Noah's eyes were calm and cold, locked with the vendor's.

"Do I look like an academy student to you?" His voice was flat, even bored. "If I was, would I be standing here, in plain view, buying a ticket like anyone else?"

The man blinked, caught off guard by the sheer confidence behind the reply.

His suspicion didn't just disappear, but Noah didn't give him room to argue.

He simply reached forward, sliding coin across the counter with a finality that suggested the discussion was already over.

For a moment, the vendor weighed his options.

Academy regulations were strict. Students were only allowed outside on the seventh day of the week.

If he reported this young man and he really was from the academy, it could earn him favor with the authorities.

But if he was wrong? He'd lose the sale and possibly insult a paying customer. And judging by the cut of the young man's clothes, piss off a lesser noble.

In the end, the clink of silver won out. The vendor snatched the coin, sliding the ticket through the slot with a grunt. "Fine. Enjoy the fight."

Noah took the ticket without another word, slipping into the stream of people heading into the colosseum.

The moment he passed through the gate, the sound hit him.

A low rumble of voices, the clatter of boots against stone, the smell of sweat, dust, and faint traces of blood that no cleaning ever truly scrubbed away.

The colosseum was massive, its walls soaring high, banners of crimson and gold fluttering from the rafters.

Stairs spiraled upward, leading to rows upon rows of stone benches that curved around the great central pit.

Already, clusters of spectators were filtering in, laughing, talking, carrying trays of roasted nuts and spiced drinks.

Noah climbed quietly, weaving through the throng until he found a seat halfway up the stands.

He settled into it, stretching his legs as he glanced around.

His eyes swept the crowds, calmly searching for something out of place.

A figure watching too intently. Someone out of step with the easy chatter of the crowd. A shadow where there shouldn't be one.

But all he saw was a blur of normalcy.

Merchants with soