The air hung thick with the reek of blood, cheap ale, and unwashed desperation. A cacophony of sound slammed against the crude stone walls of the pit – roars of bloodlust, drunken curses, the wet thud of flesh on flesh. Above the seething mass of laborers and miners, faces smeared with soot and sweat, gleamed the starched collars and strained expressions of merchants trying not to spill their wine. Higher still, ensconced in shadowed balconies, shapes in fine silks watched with detached, predatory interest. Different worlds, united by the primal spectacle below.
In the center, bathed in the harsh glare of oil lamps, two men circled like wounded beasts. One, younger, larger, swung wild, heavy fists encased in crude iron gauntlets. His face was a ruined landscape – swollen shut, blood streaming from a broken nose, teeth missing. He gasped, each breath a ragged sob, his guard faltering.
Opposite him stood Silas.
Not the sleek, smug youth from Lidia's workshop. Here, he was stripped to the waist, revealing a frame corded with lean muscle, mapped by old scars that spoke of countless fights and fresh wounds weeping crimson. His hands were wrapped in blood-soaked gauze, stark white against the grime. Sweat and blood slicked his skin, glistening under the lights, making the obsidian serpent tattoo coiled around his neck seem alive, its scales shimmering as it constricted his throat.
He didn't share the crowd's frenzy. His eyes, cold and calculating even amidst the storm of violence, saw seconds ahead. He'd seen the lumbering charge, the telegraphed haymaker aimed at his head. He'd seen the future where he met it head-on, felt the gauntlet shatter his jaw, tasted the coppery flood before darkness.
Not this time.
Instead, Silas planted his feet, a feral grin splitting his own bruised lip. "Oi!" he barked, his voice cutting through the din, sharp as a whip crack. "Did your mother ever tell you you look like an obese pig trying to dance?"
The insult struck deeper than any fist. The wounded bull's eyes, already swimming in pain and rage, blazed. "WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER, YOU OVERGROWN SHIT?!" The roar was pure, wounded animal fury. He lowered his head and charged, a last, desperate, blind rush.
Silas didn't move. He waited. Let the thunderous steps shake the packed earth. Let the panicked gasps rise from the crowd. Let the doomed man commit everything to the charge, momentum becoming his executioner.
At the last possible fraction of a second, Silas flowed sideways with serpentine grace. The massive fist whistled past his ear, stirring his sweat-drenched hair. Simultaneously, his own bloodied fist snapped forward. Not a wild swing, but a piston-driven strike of perfect economy. It connected with a sickening crack precisely on the hinge of the charging man's jaw.
The effect was instantaneous. The man's eyes rolled back. His legs turned to water. He crashed face-first into the dirt, utterly still, a puppet with its strings cut. Dust puffed around him.
Silence. For a heartbeat, the pit held its breath.
Then, the eruption. The crowd roared, a wave of sound that shook the very foundations. Coins rained down onto the bloodied sand. Silas turned slowly, raising his wrapped fists not in triumph, but in cold acknowledgment. His chest heaved, sweat and blood tracing paths down his torso. The serpent tattoo, stark against his straining neck muscle, seemed to ripple with the pulse of the adulation – or perhaps with its own dark satisfaction.
His gaze, devoid of the smugness Jay knew, scanned the balconies. Not seeking approval from the baying mob below, but from the shadows above. From the Serpents who watched their weapon perform. Who tested his edge in the crucible of pain and death.
This wasn't sport. It was calibration. And Silas Reed was proving lethally sharp.
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