack and eyes dull. He is dead before he hits the ground, jeers of disapproval mixing with triumphant cat calls from the stands above.
The sling falls from Seto’s hands to land by his feet; he just murdered a man, albeit entirely in self-defense, but the triumphant cheers of his fellow warriors drown out the ire of the crowd above.
Seth claps a congratulatory hand to his shoulder, temporarily dispelling the image of gore-coated fingers and carrion crows.
“Looks like you made him proud after all,” he says, jerking his chin and grinning at the figure, still cloaked in mystery high up in the stands.
“Who is he?”
The words leave his lips unbidden, but burning curiosity about the man who saved his life wins out for now.
“He is the true king. Even though he lacks a crown of his own, he is the rightful ruler of this kingdom.”
As though their words carried weight, the figure lifts his hands, sweeping the cowl back and revealing his true nature.
“Gozaburo!”
With the sun at his back – casting a burnished halo of wispy fire -- and the cloak fluttering at his ankles, the figure paints the perfect picture of rebellious divinity. Garbed in black leather from head to toe, he stands proudly, a fallen angel among devils.
His step father is either gritting his teeth or genuinely smirking, but as far as Seto is aware, the worst is still yet to come.
“So, the boy who would be king has decided to show himself!” Gozaburo sits on his throne, hand poised to deliver a command. A hush falls over the coliseum, painting the walls in whispered confusion. “How nice of you to join us, Atem.”
Atem.
The name resonates somewhere within him, a place Seto has rarely trod, even in his waking hours. The man himself is quite the specimen; even from here, he can see the outlines of a noble cast -- a cascade of burnished copper and gold framing a dark face. There’s a metallic glint at his brow, around his waist, adorning his boots; jewelry perhaps, or the gods’ own fire claiming him for their own.
A mighty angel of justice standing on the precipice of freedom.
“You know what I have come for,” Atem calls, rich voice carrying the weight of prophecy to Seto’s ears.
“Then by all means,” Gozaburo flicks his fingers, a silent command. “Come and take it, if you can.”
“Very well.”
Another figure appears, identically clothed in black leather; no gold gleams at their brow, but twinklings of silver dance about their ears and waist as they move.
“Well, this should be interesting,” Seth mutters, tipping a finger to the swell of his cheek and wincing.
“More so.. than now?” Mahaad asks, bent over double and panting out between breaths.
“Whenever Atem brings his Keeper, trouble tends to follow.”
“Just what we need,” Seto sweeps the fringe from his eyes, sizing up the tiny shadow. “More trouble.”
“I’ll make you a wager, Atem.” Gozaburo points a finger his way, a lilting edge to his voice that sends pins and needles down Seto’s spine. “If you can defeat my best man, these prisoners may go free.”
Seto can picture the self-satisfied grin; having been on the receiving end of his step-father’s abuse for so many years, etched painfully in the furrows of his heart, it’s hard not to bolt in the face of such sheer conviction.
He can still see the top of Mokuba’s head angled towards Atem, but he would give anything to grab him by the hand and just run.
The figure at Atem’s side tosses their cloak, dark fabric fluttering in the slight breeze to land at their feet.
“We have a deal. My champion versus yours.”
The wide double doors at the other end of the arena creak open, ominously loud in the near-stillness.
Gozaburo’s laughter echoes across the stands, sending tendrils of fear to slither thick and tight, clenching Seto’s belly in an iron hard grip; a chilling reminder that they’re not out of the woods yet.
The point of a spear, filed sharp and glinting wickedly in the half-light, emerges in the gap between the widening doors. A round shield follows, plain beaten gold and fit for a smaller man.
Seto’s hands clench, digging blunt half-moons into his palms. He steps back into the relative safety of their ragged circle, Seth’s taller frame a welcome shield of his own.
The Mountain’s body isn’t yet cold, but Gozaburo’s impatience is legendary, and the man that enters the arena is hardly different from the last.
Dark skin and facial hair set them apart, but their general build is the same: bulky muscle, bred entirely for strength and resilience and not much else.
“That spear will keep us at a distance,” Karim notes, not without obvious displeasure. “It will be hard to get close enough to deal any kind of damage.”
“Unless we pry the stone from Sinai’s head, we have nothing.”
Seto’s suggestion is thankfully ignored, and he doesn’t have the stomach for such things anyway. Seth seems largely unconcerned, flicking his gaze to Atem and his companion, who seem to have been in deep discussion until now.
The aforementioned Keeper – whether a title or surname, Seto cannot be sure – turns back to the scene still playing out below.
“Not necessarily.” There’s a confident lilt to Seth’s voice; he spreads his feet shoulder-width apart, standing firm in the face of a scowling infantryman. “Keep your eyes forward, and whatever you do, keep his attention on us.”
Mahaad’s magic is long since spent, and Seto fears he will collapse before all is said and done. There are too many factors at play here, and he has control over none of them.
