The duel was to take place at the hollow mountain, the site of every clan duel in living memory. What had once been an active volcano, dead since times beyond reckoning, had been rebuilt entirely to serve the clan's purposes, remade into an arena capable of holding thousands.

  Its interior walls had been shaped into tiered seating, its upper rim carved into a stone canopy that shielded the audience from the sun while leaving the fighting platform below open to the sky.

  At dusk, when the glare had softened and cool winds moved through the mountain's hollow, the light would fall clean and even on whoever stood at the center.

  Viewing constructs floated at intervals through the space. Large Ethra light crystals illuminated the interior as the steady trickle of Jade Peak's residents became a flood, the seats filling in rapt silence.

  Elder Joran's wager had done its work.

  Word had moved through the entertainment district overnight, and thousands had descended on the betting rings to place their money, the sums growing so staggering that the district had been forced to close its books before the hour of the duel. The clan had responded by throwing open the hollow mountain entirely, selling seats, and those too had sold out.

  Tunde was in one of the inner rooms beneath the mountain, seated on the ground with his legs folded and a neatly folded robe laid in front of him. He was bare-chested, the wolf tattoo on his left breast still and dark.

  Shadowfang lay at his side, the axe cradled close, its wolf's head eyes dim and patient. He sat directly across from Elder Joran, who had a bowl of water in front of him and was wrapping black linen cloth around Tunde's hands and wrists in silence, wetting it as he went.

  "The way of the flowing fists," Elder Joran said softly.

  Tunde looked at him.

  "A fitting name for your style," the elder said. "Don't you think?"

  "Even though I carry an axe?" Tunde asked quietly.

  Joran gave a soft chuckle.

  "Shadowfang is a weapon. One that gives you reach and an extra bite. But your hands have never failed you, have they?" He did not wait for a response.

  "Have they?"

  Tunde shook his head.

  "The way of the flowing fists," Tunde echoed.

  The elder finished wrapping and poured water over both fists. Tunde clenched them immediately, strength rippling up through his arms, and every drop of water shot away from the linen, leaving it dry. Elder Joran nodded and sat back, looking at his student directly.

  "Fate brought us together, Tunde," he said.

  "And fate has led you here, the first true obstacle standing between you and what you came here for."

  He paused.

  "Do you know why I kept you away from blade work?"

  "Because I was poor at it?" Tunde said carefully.

  "That was one reason," the elder allowed.

  "A blade is an extension of pure speed and force. A quick answer to whatever a ranker's rage demands. And yet, stripped of the blade, most of those rankers have nothing left. Their weakness comes out the moment the weapon does." He let that settle.

  "What happens when Thalas takes the blade from you?"

  "I become empty," Tunde said quietly.

  "Perhaps. With your instincts, I imagine you would survive a few more seconds before ending up a broken arrangement of bones and skin on the ground," Joran said with the tone of a man making a practical observation.

  The distant noise of the crowd filtered into the room, growing. The elder dipped his hands in the bowl.

  "The truth is this," he continued.

  "If you win today, you become a genuine competitor for power within this clan. That will place you in the sight of enemies you have not yet earned, both inside Clan Verdan and outside it. I trained your fists first so that you understand what it feels like when your enemies receive your strength directly, from your body, not mediated through an object." He smiled slightly.

  "And yes, Shadowfang is an axe. One that demands you drive it with the same force you would put behind a war hammer. It was never going to be a delicate weapon."

  "Never let it be said that artificers don't understand their clients," he added.

  Tunde swallowed softly. He didn't know what to say. The elder seemed to notice and sighed.

  "Look at me, going on like this. Perhaps I am becoming sentimental in my old age," Joran said.

  He pointed to the folded robe.

  "That is yours. The first robe of your house. You wear it together with whatever hopes and expectations the people who believe in you have placed on your shoulders."

  Tunde looked at it. Etched across the back in silver and black was the image of a wolf, dark eyes inlaid with silver catching the dim light of the room.

  "The dark wolf," Joran said.

  "It is what they call you now."

  "Why?" Tunde asked.

  "Partly because I encouraged it," the elder admitted.

  "But in truth, I told you from the beginning. Your presence gave off the sensation of something lethal, leashed and waiting. You are what you are. I want you to let that be true in there, without reservation. Thalas is not going to take it easy on you. And you should not take it easy on him."

  "You think I would?" Tunde asked.

  "No. But once Thalas understands how far you have come, he will put everything he has into ending it. So should you. Contrary to what people outside this room believe, you have more to lose than he does," the elder finished.

