Even in the quiet, something crawled beneath his skin.
Chapter 31
Symond
The Hive’s training yard reeked of sweat and dust. Sand crunched beneath Symond’s boots as he faced his trainer across the ring—a broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair and a face carved from stone.
Her name was Tareen. She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak unless she had to. Just watched him with a quiet judgment.
Symond could smell the insult. Violette had set him up with this old hag on purpose, calling him too weak to keep up with the real fighters. A woman trainer meant he was being pitied, or worse, mocked. Tareen wouldn’t be able to teach him a single thing worth knowing, and she sure as hell wouldn’t win a fight against him.
“Begin,” she said.
He lunged, fists ready to bury her under a mountain of bruises and frustration, but she moved like smoke. Her foot shot out and hooked his ankle; he ate sand before he knew what hit him. Embarrassment flared hotter than pain, scorching his cheeks as he scrambled up.
Again.
He tried a different angle this time. Faster. Less predictable.
She swept his legs out from under him and planted a knee to his chest before he could blink.
The air whooshed from his lungs.
Again.
By the fifth knockdown, his vision had narrowed to a red haze. His ribs ached. His pride burned. The other Hive recruits watching from the edge of the ring snickered.
He caught one face—smug, with too-familiar eyes, a crooked smile, and ginger locks. “Bested by a girl,” he snickered.
Symond snapped.
He leaped over the ropes, fists swinging. The recruit barely had time to react before Symond slammed him to the ground and punched him again. And again.
Blood sprayed. Someone yelled. Arms grabbed him, dragged him back.
“Enough!”
Tareen’s voice cracked like a whip.
Symond’s chest heaved. His knuckles throbbed. The recruit lay stunned, blood streaming from a broken nose.
Violette appeared out of nowhere, seizing his collar and hauling him toward the exit.
“You’re done,” she hissed. “You’re benched until I say otherwise.”
He didn’t fight her.
Symond waited until the sting of humiliation faded and the bruises on his ribs bloomed into a dull, manageable ache. He bided his time in the workshop, hammering his fury into the gleam of metal and the hiss of steam. Sparks flew like thoughts he couldn’t keep hold of. His mind circled back to Violette’s simmering disgust as she'd dragged him out, the way she hadn’t even bothered to look at him when she benched him.
The more he worked, the more he seethed. The training yard's taunts echoed in his skull, reminding him of every goddamned slight.
He threw down his tools and left. The alleys twisted around him, dark, narrow veins pulsing with whispers and shadows. He needed somewhere loud, somewhere to drown out the noise in his head.
He found it on the edge of Aszona’s slums: a flickering neon sign advertising “entertainment.” He shoved the door open and was greeted by the smell of perfume and smoke, a riot of colors and noise. The place was packed—music thudding, people shouting, drinks sloshing over chipped mugs.
A woman with a cloud of red hair and a dress that barely qualified as such sauntered over. “Fresh from the alleys, huh? You look like you could use a drink. Or six.”
“Double,” Symond said, forcing every muscle to unwind.
