Marco’s fistsmeet mine in rhythm, sharp, fast, punishing drills that have us both grunting under the pressure. My shoulders scream. My knuckles are raw. I welcome the pain.
Across the mats, I see Milo coaching Aoife. He adjusts her grip, taps her inner elbow, and shifts her stance with the ease of someone born to shape weapons out of people. She rolls her eyes at something he says. He grins, even as her blade nearly slices the air an inch from his throat.
But I can feel her tension from across the room, tightened shoulders, fingers curled just a second too long, her chest rising like she’s suffocating inside her own skin.
She’s cracking.
Then I see Leo entering.
His boots slam the floor in clean, measured strikes that break the rhythm of training. All eyes snap to him, as the other trainers stand next to him.
He stops at the center of the mats. Rainwater drips from the hem of his coat. He’s not smiling.
“Five families began this,” he says, voice low, ancient. “Only three remain.”
I stand straighter, as he tells us which families have made it.
The Russians.
The Triad.
The Italians.
I feel the shift ripple through the room. A tightening of jaws. A flex of fingers around weapons. Everyone knows what’s coming. Everyone feels it in their spine.
“Final trial,” Leo says. “The Trial of the Ring. One name will be drawn from each family. The named family gets to choose its fighter against the opponent. No weapons. No mercy. Win, the ring is yours. Lose, your family loses everything.”
My heart hammers once. Twice.
Milo leans into me and mutters, “You know who it’ll be.”
“I fucking hope so,” I whisper back, jaw tight.
I step forward before Leo calls my name.
Conor watches me from across the mat. Stiff. Storm-eyed. Aoife is with my brothers, small, pale, still. Her eyes flicker to me, wide, terrified.
She knows what I want.
I stop in front of Leo; he holds the bag out like a king offering fate.
My fingers slide in; I pull the slip. Warm from the cloth. Heavy from the weight.
I don’t read it. I don’t need to.
I pass it to Leo.
His eyes flick down. Then up.
“The Irish.”
Silence. Then Milo laughs, gasoline catching.
I bow to Conor, slow and mocking.
I find Aoife and wink.
I walk back to my brothers, to her.
