Chapter 13
Kane
The moment I stepped out of Tess’s office, the tension in my shoulders eased, but only slightly. The tight knot that had formed during our conversation was still there, coiled and waiting. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe, to stay in control.
"You’re not ready."
It wasn’t an insult. It was the truth. She wasn’t ready for Kreel, for the Guild Trials, or any of it.
The words had come out harsher than I intended, though I meant every syllable. She didn’t understand how dangerous this world was—not fully. And every step she took deeper into it made the ground shift beneath us both. One wrong move, and she’d be caught in the crossfire.
But it wasn’t just about her being unprepared for the meeting. It was everything. Kreel. The Guild. The Dragon Riders.
My father.
Lord Protector Ellesar. The name alone was enough to set my teeth on edge. Tess had no idea what kind of man he was, what he was capable of. And now that bastard was overseeing the Trials personally? It was a calculated move—one that had nothing to do with ensuring the Trials were “appropriately challenging” and everything to do with his twisted games.
What was he up to this time? I had a feeling it wasn’t good, whatever it was. I’d need to put some feelers out, talk to a few people. Maybe catch wind of what his real agenda was before it was too late.
For some reason, I didn’t want her caught up in it.
She really wasn’t ready.
And Kreel... I shouldn’t have suggested she meet with him in the first place. I knew that now. Tess was vulnerable, though she didn’t even realize how much so. Kreel wasn’t some Guild bureaucrat. He was dangerous—ruthless. I hadn’t known how stubborn she could be, how fearlessly she would throw herself into something she cared about.
A bitter laugh escaped me. That was part of what drew me to her, wasn't it? That fire. That determination. And now those same qualities were leading her straight into danger.
As I rounded a corner, the hallway dimmed, shadows stretching across the walls. The flickering candlelight cast uneven patterns on the stone as if the very world were trying to warn me. But it wasn’t the shadows I was worried about. It was the memories.
I couldn’t stop them from surfacing.
My fists clenched as memories surged forward, dragging me back.
The roar of the crowd echoed in my ears, a cacophony of jeers and cheers that rattled through the underground arena like a living, breathing entity. The stench of blood and sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of magic—dark, forbidden, and ancient.
I didn’t come here for the thrill of the fight. I came to escape. To forget.
Every day, the weight of my father’s expectations threatened to crush me. Lord Protector Ellesar, the man who demanded perfection, who saw failure as weakness. His cold, calculating eyes followed my every move, a constant reminder that I could never be anything less than flawless. And the consequences if I didn’t meet his standards? Unthinkable. Unforgivable.
For years, I tried to find ways to cope with the pressure. Tried numbing myself with work, with distractions, with anything that would keep me from feeling like I was suffocating under his scrutiny. But nothing worked. Nothing, except this.
Fighting became my release. The more dangerous, the better. The adrenaline and pain drowned out everything else. It quieted the storm in my head, the constant hum of expectations that never ceased. I started small—fights that barely drew blood—but they weren’t enough. I needed more. Needed the stakes to be higher. That’s how I ended up here, in this pit of monsters and killers.
I stood at the edge of the fighting pit, my muscles taut, senses on high alert. The arena was a nightmare: an obsidian pit surrounded by tiers of seats filled with supernatural beings, all there to watch the carnage. Vampires, fae, demons, and more, hungry for blood, for the thrill of the fight. I glanced up, noting the eager faces, but also the exchange of whispered conversations and the flash of coins being passed between hands. Bets were being placed—big ones. Someone, somewhere, was making a fortune off this brutality.
Mason stood across from me, fists clenched, his massive frame casting a long shadow under the flickering lights. The crowd around us buzzed with anticipation, eager for blood, their voices merging into a chaotic hum. I shifted on my feet, rolling my shoulders, trying to focus. But something nagged at me, an edge of discomfort that cut deeper than the usual pre-fight tension.
I’d faced off in this underground ring plenty of times—but never against someone like Mason.
He was an immovable force, all rippling muscle and stone-hewn determination. The other fights I’d watched from the sidelines had proven that much. Unbeaten. Unbreakable. The kind of fighter who didn’t bend, didn’t falter. His strikes were like thunder, each hit capable of reshaping the very air around him. A part of me had been curious—eager, even—to pit myself against him, to measure my limits against his raw strength.
But now that he stood there, squaring up, that excitement slipped out of my reach, fading under something darker, something that made my skin prickle.
The fight began.
