The eastern district of the Royal Capital had always been a place where desperate people made desperate choices. Even twenty years ago, when Gray had been the pampered heir of House Reinford, he had known about the underground fighting rings that operated in the shadows of legitimate society.
What he hadn't known then—but had learned through bitter experience in his previous life—was exactly how to find them, how to enter them, and most importantly, how to survive them.
Gray made his way through narrow alleyways that reeked of sewage and despair, the practice sword hidden beneath a tattered cloak he had taken from their meager belongings. His destination was a seemingly abandoned warehouse near the docks, marked only by a faded symbol carved into the doorframe—three interlocking circles that most people would dismiss as decorative scratches.
To those who knew what to look for, it was the sign of the Iron Circle, the most profitable underground fighting ring in the capital.
In my past life, I discovered this place by accident when I was investigating smuggling operations. Now, it might be my family's salvation.
Gray approached the unmarked door and knocked in a specific pattern: two short, one long, three short. After a moment, a slot opened and suspicious eyes peered out.
"What do you want, boy?"
"I want to fight," Gray said simply.
The eyes looked him up and down dismissively. "You look like you'd blow over in a strong wind. Go home to your mother."
"I have silver to wager," Gray lied smoothly, patting his cloak where he had hidden the merchant's letter of credit. "And I have steel to back it up."
The slot closed. Gray heard whispered conversation from within, then the sound of multiple locks being undone. The door opened to reveal a mountain of a man covered in scars, his arms thick as tree trunks.
"Name's Brick," the man grunted. "I run security for the Circle. You sure you want to do this, kid? We've scraped a lot of pretty boys off the sand."
"I'm sure."
Brick studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Your funeral. Entry fee is five silver pieces."
Gray's heart sank. He didn't have five silver pieces—he barely had five copper pieces. But then he remembered the letter of credit hidden in his cloak.
"I have this," he said, producing the document. "It's a guarantee of payment from Merchant Aldwin of the Goldencoin Trading Company. Worth fifty silver pieces."
Brick's eyes widened as he examined the paper. Gray held his breath, hoping the man couldn't read well enough to notice that the letter was dated three years ago and might no longer be valid.
"Well, well," Brick said finally. "Fancy paper. Alright, kid, but if this turns out to be worthless, I'll feed you to the sharks personally. Come on."
Gray followed the giant man through a maze of corridors that descended deep beneath the warehouse. The sound of shouting and cheering grew louder with each step, along with the unmistakable ring of steel on steel.
They emerged into a vast underground arena carved directly from the bedrock beneath the capital. Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows over a crowd of rough-looking men and women who surrounded a circular pit filled with sand. The sand was dark in places—stained with blood that had soaked in over countless fights.
In the center of the pit, two fighters circled each other with naked blades. One was a scarred veteran with missing teeth, the other a younger man whose movements marked him as trained, though not expertly so. As Gray watched, the veteran feinted left, then drove his sword through his opponent's shoulder. The crowd roared its approval as the younger man fell.
"Welcome to the Iron Circle," Brick said with a grim smile. "Last man standing wins the purse. First blood is defeat. Death is..." He shrugged. "An occupational hazard."
Gray nodded, his eyes already analyzing the fighters he could see. Most were thugs and sellswords with more muscle than skill. A few showed signs of actual training, but their techniques were sloppy, their footwork predictable.
None of them would have lasted five minutes against the sword masters who trained me.
"When can I fight?" Gray asked.
"Eager, are we?" Brick chuckled. "There's an open bracket starting in an hour. Winner takes fifty silver pieces. But kid..." His voice turned serious. "These aren't practice matches. People die here. You sure you're ready for that?"
Gray thought of Lyanna counting copper pieces with shaking hands, of Vincent's bitter words about their cursed name, of his parents dying in poverty while their murderer lived in luxury.
"I'm ready."
An hour later, Gray stood at the edge of the fighting pit, practice sword in hand. The crowd jeered when they saw him—a thin sixteen-year-old boy among seasoned fighters who looked like they'd been forged in violence.
"Fresh meat!" someone shouted.
"I'll give him thirty seconds!" called another.
Gray ignored the taunts and focused on his first opponent: a thick-set man with arms like tree trunks and a curved saber that had seen better days. The man grinned, revealing broken teeth.
"Name's Crusher, boy. Guess why."
"I don't care what your name is," Gray replied calmly, settling into a fighting stance that was deceptively casual. "I only care about the silver."
The referee—a one-eyed woman with more scars than smooth skin—raised her hand. "Fight to first blood or submission! No magic, no poison, no crying to your mothers! Begin!"
Crusher charged forward with all the subtlety of a rampaging bull, his saber sweeping in a wide arc meant to decapitate. It was a powerful blow, but telegraphed from a mile away.
Gray stepped aside at the last possible moment, his movement so fluid it seemed like he had simply melted out of the way. As Crusher stumbled past, overbalanced by his own momentum, Gray's practice sword flicked out in a precise strike that opened a thin line across the big man's wrist.
Blood welled from the cut.
"First blood!" the referee called. "Winner: the new kid!"
