Yan's meaty overhand fist clipped him, sending him reeling back and slamming into the sloped arena walls. The taste of iron pooled in his mouth. Kailehr danced back enough to create the void as the blood gathered like a clogged storm drain. He casually braced himself against the wall and tried to look unbothered, but his head was screaming.

  “Good one,” Kailehr said with a smile, a ribbon of red spilling down his chin. Sensing a finish, the crowd exploded into a frenzy.

  The towering obelisk of a man before him had a few minor bruises and cuts but nothing like Kailehr’s battered maw. Yan was older but as strong as a halora and nearly the size.

  Backlit by an angled column of radiance pouring in from the ring’s skylight, Yan’s shadow-accented muscles undulated with life as he stalked forward, fists held up defensively in a typical boxer’s stance. He paced forward like a predator, jabbing feints into the void. Kailehr maintained the void by sliding out of range while keeping his back to the arena’s sloped wall for support.

  A direct assault was out of the question. Kailehr was the smaller and weaker Mestarian, a fact he readily accepted. He understood that there was always the bigger fish. Acting like that fish when you weren’t was liable to make you dinner. And why not be the little fish? Faster and more cunning, the little fish had its tricks.

  Kailehr thrust a pinky centerstage. The crowd “oo”d in unison before quieting into hushed whispers. Kailehr spat a wad of beautiful crimson onto the sands between them and grinned bloodily.

  “You call that a punch? Weaker than you look.”

  Yan swallowed the bait, rushing in with mighty legs that kicked up a shower of sand. The man was committed to affixing Kailehr to the arena wall as a permanent feature, and Yan could—he was like a tram come to life, all momentum and steam.

  Each sensation, from the sweat on his brow to his bated breath, slowed before crawling to a viscous drag. A part of him saw slowed flecks of shouted spittle from the crowd catch and scatter the light, sparkling beautifully while forming a constellation of stars—it was the closest thing to the real thing he had ever seen. But most of him focused on Yan, who drew startlingly closer despite the slow.

  One, he focused on Yan’s eyes — those remained committed, so it wasn’t faint. Two, he focused on Yan’s steps and let the years of training guide him.

  He ducked and darted laterally at the last possible second, leaving Yan’s wild, grasping sausages to catch nothing but air. The man’s momentum crashed into the sloped stone of the arena wall with a crunch. Simultaneously, Kailehr rounded and mounted the stunned giant’s back, setting in legs as hooks and securing the choke.

  “Stupid bastard!” Kailehr laughed as he squeezed the man’s tree trunk of a neck.

  “Fgcht ew,” was all Yan chocked out.

  And then they were soaring through the air, among the stars. Kailehr slammed hard into the sands, the meat of a sandwich between the arena floor and Yan’s hulking form. Despite the sandy cushion, the crush vacated his lungs, and he sucked at the air desperately — a fish out of water. His eyes watered painfully.

  Please, brain, no more damned fish metaphors.

  Somehow, he managed to hold on to the choke, past the pain. They squirmed together as Yan tried desperately to shake Kailehr loose. Kailehr held strong until those protests faded before stilling completely. He held on for a few seconds extra, just to be sure, before releasing the choke and slumping the limp body to the side. Sweet, gasping breaths finally graced his lungs as he stared at the lofted, darkened ceiling above.

  The faceless crowd erupted in applause and cheers from those whose bets had played out agreeably. The brightness of Rosol crashing into the pit washed out their features, blinding Kailehr to everything but vague shapes and shadows. A smile found its way to his lips.

  I did it. I can’t believe I did it.

  This feeling was everything to him. It made all the rest worth it. Kailehr Sultiva had a chance for Selection. That was a chance to mean something. And it was a chance he came by on his own. Whatever happened next, neither his wife nor his father could take this from him.

  Pushing to his feet, he looked down at Yan’s limp form. Kailehr grabbed both of the man’s trunk-like legs and lifted, forcing blood back toward the brain. Rousing, Yan’s eyes wandered, confused, before locking on Kailehr. Yan’s lips curled into a snarl, and he kicked free.

