The roar of the crowd melted into silence inside Reid’s mind.

He stood across from Korrun, the monster of Grinholt. The man rolled his shoulders, spitting blood from a previous match. He grinned, cruel and wide, like a beast that enjoyed pain more than coin.

Reid didn’t grin. Didn’t speak. His body moved into stance without him telling it to. His feet adjusted. His breath steadied. Somewhere inside him, instinct took hold.

I’ve done this before.

He didn’t remember it. But his bones did.

The man nodded. The fight began.

Korrun lunged, fast for a man his size, throwing a wide hook meant to break jaw and skull. Reid didn’t dodge—he moved, barely an inch, and the fist sailed past him. His counter came low and fast, a brutal strike to the ribs that crunched like dry wood. Korrun howled, swinging again.

Reid stepped in this time, ducked low, and slammed his shoulder into Korrun’s gut, lifting the man half off his feet before slamming him down into the bloody dirt.

The crowd gasped.

Korrun scrambled up, roaring, swinging wild, fists like bricks. One caught Reid across the face—but his head barely turned. Pain bloomed, but it felt distant, unimportant. He was moving again, hitting again.

Fists. Elbows. Knees.

Each strike came faster. Sharper. He didn’t think about where to hit—his body just knew. Korrun stumbled back, dazed. Blood ran from his nose, his mouth, his ears.

Reid grabbed him by the neck and drove his head into the wooden post of the ring.

The crowd fell into stunned silence.

Korrun dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

Reid stood over him, chest heaving, his hands slick with blood.

And still, silence.

Then—an eruption. The crowd screamed. Coins flew. Names were shouted. Reid! Reid!

He stepped back, toward the edge of the ring. Done.

That was when the pain struck.

A flash of white-hot fire in his shoulder.

I turned my back. Gods, I should’ve known better.

In a pit like this, there’s no such thing as “over.” No bell. No mercy. No honor. You stand, or you don’t. And if you’re fool enough to breathe easy—just once— That’s when the knife finds you.

He turned with a sharp gasp—a dagger had been driven deep into the muscle near his collarbone. It would have gone through his throat if he hadn’t turned, if he hadn’t felt it coming.

And that was what chilled him.

He had felt it. Before it touched him. Before the man even lunged. Something under his skin had pulsed, a whisper of heat that warned him. That guided him. His body moved before his thoughts did.

Reid spun around, yanking the dagger free with a sharp twist and a snarl of pain. Blood poured from the wound, but it didn’t matter. Not now.

These are the lessons the pit carves into your bones.

The fight isn’t over when the body drops. It’s over when every hand that means you harm is broken or bleeding out.

When there’s no one left to kill you while your back is turned.

He stared down the three men that stood before him. Armed, ready, dirty knives in hand. Assassins, or worse—cowards sent in the aftermath, hoping he was too drained to fight back.

He was not. His hand found the hilt of his own dagger—the only thing he reveled in owning.

The blade came free like it had been waiting. Reid moved. Fast. Fluid. Brutal.

The first man lunged—Reid caught his wrist mid-air, yanked him forward, and slammed the dagger straight into his gut. A scream. Then silence.

The second was already coming from the side. Reid spun, ducked low, slashed across the thigh, then rose with a brutal stab under the ribs. Blood sprayed his face.

The third man hesitated. Big mistake.

Reid threw his blade.

The dagger flew straight into the man’s neck, burying to the hilt.

He staggered. Dropped. Twitched. Still.

The silence came again—deeper this time.

Everyone in the arena stood frozen, watching the blood-soaked man in the ring, the dead piled around him, chest heaving, eyes dark as storm clouds.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t proud.

He was searching. Not for more men. Not for mercy. For meaning.

The molten heat still coiled through his limbs. Not rage. Not adrenaline. Something else. Something darker. It whispered beneath his skin, ancient and alive.

Vadi.

The word echoed again. He was not like the rest of them. He didn’t know what he was—but the blood told him he was meant to be feared.

Reid turned, walking away from the corpses, the crowd, the stench. His shoulder bled freely, but he didn’t flinch. The crowd parted like prey before a predator.

Somewhere, the man from the platform whispered to himself, “What in the gods’ names is he?”

Reid didn’t hear him. He was already gone.