The crowd fell silent in shock. Crusher stared at his bleeding wrist in disbelief.
"How did you—"
But Gray was already walking away, his expression unchanged. The fight had lasted less than ten seconds.
"Lucky shot," someone muttered, but there was uncertainty in the voice.
Gray's second opponent was warier—a lean woman with twin daggers who approached the fight with the caution of someone who had survived by being smarter than her enemies.
She was faster than Crusher, her blades weaving intricate patterns as she tested Gray's defenses. But speed without precision was just flailing, and after forty years of experience, Gray could read her attacks like words on a page.
When she committed to a double thrust aimed at his heart, Gray twisted between the blades, caught her wrist, and placed his sword's point against her throat in one smooth motion.
"Yield," he said quietly.
She looked into his eyes and saw something that made her shiver. "I yield."
The crowd was no longer jeering. Whispered conversations rippled through the stands as betting odds shifted dramatically.
Gray's third opponent was a former soldier, his technique polished and his strategy sound. The fight lasted nearly three minutes—long enough for Gray to gauge the man's full capabilities before ending it with a combination that disarmed him and drew blood from his sword arm in the same flowing movement.
By his fourth fight, the crowd was openly speculating about who this mysterious boy might be. When Gray faced off against "Iron Teeth" Marcus—a veteran who had won the last three tournaments—the betting was split nearly even.
Iron Teeth was good. Better than good. His sword work showed the discipline of formal training, and his experience in the ring had taught him how to read opponents and exploit weaknesses.
But Gray had been trained by the greatest sword masters in the kingdom, had fought in real battles where defeat meant death, and carried the accumulated wisdom of a lifetime spent perfecting his art.
The fight was a dance of steel and shadows, each combatant testing the other's limits. Iron Teeth fought with the controlled aggression of a professional warrior. Gray fought with the fluid grace of someone for whom swordsmanship was not just a skill, but a fundamental part of his being.
When the end came, it was sudden and final. Iron Teeth overextended on what should have been a killing thrust, and Gray's counter-attack was a thing of beauty—a perfect riposte that deflected the incoming blade while simultaneously drawing a line of blood across his opponent's forearm.
The crowd erupted in cheers and curses as betting slips were torn up or clutched triumphantly.
"Winner of the open bracket," the referee announced, "the boy who calls himself Gray!"
Fifty silver pieces. More money than his family had seen in six months.
But as Gray collected his winnings, he noticed something troubling. In the stands, partially hidden by shadows, sat a figure in expensive clothes whose presence seemed to command respect from even the roughest patrons.
The man was watching Gray with calculating eyes, and when their gazes met, he smiled—a predator recognizing another predator.
"Impressive," Brick said as Gray prepared to leave. "Haven't seen technique like that in... well, ever. You planning to come back?"
"Maybe," Gray said, slipping the silver into his cloak. "Depends on whether I need more money."
"Kid," Brick said seriously, "word of advice? That man in the expensive coat who was watching you? That's Viktor Grimm, and he doesn't come to the Circle for entertainment. He comes to recruit. Whatever you're running from, it might be better than what he's offering."
Gray glanced back at the shadowy figure, who was now engaged in quiet conversation with several dangerous-looking individuals.
Viktor Grimm. One of Aldric's most trusted lieutenants. What are the odds he'd be here the same night I win my first tournament?
"Thanks for the warning," Gray said, but he was already calculating possibilities. If Grimm was here, it might be an opportunity rather than a threat—assuming he could play the game carefully enough.
As Gray made his way through the maze of tunnels back to the surface, his mind was already working on the next phase of his plan. Fifty silver would solve their immediate problems, but it was only the beginning.
The Reinford family had once controlled vast territories and wielded influence that reached to the royal court itself. To reclaim that legacy, Gray would need more than sword skills and tournament winnings.
He would need allies, information, and most dangerous of all—he would need to risk revealing pieces of his true identity to the right people at the right time.
But first, he needed to get home and see the look on Lyanna's face when he placed fifty silver pieces on their rickety table.
One step at a time, he told himself. First we survive. Then we thrive. Then we take back everything.
Behind him, in the depths of the Iron Circle, Viktor Grimm was asking very pointed questions about the mysterious young swordsman who fought like someone far older than his appearance suggested.
The game, as they said, was afoot.
Gray emerged from the warehouse into the pre-dawn darkness, the weight of silver coins heavy in his cloak. The eastern district was quiet except for the occasional drunk stumbling home or the distant sound of ships in the harbor.
As he walked through the narrow streets toward his family's tenement, Gray allowed himself a small smile. Tonight had gone better than he had dared hope. Not only had he won enough money to solve their immediate crisis, but he had also announced his presence to the underground community in a way that would open doors—and create opportunities.
The practice sword at his side had served him well, but Gray's fingers itched for the feel of a real blade. Somewhere in the city, probably displayed as a trophy in Aldric's study, was Dawnbreaker—the ancestral sword of House Reinford.
Soon, he promised silently. Soon I'll come for everything you stole, Uncle. But first, I need to make sure my family never goes hungry again.