  “Cheap, dishonorable tactics. You’re like some kind of oversized Lesh.”

  Kailehr shrugged. “They fight smart.”

  “Smart?” Yan chortled. “The sands saved you. It was luck.”

  Kailehr chuckled. “You’re probably right,” he said honestly with an offered hand. “I’ll need more of that luck for Selection.”

  Begrudgingly, Yan took the help up to his feet. Kailehr kept ahold of Yan’s hand and bowed deeply.

  “It was an honor to fight you, Yan. You’re as strong as ten halora.”

  Yan surprised Kailehr by pulling him close, nearly dislocating his arms from their sockets. Then, he leaned close with a teeth-gritting smile.

  “Here me out, 'cause this is the truth that your daddy and nobody else will tell you.”

  Kailehr sniffed. “Let’s hear it then.” He tried to pull free nonchalantly, but the man’s grip was viselike. Their faces were so close that Kailehr could smell the man’s breakfast mixed with a bark chew as he spoke.

  “You’re good, damned good. As good a technical fighter I’ve seen, plus you’re fast.”

  “Okay,” Kailehr said, taken aback. “That means a lot coming from—”

  “But you’ll never be good enough.”

  The words hit Kailehr flush on the chin. Yan followed it up with a combination. “You’re too small. You’re too weak.” He squeezed Kailehr’s hand painfully as if to enunciate that point, but Kailehr held straight. Yan continued. “‘Tactics’ worked today, but it takes only one fuckup, and you’re a cripple. You’re not Selected material. Our country needs better stock than you, Sultiva.”

  Yan was a well-respected fighter who had been beaten in under two rounds by a much smaller combatant, so his anger was understandable. Knowing that didn’t stop the words that spilled out of Kailehr’s mouth.

  “I was good enough to beat you.” He gave the man an exaggerated smile. “Like I said, good match. How about you leave here with some dignity intact?”

  Yan’s eyes widened, but Kailehr held that stare unwavering. Finally, Yan broke the tension with a huff.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, pup.” Finally, he released Kailehr.

  Kailehr promptly headed to the pit ladder to clamber fifteen feet out of the arena, spitting out another glob of blood along the way. Electric lights flickered and buzzed to life while the steam engine screamed in the corner of the crowded space. The onlookers, seated in slopped standard seatings or high up in plush terraced balconies, staggered to standing before heading for the tavern doors.

  “Good fight, Kailehr! Had me worried for a minute,” said a beaming Mestarian man with half his teeth missing. “Appreciate the greens.”

  Toothless held out a single gold dice like an offering. Kailehr swiped the stone with a lippy smile and nodded in appreciation.

  A small group gathered around the stone warden’s booth in a line, the windows barred and shuttered close. Kailehr skipped the line, knocked on the shutters, and waited.

  “Just a minute!” a muffled, mousy voice called back.

  A few shuffles and scraps brought the shutters clattering open. Tilm was one of the smallest Leshar he’d ever met, about half Kailehr’s height and as slight as the gentless breeze. Perched at the apex of a step ladder as Tolm was, he was at eye level with Kailehr. And as the small man saw him, his eyes brightened.

  “You did it?”

  Kailehr’s smile hurt to hold, but he made it anyway. Tilm groaned.

  “Tell me you did it. I can’t keep stringing your loans.”

  “You doubted me?”

  Kailehr followed Tilm’s eyes as Tilm craned to look past him toward the pit, where Yan’s hulking form just cleared the lip of the arena. Yan, indeed, was a specimen. He towered a head over the nearest Mestarian and three over the tallest Leshar. Kailehr looked back at Tilm, who quirked a brow.

  “Fair enough,” Kaielhr laughed, then winced, holding his jaw tenderly. “Five to one odds, right? I’ll take it all, minus what I owe the guild.”

