I don’t scan the crowd. I don’t need to. I feel her.
She’s somewhere by my family, eyes heavy on me like a prayer I don’t deserve. She doesn’t know what’ll happen if I lose.
Neither do I.
But I know what I’m fighting for and it’s not just the Ring.
It’s her.
At the center of the arena, the sand has been freshly laid. It smells like sweat and sawdust, like history and violence. The bleachers curl above us like fangs. The lights are harsh. Yellow. Cruel.
This morning, Grandfather and Father told me who I was fighting. The things I’ve heard about him are crazy.
Across the pit, the Irish enter.
Cillian Reilly.
The Butcher.
He walks like death on a mission, long black coat trailing like robes, bare chest painted with inked Celtic knots and scars, the kind no blade leaves unless you enjoy it. He carries no expression. Not even arrogance. Just inevitability.
I was warned.
He always delivers the last rites.
“Shit,” Marco mutters beside me. “He’s bigger than the photos.”
Leo stands on the edge of the ring. So do the heads of the five remaining families. This isn’t a fight. It’s a goddamn ceremony.
If I win this fight, I’ll win the ring. I’ll be the last man standing. I can be the ruler of this school for the next four years.
Conor stands in the crowd behind The Butcher, arms crossed, jaw locked. I keep my eyes on him for half a breath too long.
Mistake.
Leo walks to the center of the ring, his robe dark as the night outside, voice clipped and cruel with finality. “This is not sanctioned by the school. But it is allowed by the families. You win, you wear the ring. You lose, you leave blood on the floor.”
Every breath feels like ash.
Every family is here. Pressed along the edge of the underground pit, students from the families are watching. The Irish are clustered like animals on one side, and my family, myblood, stands behind me. Marco’s jaw is clenched so tight, it could crack bone. Milo’s hands flex open and closed like he’s the one about to fight. Nico leans against a pillar, shadowed, silent, unreadable.
Aoife stands next to Rosa, and my cousins.
Across from me, the Irish fighter steps forward. A wall of rage and iron.
He’s probably a good few inches taller than me, and I’m over six foot. He’s a monster. A wall of muscle and fury, but what makes my pulse spike isn’t his size.
It’s his stillness.
Don’t even see his body move when he breathes.
He looks like a man who’s already buried me.
He grins at me like I’m already broken. “Ready to die for your girl, Italian?”
I spit onto the sand. “I’m ready to make you regret stepping into my world.”
Leo raises his hand. A single breath holds the room in suspension.
