Night crept in fast, smearing indigo across the windows of the third-floor room. The inn was warm and modest, its timber walls breathing gently with each settling groan. West had insisted on a room overlooking the main entrance, “strategic positioning,” he called it, though mostly he enjoyed spying on foot traffic and potential trouble.

  Omni had only recently stirred from his nap, rising with all the stiffness of a man twice his age. West and Tyrus, long awake, were still mid-argument about the next phase of West’s “genius strategy.”

  “You want to make a fool of me,” Tyrus said. His tone wasn’t hostile, but it carried an edge, an earnestness that West often ignored at his own peril.

  “It’s not a big deal,” West replied, waving a hand dismissively. “And it’ll give you more freedom. It’s the look of a mature, respectable man.”

  “It is the look of a slave,” Tyrus countered. His jaw tightened. “A warrior of the Ura does not shave his head if he still has fight in him.”

  West sighed dramatically, as if Tyrus were the unreasonable one.

  “Well, here you are, not a warrior of the Ura. That’s the whole point! If the Evokians see your golden hair while you’re beating their best fighters, they may put the pieces together.” He held up a small blade, its edge catching the lamplight.

  He turned and froze when he noticed Omni stretching in the corner.

  “Master Omni! Please tell Tyrus I’ve shaved thousands of heads and he doesn’t have to worry.” West flashed a hopeful smile.

  Omni did not indulge him.

  He continued his slow stretches, breathing through the stiffness of sleep. The morning prayer beads still hung loosely around his wrist. He wasn’t about to mediate the bickering of two young men before his spirit had fully reentered his body.

  Without a word, he finished his prayer, gathered his shawl, and walked downstairs in search of a hot drink, leaving West mid-plea and Tyrus staring after him with quiet victory.

  “I’ll tell you what, West,” Tyrus said, voice steady and more serious than before. “If you let me shave your head, then I will allow you to shave mine.”

  West recoiled so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots.

  “I’m not going to let you do that!” he yelped, then grinned as the horror faded into mischief. “I’ve seen what you do with a blade, Tyrus. You’re a butcher.”

  “Then wrap the scarf around my head again so we can go back down there.”

  Tyrus shoved the coarse cloth into West’s chest, firm but not unkind.

  West stared at the scarf in Tyrus’s fist, then lifted his chin.

  “Say please.”

  Tyrus froze. Of all the battles he’d fought, somehow this was the one that tested him.

  He met West’s eyes and realized, annoyingly, that he was dead serious.

  “…Please,” he said, the word escaping with reluctant sincerity.

  “No!” West crowed, delighted with himself.

  “Master Omni, tell him we’re doing my…”

  West turned, searching for support, but Omni was nowhere in sight. The man had vanished with monk-like efficiency.

  Panic replaced West’s triumph. He scooped up his pouch of silver and bolted for the hallway. Downstairs, muffled tavern chatter drifted up the stairwell: tankards clinking, travelers bargaining, the hum of a town shifting into night. The scent of spiced broth and baked grain rose from the kitchens, reminding Tyrus of the courtyard’s chaos and the fights still echoing in his muscles.

  Tyrus inhaled deeply and exhaled through his nose, threw the scarf over his head, messy, uneven, but functional, and followed him out the door with far more composure.

  Outside the inn, Vaga was alive in a way that felt almost defiant. Evening had settled over the city, but the streets glowed brighter than daylight; oil lamps burning high on iron poles, casting warm halos across stone roads packed with bodies in motion. Vendors called out over one another, spices and perfumes mingling in the air, trinkets flashing in torchlight, coins clinking like insects in a jar.

  West finally caught up to Omni, who stood at a small street stall accepting a steaming clay cup from a vendor.

  “One silver,” the vendor said.

  Omni didn’t break stride. “Pay the man, West.” He walked off, sipping as though the command were as natural as breathing.

  West’s face scrunched. “Does no one say please anymore?” he muttered, fishing a coin out of his pouch and dropping it into the vendor’s waiting hand.

  Tyrus merged with them as they continued down the bustling road toward the courtyard where the earlier fights had shaken the dust loose.

  “Master Omni, if you could please intervene and convince Tyrus to listen to me,” West pleaded, practically wringing his hands.

  “With all due respect, Omni,” Tyrus said, steady as stone, “I have told West there is nothing he can say or do to change my mind. And the same is true of you. I refuse to shave my head.”

  “Well, there you have it, West,” Omni said without slowing. “You will drop this.” His gaze stayed forward, unflinching.

  West stopped walking, threw both hands up dramatically, then swung around to face Tyrus. With a grumble of defeat, he began wrapping the scarf around Tyrus’s head; this time shaping it into a neat, secure turban to hide every glimmer of Ura gold beneath thick folds of cloth. He pulled the final knot tight, nodding once in satisfaction.

