The world twisted into a maelstrom of concrete dust and shrapnel. Senja felt the impact more than saw it, a brutal punch to her chest that emptied her lungs. Aris’s weight, heavy and solid, pinned her to the splintering canvas, his body a shield against the worst of the debris. Pressure hammered her ears as floor plates buckled and steel sheared from its concrete footings. Hot, acrid air clawed at her throat.
Then, a sudden, unnerving quiet. The air tasted of copper wire and pulverized plaster. Senja pushed up, coughing, spitting grit from her mouth. Aris groaned beneath her, a low, pained sound. He was still covering her, his arm thrown protectively over her head.
“Morante?” she rasped, her voice raw. His grip on her shoulder tightened, a silent acknowledgment. He shifted, levering himself up, then pulled her with him. Ash rained down from the gaping maw where the roof had been, coating everything in a fine, grey powder. The ring, minutes ago their brutal playground, was now a fractured wasteland of twisted metal and exposed rebar. A colossal support beam had crashed precisely where they had stood.
“Your father,” Aris muttered, coughing out grey sludge as he scanned the sheared pillars. He didn’t need to elaborate. The precision, the timing – it was a message, brutal and unequivocal.
Senja didn't reply, her mind already racing. This wasn't just about winning the Bout anymore. This was about survival. About Tavi. The patriarch ignored every protocol governing the underworld houses. He was a coward, trying to take out an opponent before the sanctioned fight.
“We need to move,” she stated, her gaze hard. “He won’t stop.”
Aris wiped soot from his brow. He moved with a subtle limp, favoring his left side, but his eyes were sharp, already planning. They scrambled over debris, through the mangled shell of the gym, emerging into the biting night air of the Cinder district, two ash-covered specters amidst the quiet desolation.
Instead of fleeing, Senja hailed a battered auto-cab. Its driver stared at their soot-streaked faces, the terror in his eyes quickly replaced by the mercenary glint of someone who knew better than to question a fare that paid triple. She gave him the address of the Kastara corporate tower. Aris, surprisingly, didn't object. He understood the statement she intended to make.
Forty minutes later, still smelling faintly of smoke and pulverized concrete, Senja kicked open the double doors of the Kastara Boardroom. The rich mahogany table, gleaming under the recessed lighting, was set for an afternoon refreshment. The family patriarch sat at the head, impeccably dressed, a delicate porcelain teacup poised at his lips. Nadia was perched nervously at his right, picking at a lemon tart. They both froze, Nadia’s eyes wide with alarm, her father’s narrowing into cold slits of annoyance.
Senja stalked into the opulent room, Aris following a step behind, his presence a dark, imposing shadow. She reached into the pocket of her ruined training coat and withdrew a charred, jagged piece of metal, no bigger than her palm. It was a fragment of a floor plate from the Iron Gauntlet Gym, still warm with residual heat.
She slammed it onto the pristine table. The porcelain teacup rattled. The patriarch didn't flinch, setting his thumb against the saucers rim.
“Careful, girl,” he said, his voice deceptively mild. “You’ll scratch the veneer.” He took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze like ice. “And what, pray tell, is this Cinder district refuse you’ve brought into my office?”
“It’s a piece of the gym you blew up,” Senja stated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “A reminder that you broke the Blood-Pact. That you tried to kill your own proxy’s trainer before the Bout. Before the arenas.”
Nadia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She darted a terrified glance at Silas, then back at Senja. The truth of what had happened finally registered across Nadia's face. If he’d do this to Aris, a rival heir, he’d do it to anyone who became inconvenient.
The patriarch set his teacup down with a soft click. “Exaggerations. An unfortunate structural failure. The Cinder district is notoriously unstable.” His eyes flicked to Aris, a flicker of satisfaction in their depths. “A pity your little training session was interrupted. Perhaps next time, choose a more… sound location.”
“Next time, you’ll be waiting for a formal challenge in the pits,” Senja countered, her voice dropping, each word a cold steel blade. “Not hiding behind remote detonators.” She fixed her gaze on Nadia. “Isn’t that right, Nadia? Tell him what happened, how he ordered this. Or do you want him to think you were in on it, too? Just another loose end to tie up?”
Nadia’s face paled. Her eyes darted between her father, who stared back with cold expectation, and Senja. The pampered princess’s carefully constructed world crumbled. She knew what happened to discarded assets. She'd seen it with countless lower-tier executives who failed him. And she knew Senja was offering her a lifeline.
“It’s… it’s true,” Nadia stammered, her voice thin. “He… he told me he was going to… destabilize Aris’s preparations. Eliminate the threat. Before the arena.” She choked out the words, her eyes pleading with Senja. “He said he didn’t trust Aris with the Bout… that you were too strong to risk him surviving to fight you.”
Her father's lips curled into a sneer. “My, my, Nadia. A sudden resurgence of honesty. Or perhaps, a newfound sense of self-preservation? You always were so transparent.” He turned back to Senja, his casual demeanor evaporating, replaced by a venomous chill. “So, you survived. A minor inconvenience. But this little stunt changes nothing. You’re still my proxy, and your brother is still under my roof. Should you choose to defy me, even now, Tavi will be back in those slums before the sun sets, with a target on his back larger than the Morante crest.”
Senja allowed herself a small, mirthless smile. “About that. Tavi isn’t under your roof. He’s at Aris’s penthouse. A building with its own dedicated security detail, impervious to your ‘structural failures’ and ‘unfortunate accidents’.” She watched Silas’s face, the slow dawning comprehension, the vein throbbing in his temple. “He’s safe. And he’ll stay safe, provided I walk out of the pits alive.”
The patriarch lost his composure. His fingers dug into the edge of the polished mahogany. The urbane facade cracked, revealing the raw, vicious warlord beneath. “You insolent child!” he roared, lunging forward, his chair scraping back. “You dare move my leverage? You dare defy the Kastara name in my own house?” His eyes, usually cold, now burned with pure, unadulterated fury. “Then so be it. You want an untouchable future for your brother? You want to protect him with your life? Fine. I formally invoke the Death Clause for the Syndicate Bout. Only one proxy leaves the Morante Pits.”