Joroush staggered back, blood trickling from his split lip. Behind him, his gang surged forward like a wave breaking against rocks, their boots scraping across the floor, their shouts echoing off the walls. Malcolm caught Tumial's eye across the room—a quick nod exchanged—and suddenly Tumial was there, shoulder-to-shoulder with three others, forming a human barricade.

  Metal clashed against metal, flesh against flesh. A body flew past Malcolm's peripheral vision. Someone's elbow caught him in the ribs. Suddenly the attacker disappeared in a throng of Malcolm’s crew. The air thickened with the smell of sweat and the copper tang of blood. Through the tangle of limbs and weapons, Malcolm glimpsed Tumial landing a devastating right hook, sending one of Joroush's men sprawling. Another of Malcolm's crew—the quiet one with the scar—stood his ground against two attackers, refusing to yield an inch.

  Malcolm's breath slowed. His pupils narrowed to pinpoints, the periphery of his vision darkening until the brawlers around him became nothing but smudges of movement. The roar of combat dampened as if someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. Only Joroush remained in sharp focus—the sweat beading on his forehead, the slight hitch in his step as he favored his right leg, the way his shoulders hunched forward like a wolf preparing to lunge. Blood from Joroush's split lip dripped onto the floor between them, each crimson splash marking another second in their deadly waltz. Malcolm flexed his fingers, feeling the satisfying crack of his knuckles. Win this, win it all.

  Joroush's fist whistled past Malcolm's ear, missing by a hair's breadth as Malcolm pivoted. Blood and spittle flew as Joroush roared, unleashing a barrage that would have shattered concrete. Malcolm's world narrowed to flashes of movement—block, counterstrike, duck. His knuckles split against Joroush's jaw, the impact jarring up his arm. Joroush's eyes bulged, veins throbbing at his temples, each desperate attack wilder than the last. Malcolm tasted copper, felt his ribs scream in protest, but his mind remained ice-cold, cataloging every twitch, every telegraph, every opening in Joroush's crumbling defense.

  This is what it meant to be dangerous again.

  The fight became a savage dance of survival, Malcolm's heartbeat thundering in his skull as Joroush's labored breathing filled the space between them. Blood spattered across the floor with each exchange, painting abstract patterns that mapped their brutal choreography. Joroush stumbled, his mountainous frame faltering, one eye swollen shut and teeth stained crimson.

  Malcolm lunged forward with primal ferocity, unleashing hell through his fists. Bone cracked against bone. Joroush's nose shattered with a wet crunch. A rib splintered beneath Malcolm's knuckles. The final blow connected with such force that Joroush's head snapped back, his body airborne for a suspended moment before crashing to the ground outside of the sparring ring like a felled tree, the impact reverberating through the floorboards.

  Joroush's jaw hung slack as he stared up at the ring, one eye swollen shut, the other wide with disbelief. Three of his gang crouched beside him, their shoulders hunched, fingers twitching near their blades.

  Malcolm leaned over the ropes. "Know your opponent," he said, voice low enough that Joroush leaned forward to hear it.

  Glass shattered across the room. Heads whipped around as tables overturned. The scarred man Malcolm had noticed earlier emerged from the chaos, his knuckles raw, dragging something behind him. A stone-gray human twice his size left a smear of dark blood across the floor.

  "Few stragglers to accepting defeat," the scarred man said. "This one's the only one who’s still conscious." Joroush's remaining followers lowered their eyes, shoulders slumping. Their hands drifted away from their weapons. Tumial stood at Malcolm's side, chest heaving, victorious.

  The former members and neighbors let out a collective cheer, their voices filling the space with a roar of triumph. Malcolm’s group grew larger in the wake of the victory, more of Joroush’s people drawn to his side as they realized the outcome of the Challenge.

  He looked back down at Joroush. Malcolm planted his feet at the edge of the ring, sweat dripping from his chin onto the floor between him and Joroush.

  "Theerat belongs to us," he said between ragged breaths. The crowd fell silent, even the wounded stopping their groans to listen. "Sifferal's still in charge, whether he's here or not." His bloodied knuckles whitened as he gripped the ropes. He swept his gaze across the room, meeting the eyes of Joroush's former followers one by one until they looked away. "Let everyone know, before it gets messy again." He turned to the scarred man and pointed, “I don’t believe we’ve met—and you seem to be someone I want to meet. What is your name?”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The man stood up straight, “Chutan. I watched you spar against Sifferal the first time you came here. Told myself then you’d be someone to watch. Seems you are more than someone to watch, you’re someone to follow.”

  Shoulders straightened. Heads nodded. "Sifferal," came a lone voice from the shadows at the back. Then another voice echoed it, and another, until the name rolled through the crowd like thunder, building into a rhythmic battle cry that shook dust from the rafters.

  After the chanting faded to a low hum, Malcolm squared his shoulders, his shadow stretching across the sparring ring as he surveyed the faces around him. "Sifferal built something here worth protecting." His voice carried to through the gym despite its quietness. He limped toward Tumial and clasped his shoulder. Their eyes met—Malcolm's steady, Tumial's widening with understanding. "Tumial knows what Sifferal wanted," Malcolm clasped Tumial's forearm, “so, he’s in charge until Sifferal comes back. And I expect all members of this theerat show a warm and welcoming attitude to all neighbors and newcomers.”

  He motioned for Chutan to join them, “Bring your big friend up here, please.” Looking around the room, he announced in a raised voice, “Chutan here will be Tumial’s second.”

  Chutan’s made his way through the crowd as he stepped forward with a towering gray man in tow. The stranger’s hair was matted with sweat and flecks of blood glinted on his temple.

  Malcolm tilted his head. “Seems you took a good shot in the head—bleeding in a few places.”

  The gray man stiffened, shoulders coiling like springs, glare fixed on Malcolm. He raised his hands in a calming gesture. “No need to get defensive. I promise—if you don’t start anything, you’re done for the day.” He glanced at Chutan. “Let him loose.”

  Chutan and Tumial both raised their eyebrows at Valgrin, a few seconds passed and then the bleeding man stood free in the middle of the sparring ring.

  “You’re free to go, but I’d like to heal you before you do. If I may?” This could be a bad idea. The man’s eyes flicked to Joroush, then back, confusion warring with curiosity. At Malcolm’s nod he stepped forward, hands dropping to his sides.

  Malcolm took a step to meet him. “Not going to force you to tell me, but I’d like to know your name.”

  The man’s forehead folded into creases. His voice came deep, steady. “Tikara the Hunter.”

  Malcolm decided Tikara’s accent sounded like an Irishman who moved to Canada years ago. “Tikara, if you’ll allow me to heal you?”

  Tikara dipped his head in a brief, stiff bow. “Thank you.”

  Malcolm clasped Tikara’s shoulder and healed the man. “Now you can leave. I appreciate that you didn’t try to take me out.”

  With a brief nod and a puzzled look, Tikara turned around and walked away. Chutan following behind to make sure he made his way out of the theerat.

  Malcolm addressed the crowd, “And to those who joined Joroush, this is your chance to start making amends if you want to stay.”

  A few of Joroush's loyalists muttered curses under their breath, edging toward the exit. They'd sworn allegiance to the man, not his conqueror. Malcolm tracked them with his peripheral vision as they slipped away, some faces twisted with resentment, others with something close to respect. But the majority remained rooted in place, their eyes darting between Malcolm's bloodied knuckles and Joroush's broken form sprawled outside the ring. The Rule of Challenge was absolute—as ancient and unyielding as the walls around them. Power had transferred hands before their eyes, and they knew it.

  Malcolm's gaze tracked the departing figures—three men slipping out the east door, a pair of women with matching scars disappearing through the west. Those who remained shifted their weight from foot to foot, some with chins raised and shoulders squared, others with eyes downcast, fingers fidgeting with frayed sleeve-ends. He caught Tumial’s eye, sharing a brief nod of understanding. Tumial stepped up to Malcolm.

  "The group should hear something from me," Tumial said, voice low.

  Malcolm's lips quirked. "Your show now."

  Tumial squared his shoulders, chest expanding as he drew breath. "First, any of Joroush’s group staying, you need to start cleaning and repairing the theerat. I’d like to see the other members help out as well, but I won’t require it. Also, we need the city guard, someone go..."

  "No need." A gruff voice cut through the murmurs. The crowd parted like water around stone as two figures in dust-stained uniforms stepped forward, batons tapping against their thighs. "Heard the commotion three streets over."

  Tumial pointed to Joroush's crumpled form. "Take him. Charge him or don't—your call. Either way he’s banned here until further notice. Not sure if we’ll ever remove the ban, but want to give us the wiggle room just in case.”

  Tumial stepped next to Malcolm both men watching both groups of people working side by side in repairing the theerat. Tumial leaned in and whispered, “This is going better than I thought it would, good way to get rid of hard feelings. At least, I hope it is.”

  “Joint work, good idea.” Malcolm turned his gaze to the guards. He watched as the guards hauled Joroush to his feet, the man's body limp except for his neck straining upward, eyes locked on Malcolm with such venom they might have been dripping poison. Blood trickled from Joroush's split lip as he mouthed something—a promise, a curse—that Malcolm couldn't hear but he doubted it was anything nice. Doubt he’s going to be my friend anytime soon.