When he finally reached the tenement building where they lived, Gray paused outside the door. Through the thin walls, he could hear Lyanna moving around inside—probably preparing for another day of serving drinks to men who looked at her with eyes that made Gray's blood boil.
Not anymore, he vowed. Those days are over.
He opened the door and stepped inside to find both his siblings awake despite the early hour. Lyanna was mending one of Vincent's shirts by candlelight, while Vincent himself sat at the table staring morosely at their meager breakfast of thin porridge.
"Gray!" Lyanna looked up with relief. "Thank the gods you're safe. When you didn't come back last night, I was so worried..."
Instead of answering, Gray walked to the table and placed fifty gleaming silver pieces next to Vincent's bowl.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Gray," Lyanna whispered, her eyes wide with shock, "where did you get this?"
"I earned it," he said simply. "Honestly and with steel in hand, just like our ancestors did."
Vincent picked up one of the coins with trembling fingers, as if it might disappear at any moment. "This is... this is more money than we've seen in..."
"Two years," Lyanna finished, tears streaming down her face. "Gray, this is enough to pay our rent for months. Enough to buy real food, medicine if we need it..." She looked up at him with something approaching awe. "How?"
Gray sat down across from his siblings and made a decision. Not the whole truth—not yet—but enough truth to help them understand that their circumstances were about to change dramatically.
"There are places in this city where skill with a blade can earn silver," he said carefully. "I fought tonight, and I won."
"You fought?" Vincent's eyes lit up with excitement and worry in equal measure. "Like a real warrior? With swords?"
"With swords," Gray confirmed. "And I'll fight again when we need money. But Vincent..." He fixed his younger brother with a serious stare. "This stays between us. No one else can know how we got this silver. Do you understand?"
Both siblings nodded solemnly.
"There's something else," Gray continued. "Lyanna, you're not going back to the tavern."
"Gray, I can't just quit—"
"Yes, you can." His voice carried an authority that brooked no argument. "You're a daughter of House Reinford. I don't care how far we've fallen—you will not spend another day scrubbing floors and dodging the groping hands of drunk merchants."
Lyanna's lower lip trembled. "But how will we eat? This silver won't last forever, and—"
"Leave that to me." Gray reached across the table and took her hands. "I have plans. Big plans. But I need you and Vincent to trust me and follow my lead. Can you do that?"
"Always," Vincent said immediately, his young voice fierce with loyalty.
Lyanna looked at her older brother—really looked at him—and saw something in his eyes that hadn't been there before. A confidence, a certainty, almost as if he had aged years in the space of a single night.
"Who are you?" she asked softly. "You left here yesterday morning, and you came back... different. Like you know secrets the rest of us don't."
For a moment, Gray considered telling them everything. But the truth was too impossible, too dangerous. If word got out that Josh Reinford had somehow returned from the dead, it would reach Aldric's ears within days.
"I'm your brother," he said instead. "And I'm going to take care of our family the way our father should have been able to. The way our ancestors would have wanted."
He stood and moved to the window, looking out at the distant spires of the Royal Palace where kings and queens had once sought the counsel of the Reinford dukes.
"The name Reinford used to mean something in this kingdom," he said quietly. "Honor, strength, loyalty, excellence in all things. People bowed when they heard it. Enemies trembled when they saw our banners."
"That was a long time ago," Vincent said sadly.
Gray turned back to his siblings, and for a moment, they saw not the sixteen-year-old boy who had awakened sick and confused just days before, but someone else entirely—someone older, harder, carrying the weight of years they couldn't explain.
"Not as long as you might think," Gray said. "And not as long as some people might hope."
He walked to the loose floorboard where he had found the practice sword and knelt beside it, but this time he pulled out something else—a small, silver signet ring bearing the Reinford coat of arms.
"Father left this for us," he said, slipping it onto his finger where it fit perfectly despite his young hands. "A reminder of who we are, even when the world tries to forget."
The ring seemed to catch the candlelight and throw it back with unusual brilliance, as if responding to its rightful owner's touch.
"Tomorrow," Gray announced, "we start building our new life. But tonight, we celebrate the first victory in what's going to be a very long war."
He pulled out three silver pieces and handed them to Lyanna. "Go to the market when it opens and buy us a real breakfast. Eggs, bacon, fresh bread, maybe even some fruit. We're going to eat like Reinfords for the first time in two years."
Lyanna clutched the silver pieces to her chest, fresh tears streaming down her face. "Gray, I don't know how you did this, but—"
"But nothing," he interrupted gently. "We're family. This is what family does."
As dawn broke over the Royal Capital, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose, the three surviving members of House Reinford sat around their rickety table and began to plan for a future that suddenly seemed possible again.
None of them noticed the shadowy figure watching their building from across the street, or the way that figure slipped away as the first merchants began opening their shops.
Viktor Grimm had questions about the mysterious young swordsman from the Iron Circle. Questions that would lead him to investigate everyone and everything connected to the eastern district.
But for now, in the growing light of a new day, Gray Reinford allowed himself to enjoy this moment of hope with his siblings.
The real work would begin tomorrow.