The afternoon sun burned brightly in a clear sky over the town square, turning the pale stone and braided ironwood trees into something almost ceremonial. Heat shimmered off the plaza’s terraces, where several hundred lacravida sat or stood in the growing crowd. Scattered among them were handfuls of d’moria in dust-stained clothes, their squat forms quiet and stone-faced. Lazarco could be spotted here and there, one trio lounging near a broken fountain, arms folded, jaws twitching. Soren even spotted a few humans clustered near the back beneath the shade of an arching awning.

  The square itself bore fresh scars. Cracks split the edge of the central platform where support beams had been hastily braced with patchwork alloy. Loose tiles were piled at the perimeter, some already being replaced by a pair of workers kneeling in the dust. Vines that once curled elegantly down the walls had snapped and browned where stone had shifted in the quake. Even the trees seemed to lean just slightly off center.

  From his place near the side, Soren stood quietly beside Tamiyo, doing his best not to draw more attention than he already had. But the eyes were everywhere, and he felt them watching.

  At the center of it all, Samara stood tall atop the half-repaired dais. Similar to Aurania, she had adorned dark robes inlaid with golden scrollwork that matched the braided crown and curls cascading down her back. She wore a crimson veil like many others in the town square, Soren had surmised it was a symbol of mourning for these people.

  Her voice was calm, but carried with the weight of someone used to silencing unrest with truth rather than volume. “People of Berilinsk, thank you for gathering so quickly. We have two very important updates to share with you all. This news will not be easy to hear, but it is imperative that you heed what I have to say.” She paused a breath. “I know the events of this past week have caused many of you to have questions. Fears. Anger. And you have every right to them.”

  She let that linger. A few heads in the crowd nodded. One d’moria man in a red sash muttered something under his breath.

  “First, let us make one thing clear. The one called Soren is not a criminal.”

  A ripple went through the gathered crowd, whispers, murmurs, a few sharp exhales. Soren didn’t move. He felt like moving would break whatever fragile peace she was trying to construct.

  “The investigation has concluded,” Samara continued. “His actions in the jungle were taken in self-defense. While it is hard to admit, the truth is that after a breakdown in communication occurred, our side chose to attack first. The deaths of our people were tragic, but they were not the result of malice.”

  More murmurs swept the crowd, and the voice of a d'moria man broke through from somewhere down in front Soren couldn't see. “Y'expect us to jus’ forget the blood on his hands and break bread as if nothing happened—?!”

  “I expect,” Samara's voice cut through the chatter, “you to forget nothing, Brolgar.” She was directly addressing whomever had spoken. Her tone was heavy, but not unkind. “The loss of friends and family is unquantifiable, but you share a heavier loss than any of us. Your sons gave their lives in defense of our village, doing what they believed to be right, and we will not forget that.”

  Her gaze swept outward, the weight behind her eyes undeniable. “Nor shall we forget Kasey, Klix, or Jory. You are not expected to forget or even forgive. You do not have to welcome him with open arms. Grief does not obey politics. Grief is messy. It bites, it claws, and it is natural. So if you need to scream, then scream. If you need to cry, then cry. Do whatever you feel the need to do to heal, as healing does not come overnight. Lean on each other in these hard times, and find comfort in one another. But do not turn Soren into a scapegoat for your pain. That is not justice.”

  Tamiyo’s hand touched the back of Soren’s shoulder. She didn’t cling or linger, just offered a steadying presence, like she could sense how tightly he was wound.

  “Treat him fairly,” Samara said. “That is all I ask.”

  She paused, letting the silence breathe, before continuing.

  “Second, we have some grave news to share with you. Not all is hopeless, but I will not hide the weight of what I am about to say. The Mandachor Abyss has vanished. Its absence has caused our planet’s orbit to shift and our gravitational field to become destabilized. What we’ve felt as storms, tremors, and heat surges will grow worse in the coming weeks. If nothing is done about it, Nox will become uninhabitable in less than two years’ time.”

  This time the noise from the crowd surged. Some stood straighter. Others whispered, eyes darting toward the horizon or the sky. A few people stood up, eyes flicking to the horizon like the danger might come marching down the street at any second.

  “We have sent word to our allies. A Liberty Union ship, The Resolute Wind, will arrive within the next few days. Ever our champion, my dear sister Aurania has chosen to depart aboard The Resolute Wind along with her own hand-picked task force. We are not alone in this, I have every confidence they will find a way to stabilize the planet and protect our home.”