  “Obviously,” Tilm said, pulling out a sack of rattling dice from a cubby and holding it through the bars. “Fifteen blue-twelves, five full blues, and a green-twelve.”

  Of course, Tilm had pre-count. The little stone warden was practically omniscient. Kailehr peaked into the sack but didn’t count them. Instead, he grabbed a blue and passed it back through the bars.

  “Could I get some golds?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Before Kailehr could finish, without breaking eye contact, Tilm opened a draw and grabbed a fistful of golds while simultaneously snatching the blue die with his offhand. Kailehr held open his bag.

  Tilm lowered the dice inside gingerly. “Will you be here next month?”

  “Why, is there something interesting?”

  Tilm leaned closer, whispering. “Supposedly, some Leshar prince is fighting in the open circuit. Crazy odds, too: fifty to one that they don’t last to the second.”

  “Fifty to one?” Kailehr gaped. “I guess that makes sense, all things considered. It’s not like the Lesh has a chance, huh?”

  Tilm pumped a knowing brow and smiled slyly.

  Kailehr sighed. “Fine then.” Despite himself, he pulled out a full blue and slid it through. “And what are the odds he wins?”

  Tilm cackled. “Five thousand to one.”

  Kailehr rubbed his eyes before stupidly slipping out a full white. “I’m funding your retirement, you know that?” Kailehr turned and cinched up his pouch.

  “Take care, Kail!” Tilm called out. He waved without looking, heading for the exit. A hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-stride.

  Kailehr whirled, holding his pouch protectively to the side while lifting a fist.

  A tall man stood in a muted navy blue cloak with a deep hood that obscured most of the figure's face. The cloak was thick and embroidered, the cloth sourced from fine cuts. Having seen it a thousand times before, his heart skipped a beat.

  Behind the man stood three enormous watchers in plain clothes, each nearly Yan’s size. Their eyes darted about the room warily as they imposed themselves in the space, looking tense and dangerous. Their presence broke the flow of people into a wide berth like a boulder parting a river.

  “You came,” Kailehr said, absently wiping the blood from his mouth with his shirt. “I didn’t think you would.”

  His father stepped close and pulled a black handkerchief from his coat pocket, wetting it with his mouth before dabbing gently at Kailehr’s chin.

  “I said I would try,” Olenar said as he worked off some dried blood. “We may disagree about your path, but I will always be there for you. Well done, son.”

  “I know what you said, but should you really be here?” Kailehr eyed the passing Mestarian and Leshar. Here, the two were equal in that they were equally poor. A stone unturned was another day gone hungry. More than a few seedier individuals who passed by gave their group a hard look before deciding against it and heading for the door.

  His father laughed. “I walked these streets before you were a thought. I believe I can handle myself.”

  “That was before you became…well, you,” Kailehr whispered cheekily.

  “Before, I didn’t have these fine gentlemen watching my back,” he retorted, gesturing to the three giants behind him. Olenar finished grooming Kailehr and pushed the handkerchief into his coat pocket. “Besides, it is well for leaders to remember the poorest of us. We are, perhaps, failing Outward. It’s gotten worse.” Olenar looked around as he spoke and looked genuinely concerned.

  Kailehr reckoned there wasn’t a more honorable man than his father. Olenar Sultiva made quite the shadow.

  “Thanks for coming,” Kailehr said with a slight bow. “But I have somewhere to—”

  “Wait, hold on. Just a minute.”

  Olenar wrung his hands together nervously.

  “The Selection for the games is next week. I know you want nothing to do with politics, but you’re welcome to come as a witness. You’re always welcome, of course.”

  Kailehr hadn’t planned on going. He hadn’t thought he would make it this far, but to be there for Selection? He felt his heart flutter in his chest like a tutul catching flight. His future was in the hands of random chance. If he wasn’t Selected, he would have to find another path. Politics was his father’s idea of that new path.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The buzz of the electric lights hummed above as the steam engine whistled.

  Olenar cleared his throat. “Very well. I won’t keep you. Say hello to Jiahn for me, and stay safe.”