His prayers are answered in the form of Atem and his Keeper.
Atem raises a hand, a spark of golden light blossoming from his chest. Tendrils of black silk and wisps of fine hellfire spread like ink down the walls, his shadow growing and flowing like water until a river of black streams into the arena, writhing with dark intent and contained solely by Atem’s will alone.
The shadows themselves are deathly silent, creeping into the sand some feet behind Gozaburo’s latest pet; they come to a halt, seemingly content to obey their master.
Seth is true to his word, waving his arms and keeping the man’s attention focused on them. He brandishes the spear, poking and prodding the air to keep them all at bay.
Another cat playing with its food before killing it.
The next few seconds fly by in a whirlwind of activity. While Seth and Karim keep the enemy’s attention, Atem’s Keeper backs away from the ledge, disappearing from view. Confused murmurs from the crowd above turn into gasps as a body jumps from the ledge, right into the nest of shadows.
They land among trailing ribbons of darkness with ease, sliding down each swell and curve with practiced elegance. Karim swats the spear away with his bare hands, and Seto makes sure to guard Mahaad on his left flank. It gives the Keeper just enough time to make it down into the arena.
“Come on, Magdalene,” Seth mutters, just loud enough for Seto to catch.
His first thought is how such a tiny girl can move like that, trailing leather-clad fingers through the murky shadows like water as she descends, hair blown back from a pale face.
Magdalene lands on the broad back of their opponent, locking an arm around his neck and tilting his head back, almost lovingly. The delicate spread of pale fingers against the dark, rigid muscle paints a stark contrast against the backdrop of blood, sweat, and sand.
“Please god,” Magdalene murmurs, producing a knife from somewhere in her jacket. “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
It’s strangely intoxicating, watching the life leave someone’s eyes. The knife slices cleanly through the skin, and in one swift movement, blood splatters into the sand: coating chest, hands, and feet in viscous strands of copper and crimson tears.
Their newest opponent falls, Magdalene landing harmlessly on her feet, and now that Seto can get a closer look – avoiding at all costs the body settling in the sand, spear and shield discarded in the throes of death – he realizes that his previous assumption was wrong.
Seth approaches, clapping Magdalene on a studded leather shoulder.
“Your timing could be better, all things considered.”
Magdalene shrugs, unrepentant. “You had things under control, but you know how impatient I get.”
The fact that they’re already acquainted sends up flags, ones that should have been obvious, given the circumstances.
Male then, Seto decides, sizing him up and mentally running through his own personal lexicon. Magdalene isn’t common, even for women, and though his voice sounds like silver, there is an undeniable masculine quality in the set of his gaze.
Perhaps it was more than just a name.
He barely came up to Seth’s elbow; gleaming silver chains, sharp studs, and wild hair set him apart from the average citizen. Sunflower gold bangs frame an elegant face, the rest tied back and tamed in two neat indigo buns. With eyes nearly as dark and wide as the shadows themselves, Seto wouldn’t be surprised to find himself under their keen scrutiny sooner rather than later.
“Gozaburo!” Atem’s voice reverberates around the arena, self-assured and strong. It captures the attention of every human lining the stands, like God himself has spoken to the masses. “I have kept my end of the bargain, now let my people go!”
“Your people?” Gozaburo sneers, poison dripping from his tongue. “Certainly! But this one stays with me.”
His hand cups the back of Mokuba’s neck and squeezes before Seto can move to stop him.
“Seto!”
Mokuba struggles in his step-father’s firm grip – forcibly pressed against silk and armor, gleaming metal and muted rust.
“Let him go, coward!”
Gozaburo’s laughter sets fire to his blood, igniting fading adrenaline and clouding an otherwise clear conscience.
“Don’t just stand there!” Seth steps back into view, Mahaad’s arm slung over one shoulder and leaning heavily against his side. “We need to leave!”
“Not without my brother!”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have time--”
Seto pushes past Magdalene with ease, intent on finding a way into the stands, hell bent on saving the one family member he has left in this life.
Mahaad is none too gently tossed to Karim, who looks perplexed, but holds the grumbling magician upright regardless.
“You’re right, we don’t.”
Seth plucks him from the sand, slinging his body over one shoulder and strides purposefully toward the mire of shadows, still undulating and silent, right where Atem left them.
Seto struggles to maintain some sense of dignity, Seth’s grip tightening on the back of his thighs in response.
“We will return, Gozaburo,” Atem calls, authority ringing in every note. “And when we do, you will beg for forgiveness.”
Laughter rises, haughty and thick, belly deep and raw; the crowd’s amusement is humiliation to Seto. It burns deep beneath the skin, a rush of anger tinting the ridges of his ears warm.
Casting one last hateful glance above, he finds his step father gloating, thoroughly amused at his predicament. There’s a narrow cast to Mokuba’s eyes, muted steel in their depths and an iron ridge to the set of his jaw.
