Lucian had seen enough of the pits to know most men lied about why they fought. Some said coin, others glory, a few swore it was for pride. Strip away the words and it always came down to the same thing—they wanted to beat someone bloody. Whether the match was rigged or not, the excuse never mattered. He wasn't any different. His reasons were his own, but they all ended the same once fists started swinging.
Tonight felt different. The backroom of Deluos smelled like stale sweat and cheap wine. Lucian leaned against the wall, watching Casalus came limping over with that sheepish grin, the one that meant trouble was about to land in Lucian's lap.
"Stop pacing," Lucian said. "You're getting on my nerve."
Casalus shot him a look. "You should be nervous. This could change everything for us."
The door opened before Lucian could ask what "everything" meant. A man walked in wearing clothes that cost more than most fighters earned in a month. His jacket was tailored, his boots polished to a mirror shine. When he spoke, his voice carried the artificial refinement of someone born common who'd learned to imitate his betters.
"Gentlemen." The man's smile was all teeth. "I am Albor Lendal. I believe Casalus has mentioned me."
Casalus straightened like a soldier meeting his commander. "Of course, Mr. Lendal. This is Lucian, the fighter I told you about."
Albor studied Lucian with calculating eyes. He took in the scarred knuckles, the healing cuts on his face, the way Lucian held himself like a coiled spring. "You've been making quite the impression down here. Seven fights, seven wins. Impressive." The most update n0vels are published on novel[f]ire.net
"The wins weren't all mine," Lucian said. "Some of them were arranged."
"Honesty. I appreciate that." Albor clasped his hands behind his back. "It tells me you understand how business works in this establishment."
Casalus cleared his throat. "Mr. Lendal has a proposition for you, Lucian. A special match."
"How special?"
Albor's smile widened. "You know Berel, I assume. Our champion. Undefeated in forty-three matches. Tonight's card was supposed to feature him against Korren the Bull. Unfortunately, Korren had an accident this afternoon. Something about falling down stairs."
Lucian doubted it was an accident. "And you need a replacement."
"Precisely. The crowd expects Berel's match to close the evening. It's always our most attended fight. The betting pools are already established." Albor paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "We need someone willing to step into the ring with a man who has never lost."
"You want me to lose."
"I want you to survive long enough to make it interesting. Berel's reputation wasn't built on quick knockouts. He breaks his opponents slowly, methodically. The crowd loves watching someone try to fight back before inevitably falling."
Casalus jumped in. "The pay is triple your usual rate, Lucian. Triple. For one fight."
Lucian crossed his arms. "How many rounds are we talking about?"
"Minimum of three," Albor said. "Ideally four or five. Berel will control the pace. Your job is to absorb punishment and keep getting up. Make the audience believe you might actually have a chance."
"Right up until I don't."
"Exactly."
The room fell quiet. Lucian could hear the distant roar of the current match through the walls. The crowd was already building toward tonight's climax. Berel's match would pack the stands, fill the betting pools, and line everyone's pockets.
Everyone except the man taking the beating.
"Triple rate puts me at thirty-six argents," Lucian said. "But this isn't a normal fight. Berel could cripple me permanently. Break bones that won't heal right."
The silver coins were substantial—each one heavy enough to feel significant in a man's palm, worth twelve copper aspers that could buy bread for a week.
Albor's expression didn't change. "The risks are acknowledged."
"Then my rate is sixty argents. Plus a bonus of twenty if I make it to the fifth round."
"That's robbery," Casalus hissed.
"That's business." Lucian met Albor's gaze. "You said it yourself. This is your biggest draw. The crowd expects a show. You need someone who won't fold in the first round when Berel really starts working."
Albor was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, there was grudging respect in his voice. "You drive a hard bargain for someone about to get his face rearranged."
"I'm the one taking the risks. I should get paid accordingly."
"forty-eight argents. Fifteen bonus for reaching the fifth round."
"Deal."
They shook hands. Albor's grip was firm, professional. "You'll fight in two hours. Use the time to prepare yourself mentally. Berel isn't cruel, but he's thorough. He'll test every part of your body before he's finished."