  The crowd responded slowly, still accepting the news of their possibly-doomed planet. But steadily, first with nods, then with scattered applause, a rhythmic pounding of hooves and cheering voices built in thanks for Aurania, who was standing just off the platform her sister was speaking from. Next to her stood Riza, quiet as ever. Samara gestured in their direction.

  “This effort was made possible by someone who rarely asks for thanks, someone we are truly lucky to have as part of our community. Although she does not speak much of her own achievements, I know all of you are familiar with the legend that is our Riza. She leveraged a lot of what earned her the reputation she carries today in order to help us out, and she did so without hesitation.”

  A round of cheers roared out to the silent warrior this time. Among the cheers, Soren heard several people cry out Riza’s name.

  “Today is a day of life,” Samara called out over the crowd. “As we prepare for The Departure of our friends tomorrow, celebrate today. Celebrate the fact that we are still here, celebrate the lives of those we have lost, and celebrate that we still have each other.” She paused and let out a sly grin, looking around her podium to gaze down at the warrior in black. “And as much as I know you love parties, Riza, I’m naming you the guest of honor.”

  Riza rolled her eyes, but she let out a small smile as she looked up at the Chieftess.

  Samara stepped back from the edge of the platform, and the energy of the crowd began to scatter, some toward food stalls and music, others toward the repair crews or shaded courtyards. The undercurrent of tension hadn’t vanished, but it had quieted, at least for a while, by the prospect of delicious food, good music, and communal heat.

  Soren let out a breath and felt his shoulders finally drop. Tamiyo still stood beside him, her eyes scanning the departing crowd with that same serene focus she always wore in public. He was about to ask if she was okay when a voice called out, bright and casual, “Hey! Spaceman!”

  Soren turned. Violet and Amalia were weaving their way through the crowd, both out of armor and wearing about as little as most lacravida seemed to. Soren nearly looked away on instinct, but forced himself not to. If he wanted to function around them, he had to get used to this, not keep flinching every time culture smacked him in the face.

  Amalia reached them first, hands on her hips. “Well, that was heavy. Pretty sure half the crowd didn’t know whether to cheer or cry.”

  Violet stepped up beside her, giving a small nod toward the stage. “Samara handled it well. She always does.”

  Amalia grinned, “She can scold a whole town and still make it sound like poetry. It’s kinda amazing.”

  “It’s also kind of terrifying,” Violet responded. She turned back to Soren, giving him a once-over that was more curious than flirty. “You holding up okay, spaceman? Or should we feed you before you pass out?”

  Tamiyo spoke before Soren could answer. “He’s not in danger of passing out. But food would still be welcome.”

  Amalia brightened. “Perfect! There’s a café strip along the Northwalk Promenade that didn’t take much damage. Half the town’s probably heading that way already.”

  “And the other half’s probably hunting down spiced rolls before they sell out,” Violet added.

  Soren caught up on the translator and then gave a small nod. “Sounds good. I could use the walk.” He was starting to be able to incorporate some of their own words when responding, but he wasn’t sure how long it might be before he didn’t need the tablet anymore.

  They set off across Berilinsk, the air slightly cooler now that the crowd had scattered. The promenade was still intact, wide stone paths lined with hanging lanterns and soft-rooted vines curling over carved archways. Soren noted the visible quake damage even here: cracks in the benches, a few fallen support branches tied off with emergency netting, a shuttered vendor stall with broken shelving inside. But the people were still coming. Music played softly from somewhere further up the walk, and the smell of food hung heavy on the air—savory, spiced, and unfamiliar.

  They found a small table under a wooden awning, half-shaded by hanging cloth and half-open to the sky. A server passed by and dropped off a few rectangular menus made from a thick, fibrous material, somewhere between paper and thin bark. The surface had a soft, dry texture, and the dark lettering was printed in tight scripting Soren couldn’t decipher. He turned one over in his hands, curious. It flexed slightly but didn’t fold, and the grain reminded him of bamboo veneer, maybe some local cousin. Tamiyo helped Soren translate several dishes until he gave up and just asked Amalia what was good.

  “Depends,” she said. “You want spicy, sweet, or likely to knock you out for the afternoon?”

