The streets of the Outskirts weren't quiet after a Pit win. If anything, they got louder—meaner. Kael knew better than to take the main road back to the eastern tenements. Victors drew attention, and attention drew danger.
He ducked into an alley behind a crumbling storage block, still sweating from the match, his ribs aching where Gorran had clipped him. The few silver credits he'd earned were tucked in his boot. He couldn't afford to lose them.
"Nice fight tonight, bloodless," a voice drawled from the shadows.
Kael froze.
A group emerged from behind a collapsed wall—four of them, wrapped in crimson scarves with serpent emblems sewn at the throat. The gang was known in the Outskirts as the Red Fangs—enforcers for a mid-tier warlord who claimed descent from an ancient bloodline. They collected "tribute" from those who couldn't defend themselves. Or those who could.
"Back off," Kael muttered, shifting his stance.
"Easy, freak. You made some money, and our boss says anyone who bleeds for coin on his turf pays in blood or silver." The largest of the gang members grinned and cracked his knuckles. "We'll take both."
Kael's eyes flicked between them. No weapons drawn—yet. But their confidence meant something worse. They'd done this before.
He threw the first punch.
It landed square on the leader's jaw—but something was wrong. Or right.
Time slowed.
Kael saw the man's veins illuminate faintly beneath his skin, pulsing red like rivers of molten light. His own muscles surged, reflexes sharp and primal. Before the second thug could lunge, Kael twisted and drove a fist into his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs with a sickening grunt.
The world was moving, but Kael was moving faster.
"WHAT—what the hell was that?!" one of them screamed as Kael blurred to the side.
His heartbeat thundered. His vision swam with crimson lines—veins, arteries, heartbeats—he could see them all. He felt heat rising in his arms, the sensation of something ancient and wrong awakening inside him.
The third attacker swung a knife. Kael caught the man's wrist, twisted—and with unnatural strength—snapped it backward. A howl split the air. Blood sprayed across the bricks.
One remained. He didn't run. Instead, he stared at Kael with wide eyes, then dropped to his knees.
"You… You're Vyr-born…"
Kael blinked. The glow faded from his vision. The world snapped back to its filthy, gray haze.
"What did you call me?" he demanded.
The kneeling thug trembled. "Please. I didn't know… Forgive me. Forgive me." He scrambled away on all fours and vanished into the shadows.
Kael stood there, stunned. His hands shook—not from fear, but from what he'd just done. What he had felt.
His blood. It had moved like fire through his veins. Fast. Hot. Alive.
He lifted his sleeve and stared. The veins in his forearm still glowed faintly red. A mark, almost like a sigil, pulsed beneath the skin before fading.
Something inside him had awakened.
And whatever it was… it wasn't human.