  Tunde looked at the robe for a moment longer, then bowed in front of the elder, low and held.

  "You had no reason to help me," he said.

  "No reason to take me in or train me. You did both. You gave me a path when I had none. My debt to you is not the kind that can be paid."

  "It can," Joran said.

  Tunde looked up.

  The elder took hold of both his arms, the blindfolded face turned directly toward him with an attention that felt more complete than sight.

  "Show them what it means to be the student of the blind tiger," Joran said.

  "Break Thalas Verdan."

  His grip tightened once.

  "Show them what it means to rouse the wrath of the dark wolf."

  ****

  In the private room furnished for the clan's highest powers, Alaric and his sister sat with the two remaining great elders, Moros and Celia.

  The third chair stood empty, reserved for Joran. Alaric's gaze rested on the fighting platform far below, turning something over in his expression that he kept to himself.

  "Shouldn't you be with your student, Moros?" Alaric asked, without turning his head.

  Lirien glanced at her brother.

  "Thalas has his father with him," Moros replied.

  "I taught him everything he needs long before today. He is not some uncertain initiate looking for reassurance."

  Celia glanced at Moros briefly and said nothing, then turned her gaze to Alaric. The lord steepled his fingers, rested his forehead against them, and closed his eyes.

  "We risk a great deal for something comparatively small," he said.

  "Easy to say when it isn't your bloodline being contested," Lirien said lightly.

  "Frankly, I want to see what the line of Rowan has become. Whether it has waned."

  Alaric said nothing, sighing quietly. He leaned back, tapping one finger against the stone armrest.

  "Perhaps you simply want to breed rankers who care for nothing but war," he said after a moment.

  "Sword and spear. That was how we were raised," Lirien replied.

  "Or have you forgotten?"

  "Sword, spear, and shield," Alaric said.

  "We do not speak of him," Lirien said softly, and her hair began to rise.

  The stone door opened and Joran entered, a smile on his face, bowing as he crossed the threshold.

  "My apologies for the delay," he said.

  "A teacher needs time with his student," Celia said warmly.

  "There is nothing to apologize for."

  Joran read the tension in the room without comment, moved past Moros without acknowledgment, and settled into the empty chair beside Celia. The lightning adept watched him with guarded eyes.

  "You genuinely expect him to beat Thalas," Moros said.

  It was not a question.

  "That remains to be seen," Joran replied.

  "Tunde is admirable," Celia said.

  Joran inclined his head.

  "But the risk is considerable," she added.

  "Should he lose, everything he has built to this point goes with it."

  "Loss is part of the path," Joran said.

  "It would not be the end of the world."

  "The dark wolf," Lirien said, savoring the name slightly.

  "I hear that is what they are calling him."

  "Indeed. Whether the name comes from his complexion or his nature, I suppose the duel will clarify that," Joran said.

  "And you had nothing to do with how it spread?" Alaric asked.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Joran smiled and said nothing. The lord shook his head.

  "The future fist of Verdan against the dark wolf," Lirien said, eyes catching the light as she looked down at the platform below.

  ****

  Thalas sat in a preparation room within the hollow mountain, maids in white robes oiling and cleaning his skin while his eyes remained shut, his breath moving in the careful cycling rhythm his father had taught him.

  Jashed Verdan stood in a corner, two servants at either side, each holding one of Thalas's weapons.

  The jade gauntlet, dark green and inlaid with refined jade Ethra and Ethereon, rested in the hands of one. The large mace, its head spiked with Ethereon, rested in the hands of the other.

  He opened his eyes. His robe was placed on him, dark green with the image of a green mountain etched across the back.

  He rose, took the gauntlets from the servant who bowed and stepped back, fitted them and tested the grip with a slow tightening of both fists, then reached back and secured the mace across his shoulders.

  "Show no mercy," Jashed said.

  Thalas bowed to his father.

  "He will see none," he replied.

  "Break him piece by piece. Nothing should stand between you and the top, least of all one wastelander."

  Thalas nodded, turned to the passageway entrance, and walked. He passed the bowing servants and stood at the edge of the tunnel that opened onto the stage itself, feeling the scale of the crowd above him before he could see them.

  He steadied his heart and looked up into the stands, at the thousands of people, the banners waving in the warm air, both the Verdan crest and the colors of the Jashed branch. He picked out Rhyn and Sorin in the crowd, disciples watching in silence from their seats, and let his gaze move on.