  “I’ll take edible and not risky.”

  “Coward,” Violet muttered, already ordering for herself.

  “You’re the one who cried the last time we had dune peppers,” Amalia said, not even looking up.

  “They made my nose bleed,” Violet said.

  Amalia just giggled.

  Their food arrived quickly, bowls of roasted root cuts in oil, stuffed folded leaves filled with some kind of honey-spiced meat, and tall glasses of something cold and purple that Soren couldn’t identify but didn’t hate.

  “So,” he said, between bites. “This Festival of Life celebration? What exactly should I expect?”

  Amalia leaned back in her chair, clearly delighted by the question.

  “Music, food, dancing everywhere. Some of it organized. Most of it not.”

  “There’s a fire garden on the west end of town where people will play war drums all night,” Violet added. “That’s a good place to find sparring partners.”

  “Or a warm body and a good time.” Amalia said brightly.

  Soren blinked at the translator. “That… escalated.”

  Amalia just grinned. “You not knowing anything about us is turning out fun to watch. Don’t worry, it’s not mandatory. Just don’t be surprised if you pass an alley and hear someone being very enthusiastic about life.”

  “It’s usually respectful,” Violet added. “You make space. Let people have their moment.”

  “Sometimes you get invited to join,” Amalia said, biting into a leaf wrap. “Sometimes not.”

  “That happen often?” Soren asked, trying not to sound like he was choking on his drink.

  “Not as often as I’d like,” Amalia said with a shrug.

  Tamiyo had been listening quietly with a curiosity that hinged on fascination. “So it’s common for people to just… go where the mood takes them?”

  “Yeah,” Violet said in a matter-of-fact-tone. “There’s an energy in the air I guess, people feel the need to feel alive with each other.”

  Tamiyo had been quiet until now, head tilted slightly, as if she’d been listening for something no one else could hear. Then she set her glass down. “What if there are two people who clearly like each other but they’re both too hesitant to take the first step? How could someone… nudge them in the right direction?”

  There was a brief pause.

  Soren felt a flicker of alarm. Aurania’s huge chest and matching temper flicked into his head. Oh no. Please don’t be trying to match us up.

  Amalia set her glass down and grinned, biting her bottom lip slightly. “Got your eyes on someone Tamiyo?”

  Violet elbowed her sister in the ribs, hard.

  “Ow, what the fuck Vi?” Amalia rubbed her side.

  Tamiyo waved her off and gave a laugh, half awkward, half reassuring. “It’s okay Violet, you guys don’t need to tiptoe around me. No, not myself, I don’t exactly… yearn for that like others do.”

  Amalia and Violet laughed.

  Then Amalia asked, “Ok, so who did you have in mind?”

  “Raine and Inelius.”

  A spark lit behind Violet’s eyes. “Oh hell yes! I love playing matchmaker! I think I know how we can make this work, the festival tonight will have plenty of music and movement. We’ll let the rhythm do the work.” She hopped up from her chair. “Come on, we’ll have to do a little prep work.”

  Tamiyo stood to join Violet, then almost as an afterthought, she turned to Soren. “Will you be alright here?”

  “Oh go on,” Amalia chimed in, waving her hand casually at Tamiyo. “I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get all glowy again.”

  The sun was starting to drop out of afternoon and into early evening by the time Tamiyo and Violet disappeared around the bend, their conversation already muted by distance. The air had grown heavier, but not hotter, just like the city itself was holding its breath.

  Amalia rose from the table with the lazy ease of someone with nowhere urgent to be. “Alright, Glowstick. You ready to stretch your legs or do I need to roll you down the hill?”

  Soren stood, brushing nonexistent dust off his shirt. “I’m good. Lead the way.”

  They walked side by side, slipping into the stream of townsfolk migrating toward the wider celebration zones. Laughter and music echoed in uneven bursts from all directions. Every time Soren thought he understood the city’s shape, it twisted around another spiral walkway or opened into an unexpected courtyard filled with woven lanterns and idle conversation.

  “So what’s the verdict so far?” Amalia asked. “On us. On this place.”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “Still figuring it out,” Soren said. “But Aurania hasn’t attacked me in the last twenty-four hours, so that feels like progress.”

  Amalia laughed. “That’s a pretty low bar.”

  “It’s been a weird week.”

  “Yeah. For all of us.”

