The men around him laughed—hungry sounds that crawled over my skin like lice.
“But you?” Turtanu said, and his voice cut the crowd’s noise clean. “You bleed like a boy from linen halls. Tell me, Salvatore—are you a lion or lamb? Your father’s blood… or another mouth for the pyres?”
Their laughter swelled, eager for a spectacle. Heat knifed at my throat. My fists closed until my nails scored the skin of my palm. “I can fight,” I spat, the words like hot iron in my mouth. “I can?—”
They cut me off. A soldier near the ring jeered, “Strip him, see if he pisses himself!” Someone hawked, and the spit hissed at my feet.
Turtanu’s face folded into a sneer. “Your brother died with honor. You’ll die in filth, crying for a father who never gave a damn. You won’t last a night here, Lorian. Not one.”
The crowd shoved, sandals scuffing, dust rising in choking clouds. Hands hauled at my tunic, dragged me toward the ring. I was pushed in like meat.
Inside, a giant waited. Broad-shouldered, fists battered from oar and stone, his chest sculpted by years of work. He clapped his hands once—the sound snapped like a bone—and grinned with the mouth of a predator.
Turtanu folded his arms and did not look like a man who needed to shout. “Step in. Bleed for it. Prove me wrong. Or go back to your father’s house and hide.” His voice was a command that tasted like a threat.
I stepped forward, legs buzzing. The giant moved like a falling tree. His first punch hit my jaw before I could brace—hard enough to spin the world sideways. Stars burst across my vision, white and mad. Another blow smashed into my ribs; breath left me in a sound like a broken pot. I doubled, spit, and copper flooded my mouth.
And then my skull cracked open another time.
I was a young boy again in my father’s courtyard—linen at my throat, the crisp air of the hall pressing in. A wooden blade sagged in my hands, rough and heavy.
“Higher.”
His voice was the kind that never bent.
I swung. Too slow.
The slap of his palm across my face cracked like a whip. Pain flared white-hot on my cheek; I tasted the bitter salt of old tears.
“You’ll never match Julian,” he hissed, close enough that the smell of old wine and smoke filled my nose. “You’ll never fight the way your brother does. Weakness runs through you like a vein.”
Back in the ring, a sandal slammed my shin. The giant’s fist smashed into my temple; light burst, then tunneled, slow and hot. I pitched forward and ate dust. The crowd roared—an animal chorus—but in my ears it was my father’s laugh, low and satisfied, the echo of a hand that had taught me how to swallow shame.
I tried to rise. My legs buckled, then burned with the effort. Blood salted my tongue. My breath came in shallow scraps. The giant reared back, a hammer ready to fall.
Memory and present collided—my father’s palm, the crack; the giant’s fist, the crack; the same lesson taught in two languages. Fight until you fall. Fight until they stop counting you. Fight until you earn nothing but a name dragged through mud.
Something in me went hot and furious then—not courage, not strength, just a raw, animalistic refusal to be reduced before men. I spat blood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and rose, slow, every movement a jagged tear of pain.
The giant laughed, teeth bared, and came again. This time, I met him.
It wasn’t grace. It wasn’t the clean, godlike fury Turtanu praised in Julian. It was flailing, clawing survival—a shoulder jammed into his ribs, a twist at the hip, a desperate palm slammed across his face. My knuckles scraped flesh; his breath reeked of sweat and stale bread. He staggered, surprised.
For a heartbeat, the ring went silent. Men leaned in, waiting. Then the yard split open—howls, stamping, voices rising with half-encouragement, half-glee.
Turtanu watched from the shade. His face was carved from stone, unreadable, as patient as cooling rock.
When the clamor swallowed us again, I realized my cheek throbbed where my father’s palm had left its ghost. I had taken blows that hurt worse than bone because they had come from the hand that raised me—hands that taught me fear and how to hide it.
The giant lunged once more. I met him, not because I was a lion, but because the hunger inside me would not let me die quiet and broken where they could crow over it.
My fist struck his jaw, jarring my arm to the shoulder. He staggered half a step—enough to draw a gasp from the crowd—but then his grin widened, teeth red where I’d split his lip.
He came down on me like a collapsing wall. A fist to my temple. A knee to my gut. The breath fled my chest in a sharp grunt. My vision swam, hot and blurred. I clawed at him, struck his ribs, but it was like striking stone. His hand crashed across my face, and I hit the dirt hard. Dust filled my teeth.
I tried to rise. My arms shook, my legs refused. The ring tilted. Another kick smashed into my side, and pain lanced white through my ribs.
The crowd roared—half jeers, half laughter. Someone shouted, “Lorian’s cub pisses dust!” Another spat. A sandal heel pressed between my shoulders and ground me into the sand.
