The Butcher fell down to his knees, yet when his head raised he was grinning madly through blood, mockingly even.
That grin.
Something in Darian snapped.
Not because it looked like the Butcher was going to win, but because in that instant, the grin wasn't his.
It was his.
The man from that night.
The one who kicked open the doors while the horses screamed and the fires rose. The one who smiled as his blade opened throats like silk.
The laws didn't protect them. The Empire didn't protect them.
And then his sister... no, what was left of her, and the smell of burning hair, and glass crunching beneath his knees as he crawled through the halls of House Valcoris.
The steward, Garrin, clutching Darian by the scruff of his nightshirt. Shoving him toward the sally gate, whispering "Run. Don't look back."
But he had.
He looked back and saw it, the moment the blade sank into Garrin's belly. The man who wielded it smiling like the Butcher did now. A tattoo on his wrist: a half-moon pierced by a dagger.
Darian had followed the sewers that night, his lungs full of smoke and sobs, crawling through shit and filth, barefoot and bleeding. By the time he emerged in the Gutters, the noble was gone. Only the rat remained.
And the fire inside him.
That need.
Find them.
Kill them.
All of them.
He snapped out of the haze just as the Butcher lunged upwards, too slow.
Darian grabbed his wrist again, slamming his knee into the forearm, a crunching sound as the bone popped.
He surged forward, grabbing the back of the Butcher's thick, blood-matted head and yanking it down with both hands. His knee came up hard into the man's face, once, then again, the third blow crunching with a sound like breaking fruit. Blood burst from the man's nose and mouth, spattering Darian's leg. The Butcher reeled, arms flailing, momentarily stunned.
But Darian wasn't finished.
He gripped a fistful of greasy hair and dragged the man across the pit like dead weight, muscles burning with effort. The crowd was silent now, watching, breath held. When he reached the edge of the wall, Darian slammed the Butcher's face against the stone. There was a crack, bone on stone, and a scatter of teeth spilled out across the sand like kicked dice. The man groaned, sagging under his own weight, blood pouring from his split lips and ruined nose.
Still not enough.
Darian turned him, took a step back, and drove the heel of his boot directly into the side of the man's knee. The joint gave way with a wet, sickening pop. The Butcher screamed, raw, hoarse, helpless. He collapsed onto his side, trembling and half-conscious.
And for a moment, Darian just stood there.
The noise of the crowd dulled around him, like cotton stuffed in his ears. The stink of blood and iron clung to the back of his throat.
He'd hurt men before. But this wasn't a scuffle in the alleys. This was something else. This was slow, deliberate. He had taken his time.
And part of him, the part that still remembered what it felt like to eat at silver-plated tables, to read poetry by firelight, hesitated.
Was this what he'd become?
Then, like a door swinging open, the memory came again:
The manor, burning. His mother's scream. His sister's coughs, sharp and wet. His father's voice... then silence.
Boots on marble. Laughter. The sound of something heavy being dragged.
That was what mercy looked like. That was the cost of waiting. Of hesitating.
No one came for them.
And no one was coming for him.
On the ground, the Butcher's fingers curled, dug into the sand, and dragged. An inch. Another. His body twitched and shuddered, but he kept crawling, his breath coming in short, wheezing bursts. He looked less like a man and more like a wounded animal, broken, blind with pain, yet stubbornly refusing to die where he lay.
He pushed himself to his knees.
His limbs quivered under the weight of his own frame, his arms trembling as he tried to lift his chest. His head hung low, matted with sweat and blood. Every breath sounded like it was drawn through wet cloth.
And then something changed.
It started low, a flicker of color at his forearms. A dull yellow glow, like coals under canvas, pulsed beneath the skin, tracing the path of his veins. It wasn't steady, it came in sharp, rhythmic bursts, timed to his breathing, crawling from his fingers to his shoulders like a fuse. The glow surged again, brighter now, climbing toward his throat.
The crowd quieted. Those close enough to see it stopped cheering altogether. Whispers broke out like wind through dry grass.
The Butcher's back straightened. His breath grew calmer. The trembling in his arms began to ease.
Then came the roar from above.
"Marlo!" the Fight Master's voice cut through the silence like a whip. "You know the Basstdamned rules!"
Five crossbowmen stepped forward from their hidden alcoves above the pit, drawing aim as one. Their bows creaked with tension, leveled square at the Butcher's chest.
"This ain't a Bright match!" the Fight Master bellowed. "No pulse, no flow, no shine! You wanna glow, you do it in the Bright pits, not here, not on my floor!"