  He was here for one reason. To settle his position within the clan beyond argument. To assure Rhyn that the gap between them was a distance being closed, not a settled fact.

  If breaking a wastelander was the price of that assurance, it was a price he did not hesitate to pay.

  A man in golden robes that caught every available light rose from beneath the stage on a rising metal platform, a circlet-like device at his head, his smile broad enough to be visible from the back row.

  "Welcome, everyone, to this most anticipated duel!" he opened, and the roar that answered him rolled through the hollow mountain like something with weight.

  "I am your loyal and humble servant, Steward of the entertainment district, Baron Cyril! And it is my very great pleasure to introduce tonight's duelists!"

  He paused for the crowd to settle, just barely.

  "But first, cultivators, rankers, and guests of Jade Peak, rise and bow in the presence of the lords and great elders of Clan Verdan!"

  The entire mountain stood as one and bowed in silence. Even Cyril held his bow as he spoke.

  "Venerable lords and adepts, may I continue with your permission?"

  A flash of aura descended from the high box. Cyril straightened.

  "My deepest gratitude!" he called, and the crowd settled back into their seats with a wave of sound.

  "Now, our first ranker tonight," Cyril said, extending both arms toward the tunnel where Thalas stood.

  His cue. Thalas walked forward.

  "He requires no introduction! The one known as the future fist of Clan Verdan, Scion of the line of the jade gauntlet, son of Elder Jashed Verdan, holder of the rank of second strongest disciple in all of Jade Peak, and student of the great Elder Moros!"

  Cyril drew a breath.

  "Clan and city, pay your respects to Thalas Verdan!"

  The roar shook stone. His name rang through the mountain, rising and rising, and Thalas walked to the left side of the platform and stood, eyes turning to the opposite tunnel.

  "And on this side," Cyril began, his voice dropping into something more deliberate, "the rising star who arrived from the depths of the wastelands and climbed to prominence under the guiding hand of Venerable Elder Joran. The liberator of the clan's mining territory, who advanced from initiate to disciple in the space of a single month, head disciple of House Dark Fist, and known, as of last night, as the dark wolf!"

  He raised his voice for the last of it.

  "Pay your respects to Tunde Dark Fist!"

  The roar that answered was different in character, louder in some registers than Thalas had expected, and then the black banners began to unfurl from their positions throughout the mountain, each one bearing a silver wolf, dropping open in sequence until the interior was draped with them. Tunde's name was in the chanting.

  Thalas turned his gaze to the figure emerging from the far tunnel and felt his pulse quicken. He searched for the broken ranker he had stood over in that old rift and found nothing that resembled him. What came out of the darkness moved differently, carried itself differently, and stared back at him from an unreadable depth that gave away nothing.

  "This is an honor duel," Cyril announced, his platform beginning to rise toward its highest position.

  "There will be no killing. Maiming is permitted within the boundaries of healable damage. If your opponent yields, you will stay your hand!"

  The platform locked into place above them.

  "In the name of the great patriarch of this clan, and of the empire itself—"

  A beat of silence.

  "Begin!"

  *****

  Tunde imbued his body the moment the word landed and drove his fist forward. The crack of contact rolled across the platform as both rankers were pushed back a step.

  Thalas swung his other arm in a wide arc immediately, the jade gauntlet thick with his Ethra, and brought it down in a blow that carried the weight of everything behind it.

  Tunde met it with both wrapped fists, his Ethra stopping the gauntlet with enough force to put visible surprise in Thalas's eyes for a fraction of a second. The Verdan twisted through the air and his mace was already in his hand when he landed.

  Tunde stepped back, his Ethra sight burning bright as he read the flow of Ethra coming from Thalas, watching it move as naturally as breathing. The mace was soulbound, Tunde could feel it. He released Shadowfang, and the two weapons met with a boom that sent the crowd into noise.

  "You've improved," Thalas said.

  Tunde said nothing. He settled into his stance, the cold depth behind his eyes giving nothing away.

  ****

  In the stands, Rhyn leaned forward, eyes sharpening as the opening exchange played out. Elyria and Sorin flanked him on either side.

  "Oh my," Sorin said quietly.

  He was the clan's third-ranked disciple, and his tone was not casual.

  "Indeed," Rhyn murmured.

  His gaze moved briefly to the sealed elder's box and back to the platform. He pressed his fingers together. This was going to be worth watching.