  Kailehr simply nodded before turning and heading for the door in a trot. Before leaving the tavern, he tied his stones safely to his belt loop with a slip knot, slid on his light brown duster coat, and flipped up the hood.

  Pushing through the swinging tavern doors opened him up to the bustling streets of outward. The smell was offensive, a mix between feces, piss, sweat, and aromatic food stalls scattered through every alley and open frontage space, the streets were a muddy, unpaved mess, and the people wore sturdy, reliable clothing years out of style with more than a few holes afflicting them.

  “I love this damned city.” He smiled, drinking it all in.

  Kailehr pulled out his watch from one of the deep-set coat pockets and strapped it on, checking the time. Ten-thirty in the evening. As busy as midday in Central, outward never truly slept. One would be hard-pressed to find a watcher this far out, let alone one that would try to enforce curfew.

  A tram screeched in the distance. Kailehr should take the inward tram to his apartment in Central apartment. Jiahn would be asleep, so there wouldn’t be any questions or fights tonight. Yet, there was no promise of what tomorrow would bring. He sighed, pulling his coat tight against a chilly gust that threatened to turn it into a sail before turning in the opposite direction, down the radial thoroughfare.

  This far outside Central, the street looked more straight than curved from on foot. Every year, Kailehr purchased another map from the guild as more concentric ringed streets were added to the city, growing on top of what came before and becoming less and less perfect. It was as if this city was alive.

  Half a block down, Kailehr veered down a familiar alley. Despite being barely three paces wide and the late hour, the alley bristled with life. The flow of pedestrians was a steady trickle through this popular crossing. Faintly glowing lumivines thrived in the alley’s dark and damp, winding up metal ladders or hanging off the edges of balconies—dark brown beetles shot beneath a thick branching vine when he stepped beside something rotting. Vendors shouted out their wares set out in narrow hand carts, ignored by the steady flow of bodies in either direction.

  Kailehr darted past oncoming foot traffic by squeezing between walls, ducking under a clothesline, and stepping over small children who scuttled through the muck like bugs. He grimaced as he saw one of them chewing on an old piece of leather.

  It has gotten worse out here, Kailehr mulled to himself. Truthfully, he was numb to it most of the time. It was simply how the outward lived; you can’t save everybody.

  “Tolb meat! Come get your tolb meat!” the vendor at the mouth of the alley’s exit called out unenthusiastically.

  Kailehr scraped by a wide Mestarian man to slide in front of the cart, which was full of freshly grilled meats skewered and dripping with fat.

  “Fully matured? I don’t like it tough or plant-y.”

  “Yessir, indeed!” the Leshar vendor sweated from within a cramped pocket behind a makeshift countertop, the navy blue bandana wrapped around his head soaked through. At the sight of a sale, his voice became lively and friendly. “See for yourself, I’m prepping a fresh batch now.”

  The man worked tolb growths free with a paring knife, harvesting the red and angry bulbous pods ready to burst from the stalk. After carving out each infant in a burst of slimy juices, the man quickly punctured the tolb’s brain, removed its head, and skinned it down to the flesh before fisting out the stringy guts and tossing them into the street—all before the creature could begin to squeal.

  Kailehr’s mouth started watering.

  “I’ll take three. You have change for a five?”

  The vendor set down the knife and wiped his hands on a clean-ish towel before pulling out a gold tetrahedron: “One gold a piece, so a two for change.” He locked eyes with Kailehr, offhandedly spicing the harvested meats while juggling the D4 in the other.

  “What a grift! One gold for all three.”

  “Sorry, these are premium. You get what you pay for. If you want cheap, there’s a sad sack that has some about a block down,” the vendor said, snatching his change from midair to point with it down the thoroughfare. The man’s other hand continued to prep the meat by dabbing the cuts dry before generously flouring them. “But you’ll be surely sick after eating that slop, not that that stops folks around here.”

  Sighing, Kailehr fished one of his citrine cubes and placed it on the countertop. The Leshar vendor snatched and pocketed it.

