The wind howled outside, rattling the scrap-metal roof of the hut, but inside, it was quiet.
Eiden—or "Stray," as the village called him—sat by the small fire, wrapping a fresh strip of cloth around his burned hand. His ribs were a dull, constant ache, but his strength was returning in frightening bursts.
Tor was stirring a pot of thin, grey broth. It was the last of their food.
"You move well for a broken thing," Tor muttered, watching Eiden flex his fingers. "That fight with Grit... you didn't just beat him. You dismantled him."
"My body knew what to do," Eiden whispered, staring at the flames. "My head didn't."
"Muscle memory," Tor said. "It means you've been fighting a long time, lad. Maybe too long."
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The heavy wooden door shook on its hinges.
Tor froze. He looked at Eiden. "Stay down."
Tor walked to the door and opened it a crack. "What do you want? We have no scrap today."
A heavy boot kicked the door wide open, sending Tor stumbling back.
Three men walked in. They weren't workers like Grit. They were "Pit Handlers"—men who managed the fights in the Arena. They wore studded leather and carried heavy, lead-weighted clubs.
The leader, a man with a shaved head and a nose ring, stepped in. He ignored Tor and looked straight at Eiden.
"There he is," the leader grinned. "The Stray who dropped Grit in two seconds."
He pointed his club at Eiden.
"Get up, boy. You're fighting tonight."
Tor stepped between them. He looked small and frail against the thugs, but his voice was steady.
"He is injured," Tor said. "He can barely breathe. He is not fighting in your pit."
"He fights," the leader spat. "Or we drag him there."
"He is a guest in my house," Tor said, gripping the rusted iron poker he had been using to tend the fire. "Get out."
The leader laughed. "Listen to the old man bark."
He nodded to his two goons. "Grab the kid. If the old man gets in the way, break his legs."
The two men lunged forward. One reached for Tor to shove him aside. The other reached for Eiden.
Eiden tensed, preparing to move despite the pain, but he didn't have to.
Tor moved first.
The old man didn't look frail anymore. He moved with a sudden, jerky speed, like a coiled spring snapping loose.
He sidestepped the first guard's shove. The guard stumbled.
Tor didn't hesitate. He swung the iron poker.
CRACK.
He struck the guard behind the knees. The man howled and collapsed. Before he hit the ground, Tor spun the poker and drove the handle into the man's kidney. The guard curled into a ball, wheezing.
The second guard, the one reaching for Eiden, turned in shock. "You old—"
Tor didn't let him finish. He thrust the poker forward like a spear, stopping just an inch from the man's throat.
"Back," Tor growled. His eyes were hard, the eyes of a man who had survived decades in the Iron Peaks. "Or I open your throat."
The guard froze, hands raised, looking terrified.
Tor swung the poker low, sweeping the man's legs out from under him. He hit the dirt hard.
Eiden stared, wide-eyed. The old scavenger was a fighter.
Tor stood over the groaning men, breathing hard, his knuckles white on the poker. He looked at the leader.
"I said," Tor rasped, "get out."
The leader backed up, his club raised, his eyes wide. "You... you're supposed to be a scavenger."
"I was a lot of things before I was a scavenger," Tor said.
"We... we can't go," the leader stammered, his bravado gone. He looked desperate now. "You don't understand."
"I understand you're threatening my guest," Tor said, taking a step forward.
"No! Listen!" the leader pleaded, dropping his club. "It's not about the money! It's the rations!"
Tor paused. "What?"
The leader looked at Tor, shame in his eyes.
"The Caretaker... old Merrick... he manages the food for this entire sector. He... he has a gambling problem, Tor. You know that."
Tor's face went pale. "What did he do?"
"He bet it," the leader whispered. "He bet the entire month's ration on tonight's main event. He bet against the House Champion. He thought he had a ringer coming from the south, but the guy didn't show up."
The leader looked at Eiden, then back at Tor.
"If we don't have a fighter... we forfeit. We lose the bet. That means no grain. No meat. No water deliveries for a month. The village... the children... they'll starve, Tor. We needed the boy because he's fast."
