Steel slashed at Corgren’s throat. He dodged the Hacker’s dagger by a thin wisp of air across his neck. He rolled clear as his boots scuffed sawdust, then sprang to his feet and spread his arms in a mocking bow. The crowd roared for blood. Torchlight flickered across Hacker’s blade and reflected into Corgren’s sweat-stung vision. His opponent’s blue eyes glittered hate and his lips curled with disdain. Corgren craved gutting contempt from the Hartian along with his life. Corgren hated them all.


    Hacker shoved hair from his eyes. Sweat gleamed on his snarling face and dripped on his lip. He lunged at Corgren and hacked with a sloppy arc of his dagger.


    Corgren sidestepped the uneven attack. He noted the dip in Hacker’s shoulder—a tell roared weakness in his mind.


    Shouts and bodies shook the arena walls. Betting scraps waved above the pit like flags. “Kill that dog, hooknose!” a drunk bellowed from the stands. “You got him, baldie!” Fools bet on a stranger’s blade.


    Corgren sneered at their blind greed. His tongue tasted their ignorance.


    “Corgren! Corgren!” The sharp ones chanted from the haze.


    Their snarls stoked Corgren’s blood. He stalked Hacker in a slow circle and sized him up with sluggish feints. Hartians often boasted and blustered. Their skill fell short.


    Hacker spat at Corgren’s feet. “Lick my boots as you die, Rokan!” He snarled rough scorn like a rabid dog.


    Corgren ground his teeth at the insult. Old hate flared in his chest—Lucinda’s killers had spat too. “Your mother was a rutting-crazed swine.” His words dripped venom.


    Hacker flushed red. He charged at Corgren and slashed his blade at his gut. Rage twisted his pale features.


    Corgren sidestepped the wild thrust. He jabbed his knife-hand at Hacker’s ear. Steel nicked flesh near the skull.


    Hacker staggered and clutched his head. Pain contorted his face. Blood seeped through his fingers and soaked his shoulder.


    Steel flashed between them. Knives traded cuts in the torchlight. Corgren bled least from the blade-play. He finished the series as he slashed Hacker’s forearm. Blood spilled onto the sawdust. “Your knife’s mine, dog,” he snarled through gritted teeth.


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    Hacker flicked blood from his hand. His eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re dead, Rokan cur!” Spit flecked his lips.


    Corgren froze in place. He widened his grin and spread his arms to bait the strike. The crowd’s cheers thrummed in his veins.


    Sweat streaked Hacker’s brow. He charged Corgren as his shoulder dipped again and slashed his dagger in a wild arc.


    Corgren dodged the reckless blow. He grabbed Hacker’s arm and plunged his blade into the shoulder. He ripped it free as blood sprayed and muscle tore.


    Hacker roared in agony. His grip faltered on the dagger’s hilt.


    Corgren grinned. Another Hartian broke before him. He circled his prey again. He lunged at Hacker and sliced his left arm deep. The sawdust thickened with red drops.


    Hacker screamed at the fresh wound. He staggered toward Corgren and his dagger wavered in his grasp. Panic glazed his stare.


    Corgren ducked the frail slash. He carved Hacker’s face open with a swift cut. Blood sprayed across the ring. Hacker’s eyes locked on him and dimmed with doom—the same look Lucinda’s killers bore as they laughed. She bled out in his arms.


    Hacker flailed one last time. Corgren slipped left and flicked his blade across the exposed neck. Crimson lines spurted in the sawdust. Hacker crumpled to the floor. He grasped weakly at the gash as his breath faded. His dagger lay forgotten in the dust.


    The crowd thundered around the pit. Cheers drummed a hollow beat against the silence of Lucinda in Corgren’s memory.


    Corgren snatched Hacker’s blade—his rightful trophy. He strutted across the ring and raised his arms to the roar. One less Hartian plagued Rok. One less shadow darkened her grave. He ducked through the fighter’s door and sheathed both knives. He splashed water over his blood-streaked torso. The cold bit into his skin like a viper made of sorcery.


    Paugren burst into the room. His hooked nose mirrored Corgren’s own. “Good trade. A worthless life for a dagger.” He slapped Corgren’s shoulder. His sleeve slipped and flashed the dragon tattoo—months old, still a secret that hung between them. “Any injuries? No? I’ll grab the winnings.”


    Corgren muttered a warning as he wiped his face. “These Hartian rats will cheat us—or jump us for sport.” His voice rasped with distrust.


    Paugren grinned at the caution. “I can handle this man and his hirelings. They think I’ve no stomach for them. I taught you everything.” He sauntered out. Cheers faded beyond the door.


    Corgren yanked on his shirt. Hacker’s sneer burned in his mind, like those Hartian dogs who gutted Lucinda. His fists clenched at both the memory and sudden movement behind him. He froze in the dim light.


    Paugren slipped back in. His sly grin cut sharp through the haze. He leaned close to Corgren and whispered, “You’ve caught someone’s eye tonight, brother.” His eyes darted to the shadows. Paugren’s sleeve slid and bared the dragon’s scaly head. That tattoo and smirk stabbed his gut like a rusted knife. Paugren vanished into the darkness beyond the fighter’s room.


    Corgren frowned into the dim hallway. Who watched him kill a Hartian? What game did Paugren play now?