  “A pleasure! You’ll be back for more now. Mark that.” He grinned from ear to ear.

  Kailehr took the change and the three skewers of meat before heading clockwise down the radial, sidestepping some dogs fighting for discarded scraps.

  “What is this damned city coming to,” he grumbled to himself, biting into the fried meat. It had a beautiful, crispy texture. “At this rate, I’ll be shattered before next week.”

  The tolb meat suffused his mouth with a moist frenzy of flavors and blew away all complaints in a gust of euphoria. The glaze was perfect, with a little sweet and savory, working in harmony. It was all meat, with no planty texture to speak of. Had the man not harvested them within the hour, they would have burst out and run away.

  He groaned with each bite, eliciting more than a few disturbed glances from the passersby. Kailehr couldn’t help it. It was the type of food that made you feel like you might live a little longer after eating it.

  Three blocks down the radial left him with three empty skewers that he tossed down a passing side alley. He’d finished just in time for a familiar five-story red brick frontage building to slip into view.

  No signs adorned its face, while burnished red drapes cloaked every window. It stood out like a warm wind. Its near neighbors were little more than wooden shacks, and more than a few were verging on collapse.

  Still, those homes had a warmth to them that Central's sterile, clean perfection didn’t. Families worked, lived, and died under those patched roofs. Plants and vines grew nearly untamed, winding through broken glass windows, with flowers blossoming on rooftops. Fahika trees grew wildly in the unpaved streets, catching the red light of the rosol over the single-story buildings. There was true beauty in the struggle.

  Kailehr hastened his pace as a pitched howl of icy winds picked up, the sky starting to spit chilled drops. He dodged through the foot traffic before slipping into an alley adjacent to the red brick building. There, he found an inset metal door shrouded in shadow.

  “Let’s hope she’s free,” Kailehr whispered before knocking with a reverberating twang.

  As the door cracked open, yellow light and the buzz of distant voices spilled out. Kailehr lowered his hood. The door swung wide, and Jako was there with a grin as wide as his waistband, his bulk nearly filling the doorframe.

  “Kailehr!” Jako said, shuffling into the alley and closing the door after him. Before Kailehr could react, the man had swept him into a tight hug, squeezing monstrously. Carrying around that much weight did not make you weak.

  “Good to see you too,” Kailehr choked out. “Is Nessa free?”

  Jako set him back down in the alley, breathing heavily.

  “She is, yes. So, how did the match go? That was tonight, wasn’t it? As true as Col’s strength, the older I get, the more I forget. I used to remember every person, date, and idea that passed through this door,” Jako sped from sentence to sentence with barely a breath in between. “You’ll see when you get older, things start slipping. You start to sag and widen”—he mimed a growing motion—“and soon, they’re cleaning your ass the same as when you were a babe.” He laughed a deep, grinding rumble that devolved into choking coughs.

  Kailehr pulled over his hood and shuddered as a chill swept through the alley.

  “Can we do this inside?”

  Still coughing, Jako could only nod and gesture to follow as he waddled back into the smoke-hazed yellow interior. Kailehr followed close, shutting the door behind them and sliding the bolt lock home.

  A lanky Mestarian woman came barreling into the small sitting room, only made halfway decent by the thin bedsheet she held close to her chest—otherwise, she was fully naked. Kailehr blushed, looking away. Her voice was panicked when she spoke.

  “Jako! Nessa is in trouble.”

  Embarrassment carried away in a gust, Kailehr snapped his attention back to the woman. He hadn’t noticed those patched bruises on her face or her arm that hung unnaturally limp and mangled. She limped over to Jako, who perked up, finally clearing his throat.

  “What in the blasted earth is going—”

  “Where is she?” Kailehr interrupted, stepping forward to grab the woman by the shoulders firmly.

  Rivers of tears streaked down her face, but her voice was steady. “Down the main hall, you can’t miss it.”

  Kailehr took off in a sprint.