Approximately 11 months agoâ¦
The last bill clinked against the counter and vanished into the barkeepâs hand.
Liam stared down into the bottom of his cup. A smear of foam clung to the rim, sour and sharp on his tongue when he tipped it back. He hated the taste, hated the burn in his throat, but it dulled the edge of memory. It made the silence inside him less unbearable.
No more scrip meant no more drink.
He left the tavern with his hood drawn low, the stink of piss and coal smoke thick in the streets. Daventryâs slums swallowed him whole. Lanterns hissed on crooked posts, their light drowned by the fog rolling in from the river.
Nights blurred together after that. Empty pockets meant he started borrowing, first from men with grins and easy promises, then from men whose smiles never reached their eyes. The debts piled up quickly. Too quick.
The first time they came to collect, he expected a knife. Instead, they dragged him to the fighting pits.
The cages werenât meant for men. They were rusted and slick with blood, too small to stretch in, too tall to climb. Torches ringed the arena, their flames guttering in the damp air. The crowd pressed in shoulder to shoulder, faces red with drink, their jeers and laughter rising with the smoke. They wanted blood. It didnât matter whose.
They shoved him through the gate, bare fists, no armor, nothing but the stink of fear on his skin.
The man across from him was older, broader, fists like bricks. The signal came, and Liamâs world turned into pain. A split lip. A tooth cracking. Ribs aching like theyâd snapped. He staggered, dropped to his knees, spat blood on the dirt floor.
He should have stayed down. The crowd would have jeered, the fight would have ended, and they would have dragged him out.
But he didnât.
Something in him refused. His arms shook as he pushed against the floor. His legs wobbled. He stood.
The crowd roared.
The fighter didnât hesitate. Another punch, heavier, hammering him back to the ground.
Again, Liam rose.
And again.
He lost. Of course he lost. He had no training, no technique. But he didnât stop. Not until his body finally gave way and the world slipped into blackness.
They said he lasted longer than anyone thought possible.
The next week, they threw him back in.
And the week after.
The bruises darkened, healed, darkened again. His nose never set quite straight. His knuckles stayed raw. He learned to take a punch, to twist just enough that it glanced instead of broke him. But the truth didnât change. He wasnât a fighter. He wasnât skilled, or strong, or fast.
What he was, was unbreakable. Not in body. But in spirit.
Once, a blow to the temple knocked him senseless. The crowd cheered the victory, certain it was over. But even as his mind slipped away, his body lurched upright, swaying drunkenly for a heartbeat before it collapsed. That single moment, the sight of him rising unconscious, spread faster than the fight itself. The crowd came not to see him win, but to see how long he could last.
He became a curiosity. A spectacle.
The men who ran the pits whispered about him. Some called him cursed, others stubborn. A few thought he was too stupid to know when to fall. But all agreed on one thing: he kept getting up.
Even when his ribs were cracked.
Even when blood poured from his mouth.
Even when his body begged him to stay down.
He got up.
Then one night, they matched him against someone different. Not another drunk, not another knife-swinging brute, but a classed fighter. The man came in grinning, sparks already crackling between his fingers. The crowd roared for blood and fire.
The first jet of flame burst across the cage, hot enough that the bars rattled. The spectators cheered, expecting Liam to scream, to writhe. Instead, the fire washed over him like smoke through an open window. The heat licked his skin but left nothing behind, not even a scorch.
Liam stumbled forward through the blaze, eyes wide with shock, but unburned. The fighter cursed, tried again, throwing bolt after bolt of fire until sweat ran down his face. Nothing took. The crowd fell into a stunned silence before erupting louder than ever.
He still lost in the end, obviously. He was no match for someone with a class. But that fight had made an impression. That was the night whispers spread beyond the pits. The boy couldnât be broken. Not by fists. Not by fire. Not by magic itself.
And Horace noticed.
The crime boss didnât watch from the front like the others. He stayed in the shadows, his glass catching the torchlight, eyes gleaming. He let Liam bleed, let him be tested, weighed, measured.
It wasnât long before Horaceâs men began to treat him differently. Not better. But different. They stopped jeering when they brought him to the pits. They didnât bother threatening him anymore. They didnât need to. Liam already knew he was theirs.
âYouâre tough for a runt,â one of them muttered after dragging him out half-conscious, his face a swollen mask. âHorace likes tough.â
Another spat, then laughed. âNot tough. Stupid. Heâll be dead in a month.â
But Liam wasnât dead. He kept coming back.