  Tyrus exhaled, a small but genuine softening in his voice.

  “Thank you.”

  The trio wove their way through Vaga’s evening rush, past jugglers, drummers, gamblers, and hawkers whose voices rose like competing tides. When they reached the courtyard, the familiar arena buzzed with anticipation. Dullah was already there, stationed like a king atop his little empire of wagers; laughing with locals, smacking shoulders, and scooping up silver with hands that moved far too quickly for someone his size.

  Several fighters warmed up around the ring, stretching or shadowboxing while their coaches whispered last-minute bravado into their ears. None, however, bore the imposing presence one would expect from the infamous giant Goulakh.

  “The legendary West,” Dullah announced with exaggerated reverence, spreading his arms wide and flashing a grin that was half mockery, half genuine affection.

  West practically sprinted forward to be the first to grab Dullah’s hand.

  “Yes, sir! What do you have for us tonight?” he asked, nearly trembling with anticipation.

  “The bone crusher…Goulakh.”

  Dullah’s grin sharpened into something wicked.

  “I’ll give you twelve to one.” He leaned in close, voice dropping like a secret too exciting to keep.

  West froze for a heartbeat, then performed a mental calculation so violent it almost contorted his face. His eyes bulged.

  “Put me down for one hundred silver coins.”

  He slapped his entire pouch into Dullah’s hands. “Feel free to count it.”

  Still smiling, Dullah weighed the pouch with an amused shake.

  “And you do this without seeing the opponent, again.” He tucked the silver away among the growing piles of bets. “Goulakh should be arriving in a few minutes. Enjoy the free time before the fight, you’re up first. We’ll set everything up.”

  He drifted off to take more wagers, leaving West standing tall with the confidence of an emperor who had just discovered taxation.

  “So your fighter is going to face Goulakh first?”

  An Evokian guard who had overheard approached, helmet tucked under his arm. His gaze slid over to Tyrus, scanning him up and down. “Can’t be the old bull… so it’s gotta be you.”

  West stepped in smoothly, clapping a hand on the guard’s shoulder.

  “Yes, sir! His name’s West. Highly recommend you put some silver on him.”

  The guard broke out in a heavy laugh.

  “They’re putting him against big Goulakh? I’d get better odds betting on whether your friend walks out crippled or not.”

  He strode away, still chuckling.

  “Goulakh sounds like a dangerous opponent,” Omni whispered above a breath, concern threading his tone.

  “Maybe to mortal men,” West said grandly, “but not to the one and only ‘West’.”

  He gave Tyrus a celebratory shove.

  “He cannot be as dangerous as me,” Tyrus said calmly, a statement of fact, not arrogance.

  “Yes!” West seized Tyrus by both shoulders. “Yes, yes! That’s the mindset!” He pointed at Tyrus’s head as if blessing it. “Master Omni, this is it. Tonight’s the night. Let’s win this!”

  The courtyard’s roar softened into a ripple, heads turning, bodies shifting aside. As something massive pushed through the crowd. It was like watching a boulder roll downhill: inevitable, unstoppable.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Goulakh. It had to be.

  A giant of a man in both height and width, he loomed above everyone he passed. His bronze skin caught the lamplight like metal, muscles layered thick across his frame, each step landing with a dull, heavy authority. The crowd erupted, chanting his name with the kind of fervor reserved for monsters or saints.

  West exhaled a single, reverent, “Oh…”

  Tyrus watched the giant advance, his own expression hardening; his breathing slowing, his eyes narrowing as he began recalculating every angle, every weakness, every possible path to survive.

  “Tyrus,” Omni said quietly, “perhaps we should regroup. Consider an alternative strategy.”

  “I can beat him,” Tyrus replied, not boastful, not foolish, just certain, even as he worked to figure out how. He moved toward the ring with a focused stride.

  West hurried after him, grinning like someone who had already spent the prize money.

  “He’s bigger than you, fatter than you…but he’s also dumber than you, slower than you, and a bigger target than you,” West said, trying to hype him up.

  Tyrus climbed into the ring, standing across from Goulakh, who flexed for the crowd, biceps like coiled ropes, grin wide and hungry. The crowd fed on it, roaring louder.

  Tyrus turned to West and gave a single, confident nod.

  “See it through,” West said, extending his hand.

  Tyrus clasped it firmly. Warrior and schemer, united in the moment.

  Dullah hopped into the center of the ring, waving both arms for quiet.

  “Settle down now! Settle down!” he shouted, though he looked delighted by the chaos. “We’ve got the first of five fights tonight for the mighty Goulakh, so let’s get this thing started!”

  The crowd surged in volume.

  “Our opening match!” Dullah bellowed. “In this corner…the legendary West!”

