FROM PITS TO THRONE: A Crown Forged In Chains

Chapter 9. Healing and ambition

Six months had passed since Laim’s arrival at the Rein estate, it was six months of grinding labor, careful observation and the slow knitting of flesh and pride. The broken ribs had healed into hard knots of scar tissue that pulled when he twisted too quickly, but the constant ache had faded to a dull reminder. The old thigh wound from the Red Bear still gave him a slight hitch on cold mornings, but he could run, lift, and swing a staff without collapsing. His body which was once a map of fresh wounds now bore the weathered look of a veteran, with pale lines crisscrossing sun-browned skin. His muscles were lean and hard from endless toil.

He had risen, inch by careful inch, through the rigid hierarchy of the household slaves.

It began with small proofs.

In the kitchens, when the head cook’s great cauldron cracked under heat and threatened to spill boiling stew across the floor, Laim braced it with a wooden beam and his own shoulder until others could empty it. The cook, a gruff old woman by the name Marta had grunted thanks and slipped him extra portions thereafter.

In the stables, he calmed a panicked stallion that had thrown Colvin off its back during a hunt, speaking low and steady until the beast quieted. The grooms noticed. Orrick, the grizzled stablehand, nodded approval and began teaching him the finer points of horseflesh.

Even Madra, the iron overseer, could not ignore the results. When a fever swept the lower slaves and half the scullery fell ill, Laim organized the healthy ones into shifts, boiled willow bark for tea as Mira had once taught him, and kept the household running. So Madra marked his name higher on her lists.

Through this all, he also faced challenges.

Tomas, the valet who had threatened him early, nursed his grudge. One night he and two cronies cornered Laim in the tool shed with clubs in hand as he said.

“Time you learned your place, pit dog.”

Laim had been waiting for this for a while now. He fought silently and was efficient, ensuring there were no cries to draw guards. The fight ended with a pitchfork handle across Tomas’s knees, an elbow to another’s throat and a knee to the third’s gut. They limped away bruised and humiliated. And Tomas never met his eyes again.

Word reached the upper house. Colvin laughed when he heard of it, calling Laim a “useful brute.” while Beatrix watched from a balcony with an expression that was unreadable.

But the real tests were the informal contests among the slaves, they were trials of strength, speed, and cunning that determined who would serve closer to the family.

First came the harvest games of races while carrying water buckets across the courtyard without spilling the water inside, wrestling in the hay barn and archery with blunted arrows at straw targets. Laim entered the contest quietly and dominated it. His pit-honed reflexes made the races trivial and his strength, tempered by years of survival, threw wrestlers like dolls.

Madra promoted him to outdoor duties like gardening, escorting supply carts to market and guarding the outer gates at night. He paved closer access to the family and better food, also a pallet nearer the door, away from the snorers.

Then came the winter trials like endurance in the cold, chopping wood fastest and holding a spear steady for the longest hours. Again, Laim excelled and slaves began seeking his advice, sharing gossip and offering small alliances.

Beatrix was the first to notice this.

One crisp afternoon, she found him in the herb garden pruning rosemary under the gardener following Kai’s direction. Snow dusted the hills beyond the walls and Laim’s breath plumed as he worked.

“You move up quickly,” she said, appearing suddenly at the path’s end. She wore a fur-lined cloak and her cheeks were pink from the cold. “Most new slaves stay low for years and some never rise.”

Laim first straightened, then bowed slightly. “I work hard, my lady.”

She studied him. “It’s more than work. You watch and you plan like a general with pawns.”

He said nothing even though she was expecting a response.

Beatrix stepped closer. “Father says you were a soldier once, before the pits. Is that true?”

“Something like that.”

Her eyes narrowed, showing that she wasn't getting the answers she was after. “You are hiding some and I know everyone does, but you are hiding more.”

She left as abruptly as she came, but the encounter lingered. Curiosity from the daughter could be a leverage or a trap.