Silence filled the hut. The wind howled outside, sounding like the hunger that was coming.
Tor lowered the poker. He saw the horror in the leader's eyes.
"A month?" Tor whispered. "We won't survive a week in this cold without food."
"That's why we need a fighter," the leader said. "Please."
Eiden stood up slowly, wincing as his ribs shifted. "I'll do it," he said quietly. "I can fight."
"NO!"
Tor turned on him, his voice a roar.
"You are a boy!" Tor shouted. "You are broken! I pulled you from the river to save you, not to feed you to the wolves!"
"Tor, the village—"
"I know!" Tor snapped. He looked at the leader. "Who is the Champion tonight?"
"It's... it's Gorm," the leader said. "Vorian's lieutenant. The one with the hammer."
Eiden watched Tor's face drain of color.
"Gorm," Tor whispered. "He doesn't fight. He executes."
"He's bored," the leader said. "He wants to break something. The boy won't last a minute."
Tor walked to the wall. He reached up and pulled down an old, heavy object wrapped in oilcloth.
He unwrapped it.
It was a war hammer. Old, chipped, but heavy and lethal.
Tor gripped the handle. His stance shifted. He wasn't a scavenger anymore. He was a warrior of the Peaks.
"The Caretaker made the bet," Tor said, his voice hard. "The village needs a fighter."
He looked at Eiden, his eyes softening.
"You are my guest, Stray. You are not my sacrifice."
Tor turned to the leader, hefting the hammer onto his shoulder.
"If the village needs blood to eat... then I will give them mine."
"Tor, you can't," the leader said, shocked. "Gorm will destroy you."
"Then he better be quick," Tor growled. "Take me to the Pit."
The "Pit" was a crater carved into the black rock of the mountain, a bowl of stone stained rust-red by generations of violence. The sides were lined with scrap-metal bleachers, packed tight with roaring, angry men and women. The air smelled of roasting meat, cheap ale, and blood.
Tor and Eiden were shoved through the iron gate at the bottom.
The crowd roared. They had heard the rumors. A new fighter. A boy who moved like smoke.
"We got this!" a man in the front row shouted, clutching a betting slip. "The boy is fast! Just survive three minutes, kid, and we eat!"
"Don't let him hit you!" another woman screamed. "Run the clock!"
But then, Eiden was pushed back against the wall by the guards.
And Tor stepped forward into the center of the ring.
The roar of the crowd died instantly. A confused murmur rippled through the stands.
"Tor?" someone shouted. "What are you doing, old man?"
"Get out of there!" a woman cried, her voice shrill. "You'll die!"
Unlike the cold, elite world of St. Swithin's, the Bear Clan was a family of outcasts. They were brutal, yes, but they looked after their own. Tor was an elder. He was the one who found scrap when the mines were empty. He was the one who shared his fire.
"Get out!" the crowd chanted, terrified for him.
The gate on the opposite side groaned open.
Gorm stepped out.
He was a mountain of muscle and bad intentions, wielding a massive, iron-headed war hammer. He wore a helmet made from the skull of a mountain ox.
He looked at Tor. He laughed.
"This is the challenger?" Gorm bellowed to the crowd. "The Caretaker bet the rations on a corpse?"
The Ringmaster, a man with a scarred face standing on a raised platform, looked uneasy. But the bet was made. "Fight!"
It wasn't a fight. It was a massacre.
Tor tried. He raised his old war hammer, his stance solid, remembering moves from a war fought twenty years ago. He swung.
Gorm didn't even block. He just stepped aside, laughing, and shoved Tor.
The old man flew backward, crashing into the dirt.
"Get up, scavenger," Gorm taunted.
Tor scrambled up, wheezing. He swung again. Gorm caught the handle of Tor's hammer with one hand and ripped it away. He tossed it aside like a twig.
Then Gorm started to play.
He punched Tor in the stomach. Tor folded.
He kicked Tor in the hip. Tor fell.
The crowd was screaming, not for blood, but for mercy. "Stop! Gorm, stop! He's had enough!"
Tor lay in the dirt, blood pouring from his nose.