  They walked a little longer in silence, not quite comfortable but not awkward either.

  Soren looked around. A few heads turned as they passed, some polite, some wary. He kept his shoulders relaxed, his eyes forward. “How are people supposed to feel about me walking around out here?”

  “Mixed,” Amalia said simply. “Some will be cold. Some won’t care. A few might try to get with you.”

  That made Soren slow half a step. “What?”

  “You're tall, weird, and mysterious. That’s a whole aesthetic here.” She gave him an exaggerated once-over, then winked. “Don’t get excited. I’m just pointing out the odds.”

  Soren shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. It was hard to tell if she was messing with him or being sincere. Probably both. They walked another few steps in silence, the rhythm of the street carrying them forward.

  Then Amalia spoke again with a softened tone, “You’re probably a little tired of someone always babysitting you.”

  Soren blinked, caught off guard by how on-the-nose it felt.

  “If you want a little time to breathe, I can peel off. I actually need to check on someone anyway. Tamiyo gave me an idea.”

  “Oh yeah?” Soren asked casually.

  She gave a sly grin. “Yeah, but I can’t say what yet. Will you be alright? I know it probably helps having someone nearby who wasn’t giving you a side-eye or waiting for you to turn all glowy-eyed.”

  “I’m good,” Soren said, and meant it. “I appreciate the time you’ve already spent, you’re easier to walk with than most.”

  “Wow,” she said, mock-offended. “Put that on a shirt.”

  Soren raised an eyebrow. “Do you even have shirts? I haven’t seen a single lacravida wearing one since I got here.”

  Amalia smirked. “We have them, we just enjoy the airflow.”

  He gave a quiet laugh. She bumped his arm lightly with her elbow. “Try not to cause another planetary crisis, okay?”

  “No promises.”

  Amalia veered off down a side path, vanishing into a crowd of festival-goers moving toward the music. Soren stood for a moment, and let the hum of the city fill the silence Amalia had left behind. Then he drifted forward without a destination.

  The deeper he went, the more Berilinsk unfolded like a winding tapestry. Garden paths branched into wide courtyards, stone footpaths weaved through groves of ironwood, and glowing lantern clusters strung between trees like constellations waiting to be mapped. Some people greeted him with cautious nods. A few offered short words in clipped tones, neutral, but not hostile. One lacravida elder looked him up and down and muttered something sharp-sounding under her breath. A pair of children ran past him giggling, too young to know they should be afraid of him, or maybe just young enough not to care.

  He passed a cooking stall where a d’moria vendor offered him a skewer of something grilled, meat or maybe some kind of root, he couldn’t tell. Then the d’moria seemed surprised when Soren thanked him in semi-coherent dialect. Further down, a lazarco teen watched him with unblinking interest, then offered a quick fist-over-heart gesture Soren didn’t recognize. He returned it anyway. None of it added up to a welcome. But it wasn’t exile either.

  Sunset bathed the city in burnt orange, the last rays slipping between rooftops while lanterns sparked to life across the branches and balconies. The sound found him before the sight did—distant cheers, heavy impacts, and the rise and fall of a crowd reacting as one. Fists on flesh. The ring of a shouted challenge. A voice cutting through laughter with sudden venom. It wasn’t wild, it was focused. Timed shouts that rose with every hit, the kind of noise people made when they weren’t just watching a fight, they were riding it. Soren followed it without thinking, the translator catching only fragments as he drew closer: “Come on!” — “Again!” — “She’s not slowing down—”

  He rounded the edge of a courtyard and stopped just short of a circular space cordoned off with woven rope and chalked stone. Roughly two-dozen lacravida stood in a loose arc along with d’moria and lazarco sprinkled throughout the group. Others sat perched on crates or railings. It wasn’t an arena, but it was a ritual. And at the center of it all was a familiar lacravida. Soren recognized the short silver hair, the sharp eyes, and the disciplined posture of one of Aurania’s warriors. But he realized he had never learned this girl’s name, even when she had yelled in his face in Silvira’s Hall.

  She was circling another lacravida—taller, broader-shouldered, with ceremonial paint smeared down her arms and across her chest. The two of them exchanged low, taunting words Soren couldn’t catch, and then the taller woman lunged.

