The boxing club didn't have a name. Just a dark wooden sign above the door with a faded red fist painted on it, like a mark left over from another era.
It was tucked behind a carpenter's shop in the lower quarter, far from the cleaner stone and polished lanterns of the upper city.
This part of town had wrinkles. It creaked when the wind moved through it. The buildings sagged slightly, sunken into the soft earth after years of weather and war.
The general walked with his coat undone, his stride loud and sure, as if he were marching at the head of an army.
Guards had offered to accompany him—more than once—but he'd waved them off with a sharp order and a look that left no room for argument. They obeyed, of course.
He didn't need protection. He needed release.
Vell followed a few steps behind, more measured in pace.
A few heads turned as they passed. Older men nodded. A few raised a hand or called out the general's name. Less of that for Vell—though one or two recognized him as well.
Inside, the smell hit them at once—sweat, dust, old leather, and the faint iron tang of blood that had long since been scrubbed off the floor but never really left the mats.
The place was dim, lit only by high, grimy windows and a few hanging lanterns. The main hall was wide and low-ceilinged, lined with heavy punching bags and faded wooden benches. Gear hung from nails and hooks like retired armor.
At the center, two boxing rings sat like islands—raised just a few feet like a stage, their ropes sagging from years of abuse.
The sound of gloves hitting canvas echoed in uneven rhythm. Grunts. Breath. A deep bark of laughter from somewhere deeper in the room. It was the kind of laugh everyone knew belonged to an old man.
There were maybe a dozen men in the hall. Some stretching. Some hitting the bags. Others hunched around a scarred table playing cards, bruises visible on knuckles and cheeks alike.
One of them looked up.
"Well, well," he said, rising from his chair. "Look what the dog dragged in."
The general grinned. "Thought I'd check in. Remind you all I'm still faster than I look."
The man stood—tall, broad, his shoulders still thick despite age. His beard was long and white, his nose crooked from breaks that had never healed quite right.
"You were fast thirty years ago," he said. "These days, I bet you creak louder than the floorboards."
"Maybe. But I still hit harder than most of you."
The man laughed. "That I believe."
His expression shifted—confusion, then something like amusement. "You bring a scholar to fight?"
Vell smiled. "I've got some brawn beneath all these brains, believe it or not."
A few laughs circled the room.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood across from each other in the ring.
The general was bare-armed, gloves tight. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, cracking his neck with a pop.
Vell stood across from him, not quite as relaxed. Despite his lean build, he didn't look fragile. Still, he looked like someone out of place in a ring like this—more suited to a library than a fistfight.
The crowd around the ropes had grown, drawn by who they were.
And Vell—well, he'd made his name in the war too, though not with fists. Mages didn't usually step into rings. Not without a staff, and certainly not wearing gloves.
Vell rolled his shoulders with less flair. He seemed well-built, but much too thin, even against someone like the general. And he was pale, pale as snow.
"Last chance to back out," the general called, grinning.
Vell flexed his fingers in the gloves. "I thought this was supposed to be fun."
"No biting. No hair-pulling. No shots below the belt. And definitely no magic," the general said, half-serious.
"Understood," Vell replied with a nod. "But I can't promise I won't embarrass you."
That earned a few more laughs.