He lunged first, fists swinging with brutal precision. I barely had time to dodge, stepping back as his punch sliced through the space where I’d just been. His movements were like the crackle of lightning, faster than anyone his size should’ve been, yet something about the way he came at me felt off. There was no hesitation, no holdback—just unyielding, mechanical force.
Then I saw it.
As he moved, his torn shirt shifted, giving me a glimpse—a barely there shimmer under his collarbone. At first, I thought it was sweat catching the light, but the glow pulsed, steady and unnatural, its rhythm matching the rapid beat of his heart.
A mark. Not just any mark—a slave mark.
A sickening cold settled in my chest.
My fists came up instinctively, muscle memory taking over as I blocked another hit, but everything else in me froze. He wasn’t fighting because he wanted to. He was fighting because he had no choice—bound, controlled. I knew that glow too well, the telltale shimmer of magic sunk deeply into skin. Master’s magic.
Mason swung again, and I dodged, but I wasn’t really there anymore. My mind spun, piecing it together as if the understanding had blindsided me just as effectively as his fists could’ve. Every blow he threw, every ounce of power he unleashed—it wasn’t for the victory. It wasn’t for survival. He was a prisoner here, a puppet, forced into the ring like a weapon put on display for the crowd’s twisted pleasure.
The stone beneath my feet rumbled in sync with his next lunge, jagged tremors radiating outward as his fist connected with the ground where I’d just been, cracking through the surface like an earthquake. That sudden surge of power hadn’t come from his sheer physicality alone—no, it was magic. I felt the ground react to him, bending to his will.
He threw a hook at me, his eyes flat—expressionless. There was no fire in them, no sense of the man behind the brawler. Just cold detachment.
I sucked in a breath and stepped back further, summoning winds around me with a snap of my fingers. The air crackled in response, a current gathering between us, kicking up dust and stone shards. His next punch sliced through the conjured gust, disrupting it, but the wind slowed him just enough.
My balance shifted, movements becoming more deliberate. I wasn’t aiming to best him anymore—not when I knew he wasn’t doing this willingly.
The crowd began to stir louder, impatient, their voices cracking through the tension like thunder. They craved bloodshed, something visceral, something primal to feed their hunger. They had no interest in the magic at work around me, in the anger simmering just under my skin.
A rush of memory hit me hard—her, the delicate trace of a similar brand my mother carried before she died, a silent reminder of her suffering. The rage I felt now was the same that had been festering since she was taken from me, something I’d tried to bury beneath layers of frosted control.
I couldn’t save her.
But maybe—just maybe—I could save him.
The timing wasn’t right to dwell on it. We were in the middle of a fight, and I had no time for drawn-out realizations. I knew we had to give the crowd what they wanted, or they’d start asking questions neither of us could afford to answer. So I made up my mind. Mason needed to win, and I was going to help him do it.
Mason lunged forward, his massive frame cutting through the air with brutal precision. I dodged the first punch, spinning on my heel to avoid the second. The crowd roared, their excitement building with every near miss. They wanted blood. They wanted a spectacle.
I pivoted, feigning a jab at Mason’s ribs, but he was too fast—his arm came up to block, forcing me back a step. We circled each other, our eyes locked, as the crowd’s cheers surged around us.
It was a dance. A brutal, violent dance, but one that required precision and timing. I had to give them a show, but I couldn’t let Mason take too many hits. Not when I didn't know what was at stake for him.
The ground trembled beneath us as Mason tapped into his stone magic. Cracks formed in the floor under his feet, surging with power, and I felt the weight of the earth in each footfall he took. His next move came faster, his fist charged with a dull, vibrating glow of energy.
I let it connect, a calculated hit that sent me sprawling to the ground. Pain exploded in my jaw, but I gritted my teeth through it. The crowd erupted in cheers. Mason stood over me, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with regret. He didn’t want to do this, that much was clear. But he didn’t have a choice.
I stayed down, letting the referee call the match in Mason’s favor. The crowd roared, already moving on to the next spectacle, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
I slipped out of the chaos of the arena, crossing the concrete threshold into the locker room. The door clanged shut behind me, muffling the roars and jeers of the crowd, leaving behind a hollow silence. My head was still ringing from Mason’s final blow, but the adrenaline made the pain manageable. Not my first knockout and sure as hell wouldn’t be my last.
Mason was already there, sitting on one of the benches in the far corner, his broad back hunched and his fists hanging low between his knees. The water dripping from the frayed pipes above sounded like a leaking faucet in a forgotten basement. The stench of sweat, blood, and mildew clung to the room as the fight outside ramped up in intensity.