The Butcher didn't respond. The glow in his veins surged again, yellow threading up into the hollow of his throat.
The Fight Master leaned over the rail, spit flying from his mouth. "I swear on the pit's name, you Bright again and I'll have your mother's head mounted on the wall by dusk. You hear me, you sack of dogshit? Don't ruin the bets!"
A hush fell.
The Butcher froze. His jaw clenched. The glow trembled, then dimmed. A final pulse, then nothing. The light died out. His shoulders slumped.
He grunted low in his throat, whether from pain or fury, no one could say. But he stayed on his knees.
Darian watched him a moment longer, then stepped forward again, slow and certain.
He grabbed the big man by the neck, and jerked him close. The Butcher swayed, barely conscious, head lolling as Darian leaned in, their foreheads nearly touching.
"You're not him," Darian growled, voice low and rough. "So stay down."
Then, instead of a final blow, he pushed and let the man drop.
The Butcher collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, sprawled across the pit floor, twitching and gasping.
Silence.
Then came the eruption.
The pit exploded with noise, cheers, coin tossed from above, cups shattered against the wall. People screamed his name, or something like it. "Pit Pup!" "Gutterboy!" "The Butcher's Butcher!"
He was covered in blood. Most of it wasn't his. At least that's what he'd like to believe.
"Didn't think the boy had it in him!"
"He's quick, I'll give him that!"
"Lucky brat won't survive his next fight!"
There, amid the swirling dust of the arena, Darian stood, heaving with slow, controlled breaths. His arms finally hung loose at his sides, his knuckles exposed and covered with blood, his shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin. Around him, the pit felt quiet for a moment, the crowd caught between the end of violence and the hunger for more.
Then the Fight Master dropped down from the outer platform, boots hitting sand with a dull thud. He strode across the arena with that signature limp, half-grin etched into his weathered face. When he reached Darian, he clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, this time, hard enough to make Darian flinch.
"Good show, gutterboy," the Fight Master said, voice like gravel soaked in liquor. "You just bought yourself another night."
Darian exhaled, slow and deliberate. Relief tangled with something colder, resolve, maybe, or just the raw instinct to keep moving. Blood coated the inside of his mouth, metallic and thick. He didn't bother spitting it out.
Not dead. Not yet.
He turned his back on the arena. The gate creaked open for him, old iron groaning like a dying beast. Beyond it lay the tunnel: rusted bars and the stink of old fights.
Behind him, movement stirred.
Two men in patchy leather jerkins came jogging in from the opposite gate, one carrying a hooked pole, the other a stretcher slung between them. Arena crew. Pit rats. Their faces were blank with routine, eyes dull with the kind of detachment that only came from seeing too much carnage.
They circled the Butcher's broken body without a word.
He was still alive, barely. Breath rattled in his chest like coins in a tin. His limbs twitched now and then, the last sparks of defiance flickering out.
The one with the hook jabbed it beneath the Butcher's arm and rolled him onto his back. The other dropped the stretcher with a grunt. Together, they heaved him up, bones cracking as his weight shifted. One of his arms lolled loose, dragging across the sand, leaving a dark smear behind.
"No healing for him, let him Bright if he wants" the Pit Master called after them. "If he's stumbling by morning, put him in the next bracket. If not, sell him to the Veil."
The men didn't answer. They just carried the Butcher away, boots crunching grit, leaving a trail of smeared blood in their wake.
Darian didn't look back.
Darian limped further down the corridor behind the pit, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other wiping blood from his eye. The torchlight flickered along stone walls slick with moisture and old rot. Every step sent a jolt up his spine, but he walked steady. No one carried him. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
The infirmary door was already open, just a warped plank on rusted hinges. Inside, it smelled like sweat, vinegar, and something worse fermenting in a corner bucket.
Cray the Stitcher didn't look up right away, the half-deaf sawbones who passed for a medic in the pits. Old bastard had a back like a question mark and breath like vinegar. His coat was a mess of stains, blood, puke, something green, and his eyes were yellow as old piss.
"Took your time," Cray grunted, voice like gravel in water. "Thought maybe they'd wheel you in on a plank."
"I walked," Darian said, planting himself on the edge of the table with a grunt. "Mostly."
"Good," Cray muttered. "Means I can save the dripleaf for someone who actually screams."
He shuffled closer, squinting through yellowed eyes. "Let's see the damage. Off with the shirt. Don't be shy, I've seen worse guts on a fish cart."
Darian peeled the blood-slick fabric over his head, jaw clenched against the sting. Cray poked at the bruising with two fingers that felt like broom handles wrapped in sandpaper.