  A smattering of cheers was swallowed by a storm of boos and laughter.

  “And in the other corner… with an incredible record of one hundred and seventy-three to zero! The giant! The bone crusher! Your champion and mine… GOUL-LAKH!”

  The courtyard shook under the mad frenzy.

  Dullah stepped out of the ring, satisfied.

  The referee raised a hand.

  “Fight!”

  Tyrus and Goulakh crept toward the center of the ring, hands raised, each reading the other with the wary precision of hunters circling at dusk. The closer they drew, the louder the crowd surged, stomping, chanting, hungry for blood. Dust swirled around their ankles like smoke kicked up by gods.

  They met.

  Goulakh lunged first, too fast for a man his size, arms out like shackles, but Tyrus slipped aside with a pivot sharp enough to cut air. The giant stumbled forward, momentarily off-balance. Tyrus seized the window and snapped kicks into Goulakh’s ribs and thigh. Each strike landed clean; each strike thudded like a hammer against oak.

  They barely made the man flinch.

  Goulakh rose back up, face tightening with irritation rather than pain. He reset his stance, shoulders bunching. Then he charged again.

  This time, he caught Tyrus.

  Their bodies slammed together with a violent clap. For a few seconds, the ring was nothing but muscle against muscle, a snarling grapple of leverage and will. Goulakh’s arms locked around Tyrus’s torso like bands of iron. With a roar, he heaved Tyrus off the ground and hurled him onto the stone with bone-jarring force.

  The entire courtyard winced as one.

  “Let’s go, West! Don’t let this Vagabunian get away with that!” West shouted, fist pumping, voice cracking with both worry and thrill.

  Tyrus pushed himself up, breath steadying. He glanced at West and flashed a quick, fearless grin before rolling back to his feet—assurance in a single expression.

  Omni looked at West, pale with doubt.

  “He’s fine,” West mouthed back, offering a shaky thumbs-up. It did little to comfort Omni, but West held the expression like a shield because, gods help him, he was the one who started this.

  Across the ring, Goulakh clapped mockingly, then raised his arms, inviting the crowd’s adoration. They howled for more.

  The warriors circled again, closing in.

  Tyrus lifted his leg high, telegraphing a head kick. Goulakh immediately brought both arms up to block.

  Wrong move.

  Tyrus’s heel came crashing down instead onto the giant’s bare toes. The crunch was sickening. Goulakh howled, but before the pain had time to settle, Tyrus twisted and slammed an open palm strike into his jaw with the force of a thrown brick. The giant’s head snapped sideways, spittle flying.

  The courtyard roared.

  “Yeah! I know that one hurt you, big oaf!” West jeered, puffing up boldly.

  Goulakh turned his head slowly toward West, eyes murderous. He spat a tooth and a glob of blood directly onto West’s shirt. The stain blossomed red. West yelped and backed into the crowd, hands raised like the giant might chase him off the stage.

  Goulakh swung back toward Tyrus and charged.

  They collided, both crashing to the ground. Goulakh immediately went for Tyrus’s throat, fingers clawing, trying to crush wind and bone. Tyrus strained against the grip, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back a creature twice his size. The larger man’s weight made the ground feel miles away.

  In the scramble, Tyrus’s scarf tore loose.

  Golden hair spilled out.

  A few gasps cut through the noise. Evokian eyes narrowed. But Tyrus had no breath to spare for fear.

  With a desperate maneuver, he slid his hips, hooked his arm inside Goulakh’s elbow, and twisted. He slipped out like water through fingers, rolling to his feet with a surge of speed.

  But Goulakh was already on him, tackling him down again.

  This time, Tyrus anticipated it. As they rolled, he scrambled upward, climbing the man’s back like a tree. His arm shot under Goulakh’s chin, while his legs swung around the giant’s wide back.

  A chokehold.

  Goulakh surged upward, rising to his full towering height with Tyrus hanging off him like a stubborn pack. Tyrus squeezed tighter, teeth bared. Goulakh staggered, pawing at him, unable to pry him off.

  Desperate, Goulakh threw himself backward.

  But Tyrus tucked his knees.

  The giant’s spine met Tyrus’s braced legs with a sound like a branch splitting under winter ice.

  CRACK.

  The courtyard went silent for the length of two heartbeats.

  Then it exploded.

  A whirlwind of screams, cheers, curses, disbelief. The undefeated monster, one hundred seventy-three victories, was on the stone, unmoving.

  West’s jaw dropped. Then he erupted.

  “Praise the gods! Big and small…I’m going to be rich!” he screamed, grabbing Omni by both shoulders and shaking him with manic joy.

  Omni did not share that joy. Not even remotely.

  “Compose yourself, West. We may have drawn too much attention,” Omni said, voice clipped and stern.