Meanwhile, Colvin’s tests were cruder.

He began assigning Laim personal tasks like polishing his armor until it gleamed, running messages across the estate and holding targets during sword practice. Each of these came with mockery.

“Faster, limper!”

“Hold steady, or I’ll skewer your hand!”

Laim endured it all while quietly turning the tasks to his advantage. While polishing, he studied the armor’s weaknesses, things like gaps at joints and weight distribution. While holding targets, he observed Colvin’s form, though it was strong but it was also impatient as he was overcommitting on thrusts.

One day, during a mock bout with a household guard, Colvin’s blade slipped and nicked his own thigh. He cursed, limping.

Laim was holding the water skin nearby so he offered it without being asked.

Colvin snatched it as he glared, “You think you could do better, slave?”

Laim met his gaze evenly. “With practice, my lord.”

Colvin laughed, but there was a spark of interest. “Arrogant dog. Father should have left you in the pits.”

Yet the next week, Colvin ordered Laim to spar with him, they both made use of blunted swords and there was no audience other than the stable boys.

They fought in the snowy courtyard. Colvin attacked with youthful fury as his blade whistle. Laim defended patiently, giving Colvin ground as he let the young lord tire. When Colvin overextended, Laim tapped his wrist lightly, disarming him without harm.

Colvin stared at the fallen sword, breathing hard.

They fought again and again, and Laim won each time, using clean and respectful tactics.

By the fifth round, Colvin was sweating despite the cold, and his frustration was turning into grudging respect.

“Enough,” he panted, lowering his blade. “You fight dirty.”

“I fight to win, my lord.”

Colvin studied him, then tossed him the blunted sword. “Clean this. And…tomorrow we go again, same time.”

It was not a sign of friendship, but a crack in the wall that could lead to one.

Spring brought the greatest opportunity.

Lord Ermin’s political ambitions were sharpened and rival houses schemed against him with whispers of assassination circulating the kingdom. He needed loyal blades closer than hired guards.

One evening, after Laim had risen to serve meals in the great hall by pouring wine for Ermin and his guests, he was summoned again to the study.

Ermin sat alone this time with maps spread before him. Colvin and Beatrix stood behind, watching him.

“You have done well,” Ermin said without preamble. “Madra reports that you are reliable. The slaves follow you. Even my son admits you handle a blade better than most guards.”

Colvin scowled but did not contradict.

Ermin leaned forward. “I need men I can trust. Not just with labor, but also with protection. My family travels to Korthos tomorrow for the spring council. Rivals will be there. I want you among the armed escorts.”

Laim’s heart quickened. Being armed was a step closer.

“I am honored, my lord.”

“There is risk,” Ermin continued. “If trouble comes, you must fight for us. Prove yourself loyal, and your status will rise further. Fail…” He held back his word, letting the threat hang.

“I will not fail.”

Ermin nodded. “Good. Rest well tonight. We depart at dawn.”

As Laim bowed and turned to leave, Beatrix spoke softly.

“Be careful. Some rivals play dirty.”

He met her eyes. “So do I, my lady.”

That night in the barracks, Orrick clapped his shoulder.

“Big step, lad. You're in the inner circle now. Don’t waste it.”

Laim lay awake long after the others slept. Six months of patience, of swallowing pride, of building strength and alliances, it had brought him here. It wasn't freedom, but he was no longer scrubbing pots.

He thought of Jarrett and the smug in his arena, believing the bargain was broken cleanly. Of Robert Hawks, far across the sea, assuming he was dead or harmless.

But they were wrong. He was healing. He was rising.

And soon, he would be close enough to the heart of this house to ask for what he truly wanted, not just status, but freedom.

The spring council journey would be his crucible.

The next battle would not be in sand, but in the shadowed halls of power.

He closed his eyes with his hand resting on the small knife Mira had given him which was still hidden in his pallet.

At the break of

dawn, he would carry steel openly and the real climb would begin.