Some nights, when he lay in the room he had been given, his body one massive bruise, he wondered himself why he rose. It wasnât pride. It wasnât courage. It was something uglier. The world had already taken everything else. He refused to give it his submission too.
That was what Horace saw. Not strength, not skill. Will.
After a month, Horace finally approached him directly.
Liam was slumped on a bench, his chest bandaged, one eye swollen shut. Horace crouched in front of him, close enough for Liam to smell the bitter sweetness of his drink.
âYouâve got something rare, boy,â Horace said, voice smooth as oil. âSomething I can use.â
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Liam didnât answer. His lips were too split to form words.
Horace chuckled softly, then straightened. âThe pits arenât enough for you. Iâve got larger games in mind. And youâre going to play.â
From that night on, everything changed.
The cages werenât the end anymore. They were the beginning.
And soon enough, Liam found himself standing in the shadows of a mansion, sack of tools on his back, knife in hand, about to make the mistake that would cost him his arm.
â¦
The house did not look out of place in Daventry. Stone walls stood three stories tall, square and practical, its roof steep and tiled against the rains. Iron gates framed the front garden, and oil lamps burned faintly beyond the glass of the windows. To anyone passing on the street, it was only another residence of the wealthy.
But everyone in the quarter knew who lived there.
The elf had been given the property decades ago, when he had escaped the kingdom to the West. There werenât many of them, but it wasnât the rarest thing to have an elf in the Confederacy. And his money bought silence, his word kept him alive. Few liked it. No one challenged it.
Except Horace.
And now Liam.
He stood with Oswin in the narrow gap between houses, the stink of coal smoke and sewage heavy in the night air. His palms sweated against the grip of the knife hidden at his side.
âElfâs out,â Oswin muttered, peering past the corner at the gate. âI made certain. Took his carriage this morning. That means weâve got time. Quick in, quick out. Donât freeze on me, boy.â
Liam gave no answer.
The gates were locked, but not for him. Wards shimmered faintly, threads of silver tracing across the iron. Liam placed his hand on the metal. The runes flickered bright, then sputtered into nothing, the glow dying like embers stamped under a boot.
Oswin grinned. âUseful freak.â He shoved the gate, and it opened with a squeal.
The garden was trimmed, hedges neat, gravel path swept clean. Liam followed Oswin up the steps, his chest tight. This was no ruined shell. The elf still lived here, his wealth untouched. Oil lanterns burned steady in sconces, spilling warm light across the doorway.
The door bore a silver crest set in the wood. More wards. They sparked faintly as Liam touched them, then faded into silence. The lock clicked open.
Inside, the air smelled of polish and smoke. Rugs of deep crimson muffled the floors, and the walls were clad in plaster etched with faint curling designs that caught the lamplight. A few carved beams of imported wood supported the ceiling, polished to a shine, a luxury that spoke of wealth. Paintings hung in neat rows, but not of scenes from the Confederacy. Instead they showed silver forests, moonlit rivers, and faces covered by ornate masks with sharp, inhuman ears sticking out. The house itself was Confederacy stone and steel, but the things within it betrayed the taste of its owner.
Oswin pushed him forward. âKeep moving. Weâve got a vault to find.â
They moved through sitting rooms with velvet chairs, parlors with shelves of ledgers, corridors lined with lanterns that hissed faintly. A rune flared above a doorframe, spilling white light across Liamâs shoulders. It vanished as quickly as it came. Oswinâs laughter echoed against the walls. âBy Miftarnerâs gloves, it works. You walk first, boy. Clear the way.â
The deeper they went, the richer the air felt. Down a stairwell into the cellar, past racks of bottled wine and casks of brandy. Beyond that, a door of steel bands barred the way. Wards traced its frame, faint but alive.
Liam placed his hand against the lock. The glow snuffed out. A click echoed in the stillness. Oswin got to work, taking out his lockpicks and tools.
After some time the man got up with a grant and pushed. The vault swung open.
Inside, shelves sagged with goods: ingots stacked in neat piles, scroll cases bound in red wax, jars of powders sealed in glass. A chest stood open, coins spilling across the floor. Gems glittered in trays like frozen fire.
Oswin moved quickly, lunging inside. His hands were already filling bags, pockets bulging with stolen weight. His eyes shone like a starving dogâs.
Liam lingered by the threshold. He had never seen such wealth. It seemed impossible that a single man could own so much while children starved outside his door. He reached out, hand hovering over a silver goblet carved with vines, but did not touch it.
That was when he heard the boots.