I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, my ribs aching from that well-timed punch I’d sold just enough to keep the crowd happy. Mason didn’t move when I walked closer, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. His skin had reverted to its more human-like form—no trace of the stone that had briefly covered him during the fight. Even gargoyles needed to conserve their power.
I leaned my back against the row of lockers, crossing my arms over my chest. For a moment, I said nothing, the silence stretching between us until it became a thing with sharp edges. Finally, I broke it—my voice low, calculated but lacking the usual harshness I reserved for this pit.
“I saw it, you know.”
Mason didn’t even glance up, but I saw the minuscule twitch in his jaw—the only sign that my words had landed. I continued anyway, keeping my tone casual, like we were just two fighters cooling off after a particularly rough round in the pit.
"The mark. You're not here because you want to be, are you?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Mason's shoulders tensed, his entire body going rigid. When he finally looked up, his eyes were hard, guarded. The wariness in them was something I recognized all too well—the look of someone who'd learned the hard way that trust was a luxury they couldn't afford.
"Mind your own shit, fighter," he growled, his voice rough like gravel. "You don't know what you're talking about."
I stayed where I was, not backing down. The unsaid truth hung between us like a physical presence. "That mark—it's not just there to keep you in the ring, is it?" I pressed, my voice sharpening. "Who's pulling the strings? You keep fighting like this, and you're as good as dead. You've got people counting on you out there, don't you?"
The tension in the room crackled like static electricity. Mason's hands balled into fists, and for a moment, I thought he might come at me again. But then something shifted in his expression—a crack in the armor he'd built around himself. He exhaled sharply, the sound heavy with resignation.
"You don't get it, do you?" His voice was raw, edged with years of pain and carefully controlled rage. There was something else there too—not hope, but obligation. The weight of responsibility that went beyond just survival. "It's not just me. They've got my sister, Kali. And if I stop fighting, she's done."
I kept my expression neutral, but inside, anger churned like acid in my gut. A glance at the mark on Mason's chest ignited a fury I thought I had buried long ago. It was so similar to the one used on my mother—an indelible reminder of the power someone else held over her.
"I can't stand seeing people like you trapped in this hellhole," I said carefully, measuring each word. "But I also know trust isn't easy in here. You don't need to believe me yet—I'm not asking for that. What I'm offering... is information. Maybe I can help you. Maybe you don't have to fight for them anymore."
Mason's eyes narrowed, suspicion radiating off him in waves. He leaned forward slightly, a growl rumbling in his throat, his fists still clenched tight, but now with an almost involuntary twitch of someone caught between desperation and defiance.
"Why would someone like you risk anything for a guy like me?" His words were a mixture of suspicion and something deeper—an accusation, like he'd been burned before and didn’t trust anyone, least of all me.
I stood my ground. Mason's eyes flickered with desperation, a wild glint that told me he had been backed into a corner, with nothing left but a fierce protectiveness for what remained. I could feel the weight of my own past pressing against me. Memories of my mother’s punishment clawed at my insides, igniting a fire that burned hot and bright.
With a deep breath, I embraced the heat, letting it course through my veins. I envisioned the crumbling foundation of a system that had ensnared so many, dreaming of its collapse beneath my hands. I would not let another soul suffer as she had. Each heartbeat thrummed with purpose; my fury would find a target.
"Let’s say I’ve got my own reasons," I replied, keeping my tone level but letting a bit of truth slip through in my gaze.
Mason’s guarded expression didn’t falter significantly, but I noted the doubt creeping into his features. A silence hung between us, thick and heavy. Finally, the gargoyle-shifter seemed to relent, though his words were hard.
“Information? Then start by telling me what you think you know.”
I didn’t flinch. "I've heard the name Lady Seralina thrown around. She has her claws in this place, doesn’t she?"
Mason's gaze snapped to mine, a flicker of recognition igniting in his eyes. It was a split-second reaction, but I could see the way the gears began turning in his mind, processing the implications of what I had just said.
"Seralina runs the show here,” he confirmed, his voice low but urgent. “She’s a regular VIP at the fights and has her fingers in every dirty deal you can think of. You want out of this mess? You’d have to go through her first.”
He looked away, a shadow passing over his face that hinted at thoughts he'd been wrestling with for a while. His stone-hard exterior was starting to crack, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to press harder without pushing him away.