"One minute!" the Ringmaster shouted, his voice shaking. "Survive one more minute and the bet holds!"
Tor tried to crawl. He couldn't stand. But he wouldn't leave. If he left the ring, the bet was lost. The village would starve.
Gorm walked over to him slowly.
"You're stubborn, old man," Gorm growled. "I like that."
He raised his heavy boot and stomped down on Tor's leg.
CRACK.
The sound echoed in the silent pit. Tor screamed. It was a high, thin sound that tore at Eiden's heart.
"STOP!" the villagers screamed. "Let him go! We forfeit! We forfeit!"
Even the Ringmaster looked sick. "Gorm... maybe that's enough. He's defeated."
Gorm looked up at the crowd, his eyes crazy with adrenaline. "He's not defeated! He hasn't begged! Look at him! He's still trying to get up!"
Tor was dragging himself by his elbows, trying to protect the village until the very end.
"Beg me," Gorm hissed, grabbing Tor's left arm. "Beg for your life, scavenger."
Tor looked up, his teeth gritty with blood. "Go... to... hell."
Gorm's face twisted in rage. "Fine. I'll break every bone you have left."
He started to apply pressure to Tor's arm. The elbow began to bend the wrong way.
Eiden moved.
He didn't run. He launched himself.
He vaulted over the wooden barrier that separated the fighters from the waiting area. He hit the sand running.
Gorm was focused on Tor's arm. He didn't see the blur of white and gray until it was too late.
Eiden leaped.
He delivered a flying knee strike directly to Gorm's face.
CRUNCH.
The impact was momentous. Gorm, the giant, was lifted off his feet. He flew backward, crashing into the dirt ten feet away.
Tor gasped, his arm released. He looked up.
Stray stood over him. The boy's eyes were not foggy anymore. They were burning with a cold, green light.
"Don't touch him," Stray whispered.
The crowd went wild. A roar of shock and hope exploded from the bleachers.
Gorm scrambled to his feet, spitting out a tooth. His nose was shattered. He roared, grabbing his war hammer from the ground.
"YOU!" Gorm screamed. "I'll kill you both!"
He charged.
This time, it was a fight.
Gorm swung the hammer, a blow meant to liquefy organs.
Eiden didn't block. He flowed. He was the River. He ducked under the swing, the wind ruffling his hair.
He came up inside Gorm's guard. He punched Gorm in the throat.
Gorm gagged, stumbling back.
Eiden didn't let up. He was a storm. He kicked Gorm's knee—the same leg Gorm had used to stomp Tor.
SNAP.
Gorm screamed, his leg buckling. He fell to one knee.
Eiden spun, a full-rotation kick that connected with the side of Gorm's head.
Gorm hit the ground face-first.
He tried to push himself up. Eiden stepped on his hand—the hand that had held the hammer—and crushed it under his heel.
Gorm howled.
The fight was over. The giant was broken. Eiden stood over him, breathing hard, his ribs aching, but his spirit untouched. The crowd was on its feet. They were chanting. "KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" They wanted blood. Gorm had hurt their elder. Gorm looked up at Eiden. His face was a mask of terror. "Please..." Gorm whimpered, blood bubbling on his lips. "Please... stop... I beg you..." Eiden looked at the begging man. He looked at Tor, broken in the dust. He listened to the roar of the crowd. A memory flashed. A locker room. A gun. A girl showing mercy.
But Eiden didn't have that girl's memory. He only had the instinct of the Pit.
"You broke his leg," Eiden said, his voice flat.
He grabbed Gorm's head with both hands.
Gorm's eyes went wide. "No—"
CRACK.
Eiden twisted.
Gorm went limp.
Silence. Then, an explosion of noise. The villagers vaulted the walls. They rushed the pit. They didn't attack Eiden. They grabbed him. They lifted him up. "STRAY! STRAY! STRAY!" They cheered him. They carried him on their shoulders, a hero covered in the blood of their oppressor. Eiden looked down at Tor. The old man was being tended to by a medic, but he was watching Eiden. Tor wasn't cheering. He looked sad. Eiden Wondered what was the problem was.