  The silver-haired fighter moved like she’d been waiting for it. A sharp sidestep. A hook to the ribs. A quick sweep of the leg. Her opponent hit the dirt with a grunt and a puff of dust, and the crowd responded instantly, shouts and cheers rising in satisfaction.

  “That’s three!” someone near Soren called.

  “She’s burning hot now, gods, look at her!”

  She offered a hand to the woman she’d just dropped, who took it without hesitation. The two exchanged a quick shoulder-tap before she turned back to the edge of the circle, chest rising, sweat glistening across her collarbones and upper arms.

  Soren studied her out of curiosity. She wore the same style of robes he’d seen on Aurania and others in town—loose, flowy fabric draped to allow freedom of movement, but hers had been modified. Tied tight across her chest and cinched at the sides, the cloth clung close to her torso and shoulders, clearly adapted for combat. Practical and intentional, it didn’t just mark her as a fighter, it made clear she expected to be hit and to keep moving through it. Her hands were wrapped tight in fraying combat tape, the knuckles darkened with sweat and other peoples’ blood. Her expression wasn’t smug, but it carried heat and focus.

  She was smaller than most of the lacravida warriors he’d seen. She was lean, quick, and compact, with the kind of strength that hadn’t fully settled into its final shape. Compared to the others, her chest was noticeably less developed, which, from what he’d learned so far, probably meant she was the youngest among Aurania’s fighters.

  Someone near the edge of the ring muttered something under their breath. The translator picked it up, and Soren looked down to see “shouldn’t even be allowed here.”

  He felt the attention shift. One pair of eyes flicked toward him. Then another. And then the silver-haired fighter turned, and her eyes locked onto his, unblinking. The crowd hadn’t noticed yet. They were still coasting on the high of her win, some talking, others laughing, a few watching for her next challenger.

  And then a voice cut through it all. “Why th’fuck iss he allowed here?” It came from the left, slurred, too loud, but sharp enough to crack the mood. Heads turned. The circle’s edge shifted as one figure stepped forward, slow and heavy-footed.

  Soren recognized the voice as the d’moria man who’d shouted during Samara’s speech. Brolgar, father of the two d’moria that Soren had killed in the jungle. His eyes were bloodshot. His clothes were dusty and misaligned, like he’d been drinking since the ceremony ended and hadn’t planned on stopping.

  He jabbed a thick finger in Soren’s direction, jaw set in a broken kind of rage. “You killed mah boys,” he said in a thick, deep voice. “And now y’think y’can just walk around ‘ere like nothin’ happened? Eat our food? Watch our games?!”

  A few murmurs rippled through the onlookers. No one moved to stop Brolgar. Some looked away. Others watched in uncomfortable silence.

  Soren stayed where he was. His shoulders were loose, but his pulse was climbing. He didn’t respond yet. Anything he said might pour fuel on a fire he wasn’t ready to burn in.

  Then the silver-haired warrior stepped toward the edge of the ring. Her voice cut in, steady and dry. “Samara said he acted in self-defense.” Her voice wasn’t quiet. It was clear, projected, loud enough for everyone in the circle to hear. She lifted her arms in a slow, open sweep, palms up, like she was presenting a case to the crowd. “So we’re supposed to take her word for it,” she went on, pacing slowly with her eyes locked on Soren. “That’s what we’re told. That’s what keeps the peace.”

  Soren held her gaze, firm but not aggressive. “You sound like you don’t believe a word of that.”

  A few heads turned, a mix of shock and curiosity. The air shifted again.

  The warrior tilted her head, not quite smiling. “Aurania told me I needed to figure out how I actually feel about all this.” She gestured vaguely to the circle. “But beating on opponents doesn’t clear your head when it’s not the right opponent.” Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “Not that pounding you into the dirt would do me any good anyway.”

  Soren’s brows lifted. “Why not?”

  She gave a single sharp laugh, more of an exhale than amusement. “Because it wouldn’t do any damage. You’re made of something else now.”

  He shook his head and maintained eye contact. “I’m more durable, yeah. Doesn't mean I feel any less pain.”

  Her gaze flicked down to his chest, then back to his eyes, measuring him, reevaluating. “Is that so…”

  He finished reading the translator and responded, “Yep. So you wanna work this shit out or not?” Needing to rely on this tablet wasn't going to work in the middle of a fight, he needed to figure something else out.

  Soren took a step closer. “I don’t think you want to cause me pain out of malice.”