Steel on stone. Voices sharp and disciplined, coming fast.
Oswinâs head snapped up. His grin vanished. âHired help. Damn it all. Take this.â He shoved a dagger into Liamâs hand, then swung his sack onto his shoulder. âFight or die.â
The first guard stormed through the vault door, sword drawn, his eyes hard.
The blade swung for Liamâs throat.
Instinct lifted the dagger. Steel shrieked as it scraped across steel, the force slamming through his arm. Pain shot down to his shoulder. He staggered, breath gone.
Oswin roared and swung his cudgel. The blow cracked against a helmet, denting it, sending the man to the ground with blood pooling under him. Another guard rushed in, blade flashing.
Liam stabbed wildly, the dagger catching a thigh. The man howled, then smashed the pommel of his sword into Liamâs jaw. His teeth rattled. Stars burst behind his eyes.
He fell. He rose again, swaying, blood dripping from his mouth.
Another strike came. He lifted the dagger, too slow. The sword came down.
Agony seared through him. His right arm went numb.
He looked down and saw the truth. His hand twitched on the floor, fingers curled, severed just below the shoulder. Blood poured hot down his side, soaking his tunic in red.
The scream tore from him raw, ragged, filling the vault until it drowned the clash of steel.
Oswin grabbed him, hauling him up by the collar. âMove, damn you!â
Liam stumbled, vision narrowing. His knife clattered away, forgotten. His left hand clamped over the stump, blood leaking between his fingers.
They fled up the stairs, through the cellar, past racks of wine. Torches flared behind them, shouts echoing. The guards were close.
The garden blurred around him as Oswin dragged him down the path. His legs buckled. Every heartbeat was pain, every breath fire.
The last thing he saw was the night sky overhead, stars swimming. Then the world tipped, and darkness swallowed him whole.
â¦
The world returned in fragments.
A hiss of steam. The sting of metal against skin. Voices that floated in and out, muffled by the pounding in his skull.
Liam tried to move, but pain nailed him to the table. His chest heaved, and he realized he could smell his own blood, copper and salt thick in the air. His right side felt wrong, heavy and empty at once. He turned his head, just enough to glimpse the bandaged stump where his arm had been.
His stomach lurched. Darkness threatened again.
A womanâs voice cut through it, sharp but steady. âKeep him awake. Heâs lost too much already.â
Hands pressed against his chest. The touch was clinical, but not unkind. The voice belonged to a woman with streaks of gray in her hair, her face worn but calm. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, stained with blood and grease. Brass tools clinked at her side.
âBreathe, boy,â she said. Her eyes flicked over him, and for a heartbeat, there was something softer there. âYouâre not dead yet.â
Isadora. He would come to know her name later. That night, she was only the surgeon who kept him alive.
A shadow leaned over her shoulder. Horace.
Where she was steady, he was composed. Where she was focused on saving him, he looked at Liam as if he were an investment. His smile was faint, his eyes dark and certain.
âYou did well,â Horace said. âBetter than most. You brought Oswin out richer than he went in. And youâre still breathing. That makes you worth my time.â
Liam tried to speak, but his throat caught. Only a rasp came out.
Horace leaned closer, the scent of smoke and spiced liquor heavy on his breath. âYou donât get to die here. Youâve got more use left in you. And I donât let useful things go to waste.â
The tools clinked again. Steam hissed from a kettle somewhere in the shadows.
Isadora muttered, âHeâs too weak. He needs rest beforeââ
âNo.â Horaceâs voice was calm, almost gentle. âHe needs fixing now. Before he starts thinking he has a choice.â
The womanâs jaw tightened. For a moment, she looked like she might argue. Then she pressed her lips thin and set the saw against what remained of his arm.
Liamâs world narrowed to the sound of metal teeth biting bone. He thrashed, but hands pinned him down. Pain flared like fire, swallowing him whole. He bit his tongue and tasted blood.
Bolts clicked into place. Steam hissed. Cold iron kissed the raw stump of his shoulder.
His vision blurred. He thought he saw claws extending, polished steel glinting under lamplight. He thought he heard Horaceâs voice again, low and certain:
âFrom this day on, you answer to me.â
Darkness pulled at him, but not before the first phantom touch spread through him. A tingling down his arm that was no longer there. Fingers flexing where no flesh remained. Cold, alien, and his⦠yet not his. The ghost of motion whispered through his nerves, and he shuddered.
The hiss of steam filled his ears. The phantom hand clenched, unseen.
And then the dark swallowed him whole.