After Albor left, Casalus turned to Lucian with wide eyes. "Forty silver. Do you understand what you've done? That's more money than most people see in half a year."
Lucian flexed his fingers, already imagining how they'd feel after Berel was finished with them. "I've earned every copper."
"You haven't earned anything yet. You have to last long enough to collect it."
"I will."
The certainty in his own voice surprised him.
He was ready to take his beating.
Looked like the night would finally test the reason he'd kept Urias close.
The betting floor was chaos. Coin clattered—mostly argents with the occasional glint of a golden aurel from the wealthier patrons, House Zarionel's royal crest catching the torchlight as silver pieces changed hands rapidly loud enough to shake the rafters. Berel's name dominated every shout. Ten to one on him finishing the fight in under three rounds. Twenty to one if Lucian managed to last five. Hardly anyone bothered calling Lucian's name—there was nothing to win on that side of the board. Berel had turned every bout into a guarantee, and the bookkeepers loved him for it.
The crowd swelled until the stands seemed ready to burst. Everyone wanted their share of the easiest money they'd see all month.
Lucian stood by the gate, mud and torchlight waiting for him on the other side. He rolled his shoulders, fists flexing, jaw set. Quenya's voice brushed against him, calm and steady.
"You look eager."
Lucian had a cup in his hand, the same one he'd been rolling between his fingers while waiting. He brought it to his lips, drained it in a single gulp, then tossed it aside. The burn steadied him before he spoke.
"Purpose is clearer when fists are flying." His voice came out different than he was used to.
"You'll give them a fight worth watching," she said. "That's enough."
The gate creaked open. The roar from above pressed down like a wave. Lucian stepped forward, grin still in place.
From the balcony, Casalus leaned on the rail with a cup in hand, his nerves showing in how often he sipped. Men around him argued over wagers, laughing, shouting, already celebrating Berel's victory before it began. The whole place shook with anticipation.
Down near the pit's edge, Albor was already working the crowd. His words carried sharp and clean, slicing through the noise. He called Berel's name first, letting the wave of cheers and stomping feet roll through the stands. Then he announced Lucian, his grin practiced, his tone built to feed the crowd's hunger for spectacle. The response was a mix of laughter and jeers, exactly the sort of reaction Albor wanted.
One of the bookkeepers pushed through the balcony throng toward Casalus, face flushed with excitement. "Odds are climbing," he said quickly. "Fifty to one now. Heavy silver on Berel ending it in three."
Casalus blinked, muttered a curse, then forced a smile back onto his face.
He leaned in close to the man, his voice low and sharp. "Quietly. Spread some silver outside, hedge it before the board tips further. I won't have the house gutted if this fool somehow drags it past the third."
Back in the pit, Lucian rolled his shoulders as the gate clanged shut behind him. Across the mud, Berel stood waiting, broad and unshaken, the crowd's roar washing over him like it belonged to him alone. Lucian met his eyes, grin sharp as ever. The two fighters sized each other up in the torchlight, the air thick with expectation.
Berel barked out a laugh, eyes raking over Lucian's frame. "That grin won't look so pretty once I cave it in."
Lucian's grin widened. "Pretty enough your mother will still spread for it."
A flash of fury cut through Berel's laughter, jaw tightening as the crowd howled at the exchange. He lowered his stance, fists raised. Lucian mirrored him, reckless smile still plastered on his face.
The signal rang.
Berel moved first, a blur of muscle and weight. Lucian ducked, felt the air shift as the fist cut past his head. He countered with a quick jab that landed on Berel's ribs, but it was like striking a wall. Berel didn't flinch. He came forward again, pressing Lucian back into the mud.
The crowd's roar swelled as the two closed in, Berel throwing heavy hooks, Lucian slipping by inches, grinning through every brush with disaster.
Then Berel's fist finally connected. The sound cracked louder than the cheers, and Lucian staggered, blood sharp in his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand, smile still fixed, eyes locked on Berel.
The second blow was already coming.