  ****

  Tunde strapped Shadowfang back to its harness and pressed forward, trading blows with Thalas directly. The Verdan released a sphere of aura, jade crystals shimmering within it as they drew themselves into sharp-pointed icicles and launched.

  His own aura came out to meet it, the black sphere pushing back against the jade as he snatched icicles from the air mid-stride, closing the distance.

  Then his body felt heavy.

  It was not a dramatic change, more like the air had thickened around him specifically. Thalas was visibly straining with an affinity he had not fully mastered, bending it through his jade path to exert pressure on the space Tunde occupied.

  Whatever measure of the pressure affinity he had managed to reach through his jade training, it was enough to slow Tunde fractionally. Thalas pressed the advantage immediately, his aura saturating his body as his blows landed with the added weight of that pressure behind them.

  Tunde was pushed to defense. His Ethra sight worked hard to track the incoming attacks, his body responding with the precision of everything Joran had spent days beating into it.

  The punches that found him crashed into a body that had endured worse, the pressure affinity bleeding some of its force before impact.

  Thalas grew more and more frustrated. It did not show in his movement. Only in his eyes, a contained displeasure building beneath the surface.

  Perhaps that was why he did not see what was coming.

  Resonance came from nowhere. It crashed into Thalas's side, lifting the ranker off the platform entirely, blasting him backward through the air with steam rising from the point of contact on Tunde's fist. The mountain went silent for a full breath, and then the roar came back doubled.

  *****

  Joran chuckled, a low and satisfied sound. Across from him, Moros had gone very still, his disbelief visible. The lords watched without a word.

  It should not have been possible. Thalas had driven Tunde back, had come within reach of cracking his guard entirely, and then the student had read the single opening available to him in that entire exchange and put everything through it.

  Joran turned his gaze to Moros, who was already looking at him, and gave him a wide and uncomplicated smile. He watched Moros's affinity rise behind his eyes.

  Thalas caught himself in the air, straightened, and looked down at the scorch burned cleanly through the surface of his reinforced robe before he landed. He turned back to face Tunde. He closed his fists, drew one breath into the center of his chest, and released his full aura.

  It came out like a green fire, wrapping around him as he crossed the distance in a single blink, his fist driving forward with everything behind it.

  Crystal breaker met whatever technique Tunde raised in response, the collision rippling the air between their strikes visibly. Thalas flipped overhead and landed, gathering Ethra into a projection technique, enormous crystalline fists that fell from above toward the platform like boulders.

  He had underestimated how far the wastelander had come. Tunde had matched him in speed. He had matched him in strength. Thalas felt his heart quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He had not felt this in a long time.

  He was going to enjoy breaking him.

  *****

  Tunde tracked the falling projection attacks and released resonance in bursts, shattering the crystals before they reached him while watching Thalas move through his peripheral sight, reading the approach from his perceived blind side.

  Shadowfang met the mace as it swung in, the axe's edge biting into the weapon's head. In the same motion Tunde brought his other hand down in a driving punch that struck the jade gauntlet with everything he had, and heard it crack.

  A kick to his midsection launched him backward. Shadowfang stayed lodged in the head of the mace, green Ethra leaking from the point of contact. Tunde rolled through the air, righted himself, and dropped into a crouch to arrest his slide. Sweat was already covering him.

  His instincts screamed.

  He threw himself sideways, Thalas's stage-shattering punch missing him by the width of a breath, the impact cratering the platform where he had been standing.

  He was back on his feet, Ethra sight pushing to keep pace with the Scion's combinations now, his reinforced body absorbing what came through while he looked for the next opening.

  He caught one of Thalas's incoming fists and twisted. He forced the wrist against the joint's limit despite Thalas's visible effort to resist.

  The mace appeared in Thalas's free hand and came in point blank. Resonance wrapped Tunde's entire hand in looping bands of Ethra, blazing bright, and his blow met the mace's head directly.

  The explosion blew a curtain of dust across the platform.

  When it cleared, Tunde was cradling one arm, bone jutting from the elbow. Thalas stood holding a shattered mace.

  *****

  "He shattered a soulbound weapon," Lirien said, barely above a whisper.

  The light in her eyes was very bright.

  "By the hegemons," Celia breathed.

  "And lost an arm doing it," Moros said.

  "This battle is finished. Declare it."

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk," Joran said, and wagged one finger slowly back and forth.

  "He will die if this continues," Celia said.

  "Whatever is it they say about a cornered wolf?" Joran asked.

  "It bares its fangs," Alaric answered quietly.

  Lirien laughed.