"Ribs're not broke. Just mad at you. Stitch over the eye, maybe a wrap round the middle. No kissing for a week."
He doused a cloth in something that smelled like vinegar and regret, then cleaned the cut above Darian's brow with all the gentleness of a man scrubbing a chamber pot. Darian hissed.
"That hurt?" Cray asked flatly. "Good. Means you're still alive."
The old man reached for a bent needle and a length of coarse thread. "Hold still. This'll tug."
"No numbing powder?"
Cray snorted. "What do I look like, a Church apothecary? Bite your tongue and think happy thoughts."
Five stitches later, Darian's brow was knotted tight, his ribs swaddled, and his pride just barely intact. He stood up slow, testing his weight.
"Try not to get hit in the same spot next time," Cray muttered, already turning back to his pot. "You'll run out of forehead before I run out of thread."
Cray shoved a crusty sack into Darian's chest.
"Patch kit. Balm'll sting like hell. Don't bitch about it."
Darian peeked inside, some stiff linen, a cracked tin of foul-smelling salve, and a bent pair of forceps that still had someone else's dried flesh stuck in the hinges.
"Could've at least cleaned it," Darian muttered.
Cray spat on the floor. "Ain't charity, boy. You want clean, give me a purse."
With the bag stuffed under his arm, Darian grunted something halfway between thanks and fuck off, then stepped out into the corridor, bleeding less, hurting more, and still walking.
The place was already swarming, runners, gutter rats, back-alley bookies, and drunks who wanted to see the Pit Pup up close. He had to elbow through a knot of them, catching slaps on the shoulder and half-sloshed praises.
"Oi, Gutterboy! That knee pop was sweet music!"
"Gonna bet heavy on you next time, swear on me cock!"
He ignored the lot of them.
The pay-cage sat tucked in a rusted alcove near the back, iron bars twisted like a jail cell, with a clerk behind it who looked like he'd been born in ink. Greasy robes, ink on his teeth.
Darian slammed a bloodied hand on the counter.
"Gutterboy," the clerk muttered without looking up. Ink-stained fingers rifled through a battered ledger, the pages curled and grease-marked from years of blood and bureaucracy. "Four silvers, two coppers. Don't get cocky, it ain't standard."
He slid the pouch through the grate with a grunt, eyes still on his page. "You dropped the Butcher. First-timers usually walk with one and five. Count yourself lucky."
Darian took the coin, jaw tight, knuckles still raw and half-split.
"Any more coming up?" he asked.
The clerk finally glanced up, one brow arched. "Back already?"
"Not dead, am I?"
The clerk snorted and flipped a few pages forward. "Let's see... got a weapons match open. Three days. Late slot. One contender already signed... goes by 'Jahruul the Sewer-dog.'"
Darian blinked. "That a real name?"
"Does it matter?"
"No," Darian muttered. "Sewer-dogs bleed like the rest."
The clerk scratched a note into the ledger. "So you want in?"
"Yeah. Mark it."
The clerk dipped his pen without ceremony. "You're in. Bring your own blade or borrow one off the rack. And try not to die. You sell a good show, pup."
"Aye, I hear you." Darian stuffed the pouch in his coat without a word. The leather was damp and smelled like grease, but the weight felt right. Right beside the cracked charm he always kept hidden.
No need to count. Not here. No one shorted a fighter the night of a win, unless they wanted to eat their own teeth.
He paused at the archway to the outside. The street beyond was drowned in fog, thick as soup, and smelled like burnt oil, shit, and old iron. Lamps flickered overhead, shadows moving like ghosts. Somewhere a dog was barking. Somewhere else, a man was screaming.
Darian licked blood from his teeth and stepped out. Still breathing. Still walking. Still poor.
But after tonight, someone up there knew his name.
And that was worth more than silver.
Darian walked slow, rolling his sore shoulders. He had his coin. A few silvers, enough for the crew to eat, enough to last.
Varentis never truly slept, especially the gutters. It was too full of deal-makers and debt-breakers, too loud with the clinking of coin and the whispers of knives.
He passed a drunken mercenary slumped against a wall, muttering about "some bastard lord's war" in the North. Further ahead, a pair of silk-clad merchants whispered near a canal, discussing trade routes out of Tyrellis.
Even in the slums, you heard things. Important things.
The garrison in the upper quarter was replacing officers. The Palatine was sick. And in the Gutters, the Black Vultures were looking for new blood.
The wind howled through the streets. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.
Another night. Another chance.
And maybe, just maybe... the start of something bigger.