The general leaned back on the bench, toweling sweat from his arms as he watched the next pair of fighters step into the ring.
Vell sat beside him, untouched except for a faint flush of red on his cheeks that made him look almost human.
Three younger men, broad and loud, still clinging to the need to prove something, though old enough to know better, had been watching since the match ended.
One nudged the other and muttered something too loud to be subtle.
"Who is he, anyway?" the first said. "The general, sure, everyone knows him. But the pale one?"
The second shrugged. "Probably some war, friend. Doesn't look like he's ever lifted a sword though, but he made the general sweat. And he's built like metal."
"Hey," the third called across the gym. "You got any real strength, or just fairy dances?"
Vell looked over. "I do well enough."
"Come on then," the man said, pointing at the heavy bag in the corner. "Give us a real punch. Something with weight. Let's see it."
Vell opened his mouth to decline, but the general beat him to it.
"Go on," he said. "You're not going to let that stand, are you?"
"Do I have to?" Vell asked flatly.
"Come on. It's just old men showing off." The general clapped him on the back. "No harm in that, is there?"
Vell sighed, got to his feet, and walked toward the far corner where the heavy bag hung.
It was thick, leather-bound, twice stitched, and stained from years of sweat and impact.
A few of the fighters paused their conversations. Even the men at the card table leaned in.
Vell stood before the bag a moment. He exhaled slowly and placed his left hand on the leather.
Then he stepped back.
And then he struck.
It was a clean hit. Quick. Solid. Not showy.
The bag rocked, chains rattling overhead.
"Come on. That's it?" the third man said. "That's all? The way the general spoke, I thought you had more."
Vell looked to the general, who gave a quiet nod.
He returned it.
"I could give a fast strike," Vell said.
He lifted his hands, loose and relaxed, as if he wasn't preparing to hit anything at all.
Then he moved.
The bag twitched.
Just that. A twitch, like something invisible had brushed it. No sound, no wind. His arm was back at his side before anyone registered it had moved.
The man who'd called him out blinked and rubbed his eyes.
Vell struck again with the other hand—same speed, same silence, same impossible motion.
No windup. No effort. Like a thought had hit the bag.
"Or," he said, almost like an afterthought, "I could go stronger."
This time the punch came slow.
His knuckles sank into the center of the bag with a low, ugly thud. The kind of sound that made the walls flinch and the bricks loosen
The chains snapped taut with a sharp metallic crack, then gave out. The bag didn't swing.
It folded.
The leather split down the middle like a peeled fruit, and sand exploded outward in a choking cloud, showering the floor and the men nearby.
Vell stepped back, brushing dust from his shoulder.
"But where's the fun in that?" he said.