Chapter 28

The inside was heat and shadow. Smoke clung to the air like old stories. The pit sat at the centre—sunken into the floor, ringed by rough-hewn wood and iron-studded beams. Torches smoked in sconces above, throwing flickering light across the crowd. Most of them were workers—dockhands, hauliers, gutter born thugs. A few wore better coats, their eyes sharp, watching like wolves at a lamb auction.

The announcer was a tall half-orc with a voice like thunder and broken glass. Scarred from chin to crown, with tattoos of clan-runes across his neck. He saw Karvek and gave a small nod.

"New blood?" the half-orc growled.

Karvek pointed to me. "Dwarf. Strong one."

The half-orc looked me over like I was meat on a butcher's hook.

"Name?"

"Doran."

"No house?"

I shook my head. "No one worth mentioning."

"Weight class: heavy. You're up third. Don't die."

I pulled my coat off and handed it to Karvek. The air bit at my skin. I flexed my shoulders and cracked my neck. My hands were calloused, scarred, and thick from years on the hammer. I wasn't just strong—I was forged. Every scar told a story. Every fight made me harder. I didn't carry a reputation in Vraknheim's rings, not anymore, but I'd earned one on the roads. And reputations have a way of following you.

I waited by the edge of the pit.

The first fight was fast—two humans, both drunk, both sloppy. Ended in a headbutt and a broken jaw. The second was better—an older dwarf against a wiry-looking elf with a back full of whip-scars. The elf danced like smoke, but the dwarf had the weight. When it ended, the elf spat blood and laughed all the way out of the ring.

Then it was my turn.

The announcer bellowed, "In the pit—new blood, no house, no chains—DORAN!"

Some in the crowd barely looked up. Others whistled or jeered. One man muttered, "Thargrimm…?" But the name passed like fog.

They didn't know me.

Not yet.

My opponent stepped in.

A half-troll.

Not full-blooded—he wasn't drooling, and his eyes didn't glass over like the brutes from the Eastern steppes. But he was big. Seven feet if he was an inch. Skin like worn leather, arms like tree limbs. His tusks were cracked from past fights. He grinned when he saw me.

"Stupid little stump," he said.

I smiled back. "You talk too much."

The horn blew.

He lunged.

I ducked under his first swing—wild and heavy—and drove a fist into his ribs. Felt like punching a stone wall. Pain lanced through my knuckles. I kept moving, low and tight. Another swing, overhead. I stepped aside. His arm grazed my shoulder—it felt like a wagon wheel catching me at full tilt.

I staggered but stayed up.

He grinned. "You feel that, stump?"

I spat blood. "Try again."

He did.

And this time, I didn't move.

I stepped into it.

My forearm caught his wrist, redirected it—just enough. My other hand came up, slammed into his elbow with a crack that made the crowd roar. He screamed and pulled back, stumbling. I followed, fists a blur. One to the gut. Another to the ribs. Then a headbutt that shattered my brow and his nose.

Blood flowed freely.

Mine. His. I couldn't tell.

He roared and swung blindly.

I ducked low, wrapped my arms around his waist, and drove.

He hit the pit wall with a grunt.

Then I hit him.

Again.

And again.

Until his knees gave out.

He slumped.

And the horn blew.

The crowd exploded.

Some cheered. Some booed. Coins changed hands. Blood soaked the dirt at my feet, thick and steaming. I didn't lift my hands. I just stood there, breathing hard, watching the half-troll get dragged out by two handlers with chain-hooks.

Karvek tossed me a rag and a waterskin.

"You broke his arm," he said, impressed.

"He'll heal."

"And your hand?"

I flexed it. "Hurts."

"Means it worked."

As i sat down, I caught a glimpse of someone across the room—a woman in a green traveling cloak, hood drawn back just enough to see sharp eyes, pale skin, and a glint of something golden on her throat. She was watching me—not like a fan, but like a merchant inspecting a gem for cracks.

When our eyes met, she smiled.

Just once.

Then turned and vanished into the smoke.

I didn't like it.

I didn't get to sit for long.

The pit-master—a short, stocky Man with a broken jaw and fingers stained yellow from lichen chew—stepped out of the shadows near the bench and spat in the dirt. "You're up again. No rest for rookies."

I looked up. "What?"

"Crowd wants a rematch bout. Said you hit too clean. They paid for brutality."

Karvek grimaced. "You're not supposed to fight twice your first night."

"They paid double," he said. "House rules. You want a cut, get back in the pit."

