The Unbroken

Kaelzar of Zaratosh’s Ashen Vale was forged in the crucible of war, then caged and paraded as a champion of the Romulan Empire. They named him The Unbroken—not out of reverence, but to remind the world that he survived what no one should.

For years, he crushed every opponent they fed him, trading his humanity for the faint hope of freedom. But when they send a warrior of his own people into the arena, Kaelzar must face a darker question: Has he already lost the battle within?

The Unbroken is a visceral, character-driven fantasy short story set in the world of INFINITAM, blending brutal arena combat with introspection, legacy, and rebellion. It’s a tale of blood, loyalty, and the faint, flickering light of hope.

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The Unbroken

The sound of distant drums thundered through the stone corridors of the Colosseum, reverberating through the bones of every captive held beneath the arena. Kaelzar of the Ashen Vale sat silently on a worn stone bench, head bowed, fingers stiff from years of battle, his callused hands resting on his knees. His breath was steady, but his eyes were distant—fixed not on the iron gate before him, but on the thin bowl of water at his feet.

He stared into it, searching not for a reflection, but for proof. Proof that he still existed. That he hadn’t become the beast they named him: The Unbroken.

A Romulan officer passed by, sneering. “The crowd’s hungry for blood, beast. They say your next fight is your freedom.”

Kaelzar said nothing. He had heard those words too many times before.

A moment later, the creaking of the gate signaled the start of another performance. Torchlight bathed the tunnel in a golden hue as Kaelzar stood, tall and broad like a statue carved from dark ironwood. He wore no armor. He never did anymore. No shield. No sword. Only his bare, scarred hands and the weight of silent longing.

He stepped into the sand, the sun beating down upon his back, and was met with a roar—a thousand voices chanting his name with violent anticipation. Above them, in the imperial box, the Romulan elites drank wine and watched him like they would a caged lion.

Across the arena, another gate opened. A figure emerged—arms and legs clad in rusted gauntlets, armed with two broadswords. The figure hesitated, then stepped forward into the light.

Kaelzar froze.

The warrior was young, but not inexperienced. His movements were sharp, his stance solid. He bore the eyes of the eastern clans—his people. Zaratoshi.

The warrior’s eyes widened as he recognized him.

“Kaelzar? Gods… It’s really you.”

Kaelzar’s lips parted but no words came.

“I heard stories you’d been taken,” the young man continued, stepping closer, sword trembling. “They said you fought for them now. That it couldn’t be true.”

Kaelzar flexed his fingers. The crowd jeered at the hesitation.

“We don’t have to do this,” the young man whispered.

But Kaelzar knew better. There was no mercy beneath the sand.

With a sudden step, he closed the distance, dodging a hesitant swing of the sword. He caught the blade with one hand and twisted it free. The young man tried to retreat, but Kaelzar moved like a storm, throwing a curving right hand to his exposed ribs. The young man dropped to his knees instantly, groaning. Kaelzar snatched the back of his head with his left hand and threw another devastating right hand to the face, flinging him across the arena floor. Kaelzar walked him down. Without a chance to recover, the young warrior was brutalized by swift combinations as he attempted to get back on his feet. Blood spilling left and right from his broken nose. This was no challenge, this was punishment. The warrior wildly swung at Kaelzar in an effort to survive the pummeling. Kaelzar jumped back. The young man then charged the beast, fueled by the instinct to survive and the crippling pain of betrayal. As he raised the broadsword over his head, ready to strike, but Kaelzar snatched him by the throat and hoisted him into the air. The broadsword slipped out of the man's hand.

The crowd roared. The arena demanded more blood.

Kaelzar looked up at him—at the fear, the confusion. He could feel the beat of the young man’s heart through his grip. His arm trembled.

“How many have I killed for their cheers?” he thought. “How many sons of other tribes? Of other mothers?”

He tightened his grip, then paused.

“This isn’t freedom,” he muttered aloud.

He looked toward the imperial box. Senator Gargilius leaned forward with anticipation, lips curled in a smug grin. Beside him sat Marcus Velorian—tense, unreadable.

Kaelzar slowly lowered the young warrior to his feet. He released his grip and took a knee, pressing his fist to the sand.

A shocked silence washed over the arena. Then the boos began. Stones were thrown. Spittle rained down from the stands.

The guards stormed the arena.

Kaelzar awoke in chains. Blood leaked from a cut over his brow. Across from him sat the same warrior, his wrists bound, lip split.

“You should’ve killed me,” the young man muttered.

“No,” Kaelzar replied. “I’ve done enough of that.”

The warrior stared at him for a long moment. “Then let’s leave this place.”

Kaelzar looked away. “There is no leaving.”

“Not alone,” the warrior said, “but maybe together.”

"Together? Hm... there's only two I know of that have escaped this place. One was a barbarian, with monstrous strength."

"More monstrous than your own?" the warrior asked.

"Yes. Many times so. And the other that escaped with him, a man of Alkebulani blood with a power that rivals the Gods. They were never fed soldiers or mercenaries, only monstrosities from the deepest pits of the world," Kaelzar said.

"Well... if they survived all that, it is no wonder they escaped!" said the warrior.

"You have a point... what is your name?" Kaelzar asked.

"Sāsān."

In the Senate chambers above, Gargilius seethed.

“He humiliated us,” he growled. “You said the beast was tamed.”

Marcus remained calm, sipping wine. “He is no beast. He’s a man... just like you and I.”

“You’re too soft on him.”

Marcus smiled thinly. “Maybe. Or maybe you’ve forgotten what it means to lead.”

That night, in the dim silence of their shared cell, Kaelzar and Sāsān sat shoulder to shoulder, bound by bruises and silence.

A rat scurried across the stone floor. Somewhere, deep in the catacombs, a distant scream echoed and faded.

“I think they’ll kill you,” Sāsān whispered finally. “Next time you refuse.”

Kaelzar said nothing for a moment. Then, “Let them.”

Sāsān shifted. “You don’t believe that.”

Kaelzar sighed. “I don’t know what I believe. But I do know I can’t keep being their dog.”

They sat in silence a while longer. Then Sāsān spoke again.

“Have you ever seen the back wall of the cell block?”

Kaelzar turned his head. “Why?”

“There’s a crack in the mortar,” Sāsān said. “Small, but wide enough for a coin. I saw a man press his ear to it once. He said he heard running water. Said there’s a tunnel beneath the fortress.”

Kaelzar raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Sāsān said. “But maybe it’s the only something we’ve got.”

Kaelzar stared at the stone walls around them. Then back at the warrior.

“For now,” he said, “we wait. But not forever.”

In the quiet gloom, hope flickered—small and fragile—but still alive.

And beyond the cell, unseen, unheard, and unbroken, water whispered beneath the stone.