His voice was softer, though still laced with bitterness. "Even if I wanted to believe you... it’s not just Seralina. It’s the people who back her, who run the underground. She's got ties to the Riders’ Guild and gods-know who else. You don't just walk away from this. There’s no out... especially not for me."
He was partially right. Walking away from the underground, from people like Lady Seralina, was near impossible. That world was a black hole. You could fight to the edge, but you’d still get sucked back in eventually. The trick wasn't just getting free. The trick was making everyone involved believe it wasn’t worth chasing you down.
Or burying them so deep that they couldn't chase you even if they wanted to.
I leaned forward, planting my hands on my knees, making sure our eyes stayed level. Mason was a massive guy—towering and intimidating—but right now, I needed him to see the resolve in me didn’t shrink next to his size.
“There’s always an out, Mason. Always."
He shook his head, dismissing me before I could even finish. His eyes darkened with frustration, with the weight of years spent shackled by invisible chains.
I kept pressing. “I know you think you're stuck. I know you've been told there's no escape, that you’re a slave to the system Seralina controls. But I’m telling you—we can carve a way out.”
This time, there was a flicker in his expression. Hesitation, maybe. It was small. But it was there.
“You asking me to believe in some pipe dream?” His voice held that bitter edge again, yet beneath it was something shakier. Wearier. “I’ve seen what happens to the guys who try to walk away. Believe me, there ain't enough pieces left of them to bury.”
“I’m not talking about taking a stand," I said, voice low, measured, "I’m talking about disappearing altogether.” I paused, letting that sink in. "It’s not about rising up or tearing the system apart, Mason. At least not yet. Right now, it’s about slipping out before it drags us down with it.”
The laugh that escaped him was humorless, almost sad. "You’re crazier than I thought, fighter.”
I shrugged, taking that as a compliment. "Maybe. But at least I’m not lying down while they trample all over me. And you don’t have to either."
He regarded me for a beat, scanning my face like he was searching for answers I wasn’t sure he’d ever get. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers unclenched. His shoulders dropped, showing the first signs of something loosening in him—if only slightly.
“You’d seriously risk it though?” His voice was softer now, questioning. Disbelief still threaded through his words but so did a tinge of wonder. “For what? You barely know me.”
I didn’t blink. “No one should have to live like this. And no one should have to fight alone.”
The silence stretched between us again, but it wasn’t thick with tension this time. It held something... less hostile. Something unfinished.
Mason stared hard at the ground, as though it held the answers he’d been looking for his entire life. His fists clenched and unclenched several times, like he was fighting a war inside his head, and for a moment, I almost thought he’d refuse again. That he’d go back into that pit and let Lady Seralina and all those people continue to pull his strings until there was nothing left of him—or his sister.
The seconds ticked by, the slow drip of water from the old-fashioned pipes echoing louder than it should in the stillness. Then, without lifting his gaze, Mason’s voice rumbled low and quiet, barely audible over the hum of distant fights.
“It’s a deal.”
He met my eyes, something cold and sharp flashing behind his stone-wall of stoicism. “We get my sister out first,” he said, his voice like the steady rumble of distant thunder. “And if this goes south, I won’t hesitate to burn it all down myself.”
“Agreed.” I didn’t hesitate. “Kali’s our priority.”
He didn’t trust me yet, not completely. But this was a start. It wasn't a promise—Mason wasn’t naive enough to give me promises—but it was enough.
The subtle buzz of my phone snapped me back to the present.
I blinked, pushing the memories into the shadows as I refocused on the dim corridor around me. The arena, Mason—the pressure of those days sat heavier than I'd realized. It had been a year, but the weight still clung to my chest, especially now that the web surrounding the Guild Trials felt just as heavy, just as ominous.
Ding.
The phone vibration was quick and precise, like a warning shot, something to tether me back from the deep dive into the past. Sliding it out of my pocket, I glanced at the notification, a single message sitting at the bottom of the screen.
Next Friday Night. The Ring.
I stared down at the message, my jaw tightening. Another fight. Another chance to get closer to the underground operation. This time, I'd figure out how to do it without putting Tess in danger. The underground ring wasn’t just a pit for bloodsport—it was a breeding ground for something far darker.
Without a second thought, I sent a couple of cryptic messages to some of my contacts, my fingers moving quickly over the screen.
Need an update on Kreel’s movements.
Keep your ears open for any mentions of the Guild Trials. My father’s involved.
As the messages sent, I turned toward the forgotten section of the library. It was time for my meeting with the shadowy figure who’d been helping me.