Behind him, he heard Growlsabob let out another pit-shaking cry. He glanced up at Nes. She was still smiling.
So she wanted a fight. Fine. She’d get one.
Toran rolled his shoulders a few times, then turned to face his opponent. He scanned the burly man from head to toe. Growlsabob was large, larger than Quint.
Doubt gnawed on the back of his neck—small nibbles like those of a tiny animal. He’d never lost to Quint, but he knew nothing of this Impaler. The man held no visible weapons. Toran couldn’t figure out what the man used to earn himself such a name. His fingers? Toes?
He should have listened to his gut and gone straight to the bar. Screw sobriety. It had never gotten him anything, anyway.
Growlsabob flexed his muscles.
What he wouldn’t give for a bit of his drunken confidence.
“The sound of the bell will signal the start of the brawls,” the announcer called. “At this time, all bets are closed. You all know the rules.”
The announcer stuck his head out like a turtle and leered at the surrounding faces. They laughed back at him.
For magic’s end. He didn’t know the rules. What were the fucking rules?
A strong chime rang out across the underground, loud enough for the entire brawlhouse to hear. The bell.
Something shimmered on the outskirts of Toran’s vision. He turned his head, and it was as if his bones had been replaced with thick, unyielding ice.
Loriana stood only a couple paces away, her back to the pit wall. Her wrists were bare—that thin, shimmery, threadlike bracelet she’d always worn in life gone—and the bottom hem of her pure whitenightgown flowed in and out of the rock. She blinked at him, a gentle, pondering expression on her face and a hand held out as if waiting for him to take it.
He stared at her hand. Of the two of them, he’d been the sentimental one. The one to reach for her hand or kiss her cheek or hold her close. She’d never protested when he did. But aside from their first kiss, she’d never initiated.
This wasn’t possible. He was hallucinating again.
Growlsabob plowed into Toran like he was a pile of snow. All air rushed from his lungs, and he fell backward. His shoulders slammed into rock, his head banging. Loose clumps of dirt fell over his eyes.
Shit. The brawl.
He blinked at the spot where Loriana had been, but she was gone. She hadn’t been real, only a figment of his never-ending grief.
He wiped the dirt from his eyes, grimacing as it smeared across his eyelids like kohl, and pushed up off the wall. Growlsabob was lining up for another barreling ram. He rolled out of the way just in time. With a thunder-worthy quake, Growlsabob hit the wall.
Toran fled to the space behind Growlsabob. He stepped with his opponent, turning and angling his body to keep out of the large man’s direct sight. The trick wouldn’t last—not in an enclosed area like this—but he only needed a moment.
Okay. The rules of the brawl. They were…
He spared a glance up at the jeering crowd and easily spotted Nes. Her face was guarded, that irksome smile gone. She’d pushed him in here, but, he recalled with a jolt, she’d also bet against him. Surely she didn’t expect him to lose. She knew he was the Crown. It didn’t make sense.
He looked away. He’d have to assume there were no rules.
Toran slid back into Growlsabob’s line of sight. Just as the man registered him, Toran swung, fist aiming for the side of Growlsabob’s head. His fist never made contact. His punch slid right on through Growlsabob as if the man were a ghost.
He stumbled. Perhaps he was still hallucinating.
Toran barely had time to catch his balance before Growlsabob’s fist was in his gut—a fist that was quite solid. He doubled over, gasping for breath. He swung at his opponent again only to meet nothing but air. This time, he darted away, escaping the man’s retaliation.
He looked back up to Nes and caught the way her nose wrinkled.
No rules meant no rules. The existence of the brawlhouse itself was against Orloneit law, so it stood to reason no other Orloneit laws—including those on the use of magic—would be upheld in these pits. No wonder Nes had bet against him. If Growlsabob was using magic to make himself intangible, then Toran would never land a strike. He felt like he might be sick.
He shook his head. There had to be another way to take the man down. Perhaps Toran couldn’t hit his opponent—but Growlsabob had to be solid in order to hit him.
He positioned himself in front of Growlsabob and waited. It took eight strikes. Growlsabob was resilient. Resilient but not invincible.