  She barked out a skeptical laugh. “Oh no?”

  “I think you just want to hit something because you're carrying all this pain and you’ve got nowhere to put it.” His voice stayed even. “And I’m your ideal target.”

  Her jaw tensed almost into a snarl, but she didn’t deny it.

  He took a quick breath and tried to focus on the mental link with Aurania. “I’m not offering to be your scapegoat,” Soren added. “But if throwing a few punches helps you breathe again, I can take it.”

  The circle was quiet now, watching, listening.

  She tilted her head, eyes scanning his stance again. “You’ve got a smart mouth for someone who’s offering to get knocked around.” Her voice wasn’t heated anymore. It was coiled. Deciding.

  If she backed down now, she might just carry on holding onto this animosity. She needed closure. He realized he might need to provoke her. “Hey, cry if you need to cry, do whatever you need to do to heal.”

  She scoffed under her breath, but it didn’t sound like refusal. “I heard you lit up like a bomb in that lab, you’re not worried that you'll lose control?”

  “No,” Soren said. “I’m not.” He didn’t explain the trauma, or the fear, or what it meant to lose control like that. He just kept his eyes on her. “I’m starting to get a handle on it. It’s not about containment. It’s emotional regulation—not adding fuel to the fire. So as long as I stay grounded, it stays quiet.”

  A flicker of something passed through her expression, maybe respect. Maybe just curiosity.

  There it was. He locked in on the mental link, he just needed to temper it so his eyes didn't start lighting up. Hopefully he didn't make Aurania’s headache too much worse.

  Soren forced a smirk onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not scared of you.” But there was a flicker of something else. Uncertainty. Restraint. “I just don’t know how Aurania would feel about this.”

  Before Soren could respond, Brolgar stepped forward again, his voice rising. “If you can’t make up yer mind then I’ll fight’em!” He lunged, not a proper strike, more a drunken flail. The kind of swing that came from pain, not technique.

  Soren didn’t move.

  Before the hit could land, the silver-haired lacravida caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder. She stepped between them in a single smooth motion, catching Brolgar’s wrist with one hand and pressing her other palm flat to his chest. “No,” she said. “You’ll get yourself hurt.”

  Brolgar stared at her, red-eyed and breathing hard. But after a long pause, he pulled his arm back and stepped away, shame seeping into the cracks of his fury.

  She rolled her shoulders out and backed toward the ring, hooves light on the dirt. Her arms drifted up from her sides, palms angled toward him. “Let’s dance,” she said, her voice pure attitude.

  Soren stepped into the ring, dropping the translator at the edge. “I never did actually catch your name.”

  “You sure you don’t need that?” she asked, ignoring the question. She didn’t sound like she actually cared.

  He focused on the mental link to understand her and use her dialect. “Speak. Slow. Use. Small. Words.” He rocked his head from side to side with each word to showcase his sarcasm. His attention narrowed to the dirt beneath his feet, the shape of her stance, and the way the crowd seemed to lean in all at once.

  She didn’t circle. She didn’t bounce on her feet or put on a show. She just moved, fast and low, like the switch had been flipped.

  The first punch came quick: a jab to test his reflexes. He blocked it. Barely.

  The second one wasn’t a test. Her fist slammed into his ribs hard enough to twist his spine. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate.

  “My name is Veolo,” she seethed through gritted teeth.

  He exhaled. Absorbed. Adjusted.

  She backed up a few paces, bouncing up and down now, light on her feet. “Still feel it?” she asked.

  “Yup,” he grunted.

  She came at him again, two hits, high-low, feints maybe, but with enough force behind them to make him block like they were real. He ducked the third strike and stepped in, aiming a flat palm at her side to knock her off balance.

  She rolled with it. Backpedaled three steps, then drove forward again with a spin-kick that Soren barely managed to catch with his forearm.

  She pivoted around his guard before he could reset. A low kick snapped toward his thigh. It hit. Hard.

  Soren grunted. “Okay. Not holding back.”

  She smirked and kept coming.

  Cheers rang out from the edge of the ring.

  It wasn’t a brawl. It was a rhythm, crisp, sharp, and personal. Her strikes were cleaner, faster. His were slower, more grounded. The crowd shouted something he couldn’t focus on understanding, the tone somewhere between celebration and disbelief.

  A jab caught his jaw. Not enough to drop him, but it snapped his head sideways.

