Fuck, none of this was supposed to happen, I was almost out.
Is this all part of his plan? Talen said he wanted me alive but now he’s planted me here like a pawn on his board, and I walked right into it. My fists curl, and Strannt grins like he smells fear.
“Come on, Bloom.” He challenges. “Thought you Outerlanders liked to fight dirty. That’s what your kind did to my father, wasn’t it?”
He moves before I can respond—quick, hard. I twist, barely dodge the first strike, but the second slams into my ribs. Pain detonates in my chest like a spark catching dry leaves. I grunt and stumble back two steps, boots slipping.
The crowd erupts. Not in surprise. Theywantedthis.
“That one’s for him.” Strannt snarls.
My pulse kicks up, pulsing behind my eyes. Fuck. I could just drop, let him win, walk out bruised, humiliated—but at least I’d be alive. Or I could stop hiding and remind them I’m not just surviving. I’m dangerous. This won’t be clean. Or fair, but neither was what they did to Ezzy, and she deserves someone who will fight back.
Strannt steps back, grinning. He’s quick, I’ll give him that. But sloppy. Loud feet. Magic’s made him soft. Grew up training in the Citadel, where Threads are sharpened like swords, and he fights like someone who’s never had to survive without them.
But me? I’ve bled on cold stone. Fought with fists and fear and broken ribs. In the Outerlands sparring isn’t a sport, it’s survival.
Strannt’s got form but I’ve got instinct.
I sink into stance, muscles coiled and ready. The old burn scar on my left hand flares. But I wait. Not yet.
Strannt charges again, weight too far forward. I duck under his hook, and he stumbles from the momentum.
The room’s loud, boots, shouting. But Talen’s voice finds me anyway.“Stop playing nice. He’s not going to.”
Chest rising hard, I glance toward the edge of the mat, towardhim. Stupid. Just for a second, however, it’s enough. Strannt’s fist hammers into my ribs again—harder this time.Wincing I stagger back, it’s not enough to break anything, still, I’ll feel it tomorrow.
But he lingers in the follow-through, and this time I manage to seize his wrist. Jaw locked, I twist. Step in. Elbow clean and hard into the meat of his back. Strannt grunts. Real pain blooming under the bravado.
He comes back wilder, swinging with loose precision. I see it now. His rhythm falters, his chest rising too fast. He’s not controlled. He’sangry.
Pulling in a hard breath, I catch his next strike again, redirect it—his skin slick, forearm hot under my grip. My fist drives into his ribs with a satisfyingcrack. Something gives.
He gasps. Doubles over.
And I follow.
Palm to his chest. Then a clean hook across his jaw, bone meeting bone.
The beat behind my ribs quickens, but his is faster. Still, he doesn’t yield. Of course he doesn’t.
He just snarls and drags himself up—bloody-lipped, face blotched with rage, sweat dripping from his brow like oil. "You’ll have to do better than that," he growls.
I see it in his eyes, the refusal. Not just to lose but to lose tome. An Outerlander.
My body screams to finish it. Despite the duck, my Threads start to flare under my skin—feral, lashing just beneath the surface. I know I could end it. Easily. One strike. A neck angled too far. Iknowthe pressure points.
But I don’t. Iwon’tlet him pull me into this.
Instead, I circle him, lungs working hard but steady. Then he lunges. Sloppy. Tired. I catch the momentum, twist, and drop with him—arm tight around his throat, legs locked around his ribs.
He thrashes, gasping.
One more hit. Maybe two. And he won’t get back up.
But I give him the chance.
“Yield,” I command, loud enough to carry.