I stood slowly. My knuckles were swollen, and my brow had split again from the headbutt earlier. The cloth I'd been using to slow the blood was soaked through. I handed it to Karvek and rolled my shoulders.

"Double's double," I said.

Karvek didn't like it, but he knew better than to argue. "Try not to lose teeth."

This time, they gave me an orc.

Not a warrior breed—no tribal ink, no clan marks. Cityborn, probably raised in the alleys behind the smelters. Thick bones, thicker neck, and knuckles that looked like he'd been punching stone since childhood. He paced in a slow circle, bouncing his shoulders.

I dropped into stance—low and tight. Dwarves fight from the hips, not the feet. You brace, anchor, then break them.

The horn blew.

He came fast—faster than I expected for his size. His first jab caught me across the cheek and lit up the side of my skull like a forge flare. The second I slipped, barely, and drove a hammerfist into his hip.

He grunted, more annoyed than hurt.

Then he slammed his elbow into my nose.

My vision went white.

Pain shot up into my skull, blooming behind my eyes like fire through a dry mine shaft. I dropped to a knee. Spat blood. Blinked hard.

He grinned and came in close.

That's when I wrapped his leg and pulled.

He went down like a sack of bricks, but I didn't get a chance to capitalise—his knee caught me in the side as he fell, hard enough to knock the breath out of me. We rolled, trading blows. He landed two in my gut, I got one clean shot across his jaw and felt something snap under my knuckles.

I was slower now. Bleeding from my nose and mouth. But he was limping, and his guard was full of holes.

So I hit those holes.

Again.

And again.

Until he stopped swinging.

When I rose, my chest heaved like a bellows, ribs screaming. The crowd was louder this time—roaring like wolves around a kill. They liked it dirty. Bloody. Real.

And I gave them real.

I didn't stay for the payout.

Karvek half-carried me out of the pit house, grumbling about cracked bones and short-sighted dwarves. I told him to shut up, and he did. That's the kind of friend he was.

A FEW STREETS OVER — THORIN GRELT

Thorin leaned over a slate map of Vraknheim, marked in faint red lines—coin channels, trade nodes, and smuggling routes. A pipe hung unlit in his teeth, fingers tracing the new pin he'd added beside the South Market: Thargrimm Blades – confirmed.

A younger scribe in apprentice robes cleared his throat. "Another buyer sent word. Lady Kholra's agent. She wants two swords—ornamental, but usable."

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "She knows who forged them?"

"Doesn't seem to care."

He tapped the parchment once. "Send word to Vek. Tell him to triple-wrap those deliveries. If word spreads too fast, we'll get scavenger crews sniffing around. Or worse, Path sympathizers."

The scribe nodded and left.

Thorin exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the far wall—where an old letter lay pinned behind stained glass. A faded seal: Miners' Union of Blacksmoke. Signed by Doran Thargrimm.

"You always had a nose for trouble," Thorin muttered. "But now you've got value."

BACK AT VARRIK'S FORGE — LISETT

The forgehouse was quiet, save for the soft bubbling of a brass kettle and the occasional pop of something bitter boiling too fast. Lisett crouched over a table strewn with scraps—dried moss, powdered shell, ground bone, a single purple seed no bigger than a nailhead. She moved like someone solving a puzzle too complex for words.

Varrik had given her space upstairs—an old counter covered in soot and forgotten tools—but she'd transformed it. Glass vials lined the wall like silent sentries, and her notes—written in sharp, exact script—covered every flat surface.

She was brewing smokeleaf oil now—used to dull pain and prevent swelling. Doran would need it. She hadn't expected him to fight twice. No sane pit boss would've allowed it.

Her hands moved with clinical precision—two drops prismroot distillate, a pinch of baked ashbark, then flame the mix. Wait for the shift to deep blue. Swirl.

She frowned.

It turned green.

"Shit."

She started over.

Karvek carried me through the door like a sack of flour.

Lisett didn't even look up. "Put him on the stone table."

"You sure?" Karvek asked. "He bleeds a lot."

"I said table."

He dumped me there with a grunt. I groaned. Every part of me felt like it had been pulled through a collapsing tunnel.

Lisett grabbed a cloth, dabbed at my face, then held a vial to my lips.

"Drink."

I tasted moss and fire.

"Burns," I rasped.

"Means it's working."

The pain dulled.

The bruises would stay, but I could breathe again.

"You're insane," she said. "That or stupid."

"Bit of both," I managed.

She smiled slightly. "Don't die before I can afford better ingredients."