  West blinked, then actually looked. The corridor had erupted; bets flying between changing hands, shouts splitting the air, the crowd surging like a tide around the toppled giant. Omni, as usual, was right.

  Tyrus slipped out of the ring, breath ragged, knuckles split and slick with blood. His face was bruised, streaked with sweat and dust. He tried to loop the scarf back over his head with shaky fingers.

  “That was…” he exhaled, half-laughing, half-gasping, “...amazing.”

  West jumped in to help, tightening the makeshift turban over the gold hair now gleaming with sweat. “You were amazing. They’re still trying to scrape Goulakh off the mat. To the Second Gods, I hope he’s breathing.”

  Omni stepped forward and began wiping the blood from Tyrus’ cheek with a cloth, movements gentle despite the sharpness of his concern. “Quite the show. And quite the reassurance that West and I chose wisely in hiring you as our guard.”

  Tyrus bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Omni.”

  Before Omni could respond, Dullah burst through the swell of bodies with a grin wide enough to split stone. A dozen townsfolk trailed him, all fighting for his attention, waving slips, shouting about payouts.

  “The legendary West!” Dullah boomed, arms thrown wide like he was greeting an old friend, or a new jackpot. “Boy, you just toppled my star attraction. That man you put out for eighteen months made me a fortune! But you…” He whistled low. “Whew. Together, we could mint gold by the bucket.”

  Two men rolled forward a cart piled with pouch-stuffed baskets. Dullah scooped up two bags bulging with silver and thrust one toward Tyrus.

  “Fight prize. Two hundred silver. For you, West.”

  Tyrus blinked. “Me… too?”

  Dullah wasn’t listening.

  He turned to the real West, stepping close, the larger of the pouches dangling temptingly from his fingers. “And the manager… What’d you say your name was again?”

  West didn’t hear a word. His eyes locked onto the pouch; huge, heavy, life-changing. His expression fell somewhere between awe and spiritual awakening.

  “West,” he blurted. Then froze.

  Omni and Tyrus turned toward him in perfect synch, eyes wide.

  West forced a polite smile, clearing his throat. “I…I apologize. My name is Ali.”

  Dullah didn’t notice the stumble; he was too busy grinning. “Twelve hundred silver coins for the Manager Ali.” He shoved the heavy pouch into West’s eager hands.

  West nearly melted. “Oh, I’ll definitely… feel free to… count it…” His brain was gone. It had drowned in silver.

  “Good! Now listen, boys!” Dullah said, already pivoting back to the mob clawing for payouts. “Be here in a few days. We’ll do it again. Line up, line up! Come drain me dry before the next poor bastard steps in!”

  The crowd roared, ready to bleed him dry without mercy.

  West tore his gaze from the pouch just long enough to rejoin the others. “If we do this once more, just once more! We’ll have enough silver to make everything work out.”

  Omni’s response was immediate. “We should leave. Now. And find another inn.”

  Before West could argue, a formation of six Evokian guards pushed through the throng, full armor, crested helms, polished breastplates catching the lamplight. Every muscle in the group tightened; the air thickened.

  The commander, barely older than Tyrus, stepped forward with an earnest grin. “What a fight! We saw you earlier. Beating Goulakh in the opener?” He extended a hand toward Tyrus.

  Tyrus stared at it. The hand of an enemy. Of the empire that had crushed his people.

  Slowly, he lifted his bandaged right hand; the gesture of someone injured, someone unable to shake. A polite refusal.

  “Right, right,” the guard said, withdrawing his hand with a nod. “Name’s Koppi. I was hoping me and the boys could take you out for a few drinks. On us.”

  “Least we can do!” another guard continued, lifting his silver pouch with a triumphant shake. The others laughed; they were all young, barely men, hardly older than West or Tyrus.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Omni said, rising with quiet authority. “But West needs rest. It was quite the bout.”

  “Actually…” Tyrus said, surprising everyone, “I wouldn’t mind a few drinks.”

  “Yeah? Alright!” Koppi practically bounced as the Evokian youths burst into a small, celebratory cheer.

  Omni blinked at Tyrus, shocked. He turned to West for shared dismay, but West’s face was buried deep in his pouch, counting coins like sacred scripture.

  Koppi clapped his hands lightly. “Let us go then.”

  The guards began leading the way down the lantern-lit street. Tyrus followed without hesitation.

  West glanced at Omni and saw the worry shaping tight lines across the old man’s face.

  He placed a hand on Omni’s back. Steady, warm, and unexpectedly reassuring.

  “The time to doubt was yesterday, Master,” West said softly. “Now is the time for faith.”

  And he gently pushed Omni forward as the group followed the Evokians into the glowing, raucous veins of Vaga.