My eyes were drawn to the stage, where an impressive wrestling ring had been set up. Two hulking men were already in the middle of beating the hell out of each other, their blood spraying across the floor with every brutal punch. The crowd roared in approval, their cheers echoing off the high, domed ceiling.
“What the hell is this?” I muttered, my stomach churning as one of the fighters delivered a bone-crushing blow that sent his opponent crashing into the ropes.
“Each mafia lord brings their two strongest prisoners to fight,” he explained, though I struggled to hear him over the roar of the crowd. “There are several rounds, and everyone bets on who’ll survive. It keeps the crowd entertained.”
Entertained?I glanced around at the sea of eager faces, their eyes glowing with a sick kind of joy. It was like they were watching a play, not real men being torn apart. I’d seen plenty of brutality in my life, but this… this was a whole new level of fucked up.
“For fuck’s sake, Will. What kind of mess did you drag us into?”
“Relax, Viv.” He flashed me that confident grin of his, like he was in on a joke the rest of us had yet to hear. “We just have to make it through the night, all right? Once I win, it will all be worth it.”
I wasn’t so sure. As I watched another fighter hit the ground, his skull cracking against the floor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were in way over our heads. And if Will’s plan went sideways—and it sure as hell felt like it would—I had no idea how we’d get out of this alive.
3
THE SHADOW
The fighting ring reeked of blood and sweat, a nauseating blend that clung to my nostrils. I stood in the shadows, my form obscured by the ever-present veil of darkness I kept around me. The crowd knew I was here—how could they not? My presence alone sent ripples of unease through the air, and I could sense their eyes flickering nervously in my direction, but no one dared to look too long.
Good. Let them fear the shadows.
Let them fearme.
I crossed my arms and leaned back against the cold stone wall, watching the final moments of the fight. It was the same brutal spectacle as always: two men—battered, bruised, practically feral at this point—trying to beat each other to death for the entertainment of these bloodthirsty sycophants. My gaze followed the action lazily, my mind drifting elsewhere. I didn’t know why I still bothered coming to these events. It was all an endless, bloody loop, the same mindless violence dressed up as sport.
Appearances were everything in The Below. If I weren’t here, they’d start whispering. They’d start questioning whether The Shadow was losing his grip, losing interest. And in our world,where power was everything, perception could turn the tide faster than any blade.
The crowd roared as one of the fighters crumpled to the ground, his skull splitting against the floor with a sickening crack. Blood pooled around him, dark and viscous, glistening under the harsh lights. The other fighter raised his hands triumphantly, teeth bared in a savage grin, while the crowd erupted into cheers and jeers. Bets were settled with curses or triumphant laughter, gold exchanging hands as quickly as the life that had drained from the corpse on the floor.
The referee—a fae with glittering, soulless eyes—stepped forward, nudging the body with his boot. When there was no reaction, he shrugged. “Dead,” he boomed. The announcement was met with a renewed frenzy, the bloodlust in the crowd reaching a fever pitch. The roar of excitement was almost deafening.
I let out a tired breath. Another poor bastard dead, another night of chaos. The crowd would feast on this for hours, drunk on the bloodshed and the high of placing their wagers. But the fighting was merely the warm-up, the appetizer for tonight’s true entertainment.
The referee called for a brief intermission as the handlers came forward and dragged the bodies away. “We’ll begin the main event shortly.”
The crowd shifted restlessly, eager for the next act of this grotesque carnival.
I turned my gaze toward the section reserved for this year’s contestants. Poor, naïve fools. Every year, it was the same thing: desperate men and women, strays scraping together whatever they had for the entry fee into a game they’d never win. They came from all corners of The Below and the human world beyond, thinking they could solve the impossible riddle and earn their way into the mafia’s graces.
Idiots.
They never understood the true nature of this game. The riddles were crafted by the finest minds in The Below, warlocks and wizards who delighted in twisting logic into impossible knots. The rules were simple—get it right, and you’re given a coveted spot under a mafia lord, with power and protection beyond your wildest dreams. Get it wrong? Well, that was the real prize, wasn’t it? They’d seen too much by then. The faces of the lords, the secrets of our world. It was easier to kill them all off. A neat, bloody end to a messy affair.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes narrowing as I took in the nervous faces of the contestants. Some of them were already sweating through their suits, their fear tainting the air. They had no idea what they’d truly signed up for. By the end of the night, most of them would be dead, their dreams of power and glory shattered along with their skulls.
Just another night in The Below.
My mind drifted to the bargain I’d made with Altair. Where was I going to find a wife? I certainly didn’t want there to be any feelings attached to this arrangement. It would be completely transactional. But how would I find someone I trusted to be in it for the right reasons?
I ran a hand through my hair. The whole damn idea sounded like an impossible feat. Desperate times called for desperate measures, though.
And I was fucking desperate.
Movement on the stage pulled me from my thoughts. Tonight would play out like all the others. I’d watch them dance, I’d watch them die, and in the end, I’d walk away, my reputation intact, The Shadow still feared and untouchable.
The Wraith Lord, Ciro Rossi, stepped up to the podium, his skeletal form draped in shadowy robes that clung to his gaunt frame like a funeral shroud. His thin lips curved into a grinas he tapped the microphone, the sound crackling through the speakers and echoing across the massive hall. The crowd fell silent, every eye fixed on him.
“Good evening, my esteemed friends,” Ciro drawled, his voice smooth as silk yet dripping with that hint of mockery he was known for. “What an honor it is to host the lunar convention once again.”
