The Sand Beneath

Finn came to with a pounding head and cold stone beneath him.

Chains clinked softly as he shifted—his wrists and ankles bound with iron clasps. His axe was gone. His daggers, missing. The familiar weight of his gear was replaced by sweat-stained rags and a dull ache in his joints.

He sat up slowly, blinking away the blur.
All around him, others were sprawled in similar condition—Hyur, Elezen, even a fellow Lalafell or two. Some were staring blankly into the distance. Others had simply stopped reacting.

A gaunt woman nearby, her arms scraped and bruised, muttered without looking at him, “Colosseum. Don’t waste your strength panicking.”

Finn tilted his head. “The what?”

She glanced at him then, tired eyes flat. “Ul’dah’s real entertainment. Nobles toss coin watching us kill each other or monsters in the ring. You’re a bit on the small side. Should be fun for them.”

Finn exhaled.
“I sure don’t think this was the Ul’dah holiday Wyrnzoen meant.”

Apparently, three victories granted freedom. A low bar, but one covered in blood. Still… he’d taken worse odds before.

Finn asked the guards that evening if he could fight. His chains were removed just enough to let him walk, though still shackled at the ankles. They escorted him down a hall lit with orange torchlight and sweat-soaked banners. They led him into a weapon room.

The “arsenal” looked like a butcher’s workshop.
Racks of oversized swords, battered polearms, and dented shields lined the walls. Finn immediately scanned for something familiar—but the sight made him frown. No axe. No daggers.

He reached for a spear instead.

The balance was uneven, the wood chipped, but it would do. At least it reminded him of the Lancer days, where poise and movement mattered more than brute strength. If anything, this might help him return to form.

He gave the spear a few test twirls.
The weight pulled differently from an axe, but in his hands, it still hummed like an old friend trying to remember the steps of a shared dance.

A guard grunted. “That your pick, shortstuff?”

Finn gave a mild shrug, eyes still on the spear.
“It’s not about size,” he said. “It’s about what you do with the swing.”

The guard smirked. “Sure. Let’s see how long you last.”

He was led toward the arena gate, where the roar of the crowd seeped through the cracks—anticipation and cruelty braided into sound.

Finn’s fingers tightened on the shaft of the spear. His feet shifted lightly in the sand.

This wasn’t what he expected from Ul’dah.

But if three fights bought freedom…
he’d turn this cage into a stage.