  “Don’t hold back now,” she taunted.

  “Wasn’t planning to.”

  Another strike, this time a hammering hook aimed toward his midsection. He deflected it with his forearm and pushed in, trying to force her back.

  But Veolo was already gone. She slipped around him and delivered a sharp elbow into his ribs. It didn’t drop him, but it staggered his step.

  “That all you’ve got, spaceman?” she taunted, breath coming fast.

  They clashed again, arms locking, legs shifting for position. She was stronger than she looked. The tape on her hands rasped against his arm as she twisted under his grip, dropped her weight, and flung him off-balance.

  He landed hard on one knee.

  Before he could rise, she flew at him in a tight, controlled leap. One leg hooked under his shoulder, the other swung wide to clear his opposite side. The impact was clean and deliberate, her thighs locked around his upper torso with just enough force to knock him backward.

  Soren hit the dirt with a grunt, the air jolting from his lungs as her weight drove him down. Dust rose around them. His hands caught reflexively at the earth, but he didn’t push her off.

  Veolo straddled him now, knees planted firm on either side of his ribs, one hand braced on his chest, the other balled in a fist raised high.

  She didn’t strike.

  Her chest was heaving. Sweat dripped from her chin as she held a snarl.

  The crowd had gone silent.

  Her face was flushed—not from rage, but something else.

  Her breathing didn’t slow. Her hand didn’t lower.

  And Soren realized—she wasn’t looking for blood. She was looking for something to feel.

  Veolo stayed there, motionless except for the rise and fall of her breath. Then, slowly, her thighs flexed, just enough for him to feel it.

  Soren tensed, not from fear, but confusion. Her fist hadn’t lowered. But neither had she hit him. Her gaze was fixed on his with a heat that didn’t feel like anger.

  He shifted slightly beneath her, and that’s when he felt it. Her legs, still tight around his sides, weren’t bracing for a fight anymore. They were pressing in on him. Her breathing hitched, just a little. And then her hips shifted, subtle, but unmistakable. A slow rock forward, not enough to grind, but enough to send a very clear signal.

  Soren’s eyes darted to her chest for a half-second before he could stop himself. Even through the tight wrap crossing her chest, he noticed the faint outline of arousal.

  His eyes met hers again, flush still high in her cheeks, lips parted just slightly.

  “Uhh—” he managed, more breath and confusion than speech.

  And then a voice snapped through the silence like a blade. “That’s enough, Veolo.” Aurania stood at the edge of the ring, arms folded, her expression carved from stone. Her tone wasn’t angry. But there was something tight under the surface.

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  Everyone except Veolo.

  Veolo didn’t move, didn’t even look back. “Why?” she asked, still atop Soren. “He doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Aurania stepped closer, her hoof sinking in at the chalked edge of the ring. “Because I said so.” The words weren’t cruel. But they were a solid, immoveable command.

  The crowd shifted again, but no one spoke or moved.

  Soren didn’t know the customs well enough to say why, but something about the energy in the air told him that Aurania interrupting wasn’t normal, not in this society. Whether the taboo was from her interrupting the initial melee or the direction Veolo was trying to take it, he could only guess.

  Veolo exhaled through her nose, slow and hard. Then she rolled her weight off Soren’s torso with the grace of a dancer, knees leaving dust smudges on either side of his chest. She stood, not fast, not slow, and didn’t look down at him again. As she turned, the crowd parted for her without a word. She didn’t storm or swagger. She just walked, jaw tight and shoulders squared, her skin sheening with a layer of sweat.

  Someone muttered something in the crowd but Soren couldn’t focus to understand it.

  Aurania stood still until Veolo had fully passed her, then turned her eyes back to Soren. He was still on the ground, propped on his elbows, breathing steady but shallow. His chest ached. His thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

  After a long moment, Aurania turned without a word and followed the same path Veolo had taken.

  Soren stayed propped on his elbows for another few seconds, then finally let out a breath and dropped back flat against the dirt. A few stragglers around the ring chuckled awkwardly and began to disperse, murmurs rippling through the space like an aftershock. He just stared up at the darkening sky, stars beginning to appear in constellations he’d never bore witness to. Lantern light flickered at the edge of his vision and he took a deep breath of the night’s air.

  As he exhaled, he said to no one but himself, “What the fuck just happened.”