He mouths Seto’s name, and all the man himself can feel is despair coating his lungs in a fresh splash of lacquer, acidic and ice cold.
Seth hauls him into the sliding shadows, Karim and Mahaad limping not far behind. Magdalene is the last to ascend the dark river; his last glance is not above, but below, trained on the corpses of fallen warriors, the shade of guilt twisting his lips into a solemn line.
It is far more than Seto is capable of, paying silent homage to the dead. He didn’t put much stock in prayer, never having a use for it before now, but his eyes slip shut of their own accord to send a quick thought to the god in his heavenly throne.
Their bodies lie among dust and shattered dreams, blood spilled and nothing gained. Their sacrifice was nothing short of cruel, and if there was an Afterlife, then maybe even they had a chance at redemption.
Seth finally sets him down at the summit, where shadows crawl and mingle in silent abandon, slithering back to Atem like a well-trained pet. He was finally set back on his feet, the chilling reverberation of thousands calling for his blood setting his own to boiling, nearly bursting at the seams with embarrassment and fury.
It writhes beneath his skin, freezing him in place and staring down the object of his ire. Seth barely has time to pause before Seto's fist connects with his cheek, knuckles biting into the flesh and sending him staggering.
"I made a promise, and now it's ruined because of you!"
Seto lets his anger flow freely and unrestrained, disdain palpable in the threatening curl of his lips, the tense set of his shoulders, fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm without regard for pain.
Seth recovers quickly, swiping the back of his hand across his lips, leaving a thin smear of red in its wake. The adrenaline is still pumping too fast and thick in his veins for Seto to register much more than the spark of anger and hurt flickering in Seth's gaze as they stare each other down, nearly eye to eye.
"Open your eyes! You've been given the greatest opportunity, handed right to you!" Seth gestures to their group, such as it is.
"The only thing you've handed me is humiliation!" The roar of the crowd still rings fresh in his ears, even behind the walls of polished stone. "It should have been me," he mutters, swallowing down regret, teeth clenched around his shame, hot and viscous at the back of his throat. "He was the only one innocent."
"Uh, guys," Magdalene steps between them, hands spread on either side -- a tiny blood-speckled shield before opposing warriors. "Please don't fight, we don't have time for that right now!"
His words are ignored as Seth takes a step closer, eyebrow poised in a perfect arch of skepticism. "Don't be so ungrateful. I saved your life!" Seto scoffs, unwilling to lose any ground. "You can't be so blind to not realize it."
Seto feels his arm draw back of its own accord, ready to land another punch to any bit of Seth he can reach.
A hand lashes out, grasping the clenched fist in a grip of tempered steel.
"That. Is. Enough." Shadows burn in the depth of Atem's eyes, screaming of hellfire and divine punishment. He squeezes until Seto is forced to drop his hand, yanking it free. "John, as one of my own, I expect you to know better than to stoop so low and antagonize another. And you--" He turns back to Seto, whose lips twitch briefly in a rare show of self-satisfaction. "--are not yet beholden to me, but I will not have unnecessary violence among my people. Is that understood?"
Now it is Seth's turn to boast; a superior tilt to the edges of his grin leave Seto wishing he could wipe it from existence.
"Fine," he mutters, voice clipped free of any emotion.
This man orchestrated his release, and to defy him now spelled danger of the worst kind.
"My King." A soft feminine voice interrupts, a cloaked figure appearing between the doorway into the stands.
She is undoubtedly one of them. Dark skin, long hair fashioned into a simple braid flung over one shoulder, the squeak of leather a tell-tale beacon. Torchlight flickers over her face, casting sharp planes and angles in wide relief.
"Esther," Atem nods in her direction, taking a deep breath to calm the storm inside.
"We need to leave immediately if we are to make it out alive." She gestures vaguely behind her, a gleam of gold at her throat catching the torchlight and setting the metal to sparkling. "People are leaving the stands, and soldiers march in formation to barricade our exit."
Seto spares a brief thought about gold and silver motifs before shaking his head to clear it. Her eyes are a startling blue, the only characteristic he cares to pick out among the gloom -- bright like the icy depths of a river and just as cool. She turns on her heel and heads down the hall, away from the rumbling thunder of feet just beyond the walls.
Magdalene sighs, a clipped breath of relief, and pushes Seth ahead of him. Seto throws one last glare at his retreating figure before he reluctantly follows. Karim haunts his footsteps, supporting an exhausted Mahaad, lending the brunt of his strength in support of the battle-weary.
Seto wonders how much longer he can hold on, and whether the fight to stay awake is worth the sacrifice.
Atem brings up the rear, folding the cowl back over his features, a silent shepherd ushering his flock to safety.
He hates himself for leaving Mokuba behind, more than he ever has before. Failure has always meant death, a fact that Gozaburo never ceased to neglect teaching, even into his adult years.
I'll come back, he vows, etching the silent promise into an unblemished corner of his heart.
I'll come back, or die trying.