  ****

  Agony went through Tunde's arm in a steady, bright wave. He tore a strip from the hem of his robe with his good hand, bound the arm as tightly as he could manage despite the pain it cost him, and raised his eyes. Thalas was pointing the broken shaft of the mace at him.

  "That weapon was a gift from Elder Moros," Thalas said.

  "You will pay for that."

  Tunde picked up Shadowfang, took his stance, and said nothing. His sight was swimming at the edges from the pain, but he let his cycling run steady underneath it, feeling the Ethra move through him in its familiar current.

  Around him he began to feel the pooling in the ground, the accumulation in the air, all the channels of Ethra that Thalas was drawing on at once.

  "You have come further than I expected," Thalas said. "But it ends here."

  Tunde cycled harder, gripping Shadowfang as the vibrations of incoming Ethra moved through the platform beneath his feet. He let his aura rise around him, reading the space. And then he noticed something he had not noticed before. His broken arm had stopped screaming. He looked down.

  The bone was moving back into place, slowly, with the particular grinding sound that drew an audible reaction from the crowd. Thalas's eyes went wide.

  The Verdan attacked from every direction at once. Jade crystals erupted from the ground, crystalline fists swung from the air, and icicles drove from above. Tunde felt each one before he saw it, the vibrations giving him the fraction of a second he needed.

  He moved through the formations, Shadowfang cutting through what he couldn't dodge, rolling clear of the icicles, closing the distance on Thalas who drew everything he had left into his gauntlets, aura burning around his arms as his blows came in like a sustained avalanche.

  Tunde fed his rage into Shadowfang, the wolf's head blazing, the Ethra stolen from Thalas's mace pouring back out through the blade's edge. The weapons met, Thalas driving every last measure of his strength into holding the line.

  Tunde released Shadowfang.

  The surprise on Thalas's face lasted less than a breath. Tunde's barely healed arm came forward, Ethra flooding through it in a wave, resonance coiling around it in dense bands of light until it blazed. Thalas's cracked gauntlet came up to meet it.

  It was not enough. The blow landed like something from an entirely different rank. The gauntlets shattered. Both of Thalas's arms buckled.

  The Verdan went backward and hit the ground rolling, coming to rest in a heap.

  Tunde staggered. His vision swam. He watched Thalas rise.

  The Verdan's aura came out uncontrolled, rage overwhelming the discipline that had contained it through the entire fight, the green power warping around him like a flame in a storm.

  His broken arms were already being wrapped in jade crystals, sharp points forming along the knuckles. He was gathering everything he had left, aura and Ethra and will, drawing it into a single final act.

  Tunde looked at him and felt, inexplicably, calm.

  He drew his own aura into one hand. Let it accumulate there, condensing, pulling more in, the midnight starry darkness building to a density it had never reached before.

  He watched Thalas through eyes that had stopped seeing anything except the path of that final attack. He watched the Ethra in the air respond to Thalas's intent, the ground itself tinging green with it.

  This was the last blow. He could feel it in the air like a change in weather.

  Thalas moved in a blink, crossing the space between them in what looked like a single step, appearing directly in front of him. Tunde was already moving. His condensed aura flared as his hand drove forward.

  Then everything arrived at once.

  Tunde coughed blood onto the shattered platform, feeling his chest cavity and ribs compress and splinter from the force of Thalas's crystal-wrapped arms. He stared into the eyes of Thalas Verdan at very close range.

  Thalas made a sound. His eyes went down to the hand that had punched through his midsection, and to the finger-width hole that emerged from his back and continued on, punching through the arena wall in the distance. The air was silent. Neither of them moved.

  Thalas tried to speak. His eyes rolled back. He went down, slowly, with a kind of finality, and did not move again.

  Tunde stood. His arms hung at his sides, his body running entirely on the last of its cycling, the Ethra barely a thread now. He had nothing left to give it. The fatigue rolled through him like a tide coming in.

  "Cultivators, rankers, and guests—" Cyril's voice came from somewhere above, hushed in a way it had not been all evening.

  The platform descended.

  He paused before continuing.

  "The champion of this duel—"

  Another pause.

  "And the new second-ranked disciple of Clan Jade Peak—"

  His voice found itself again.

  "Tunde Dark Fist."

  The roar that broke from the stands was the loudest sound Tunde had ever heard inside a building. His knees did not hold any longer.

  He let them go, landing beside Thalas with a sound that was lost entirely in the noise above him, and closed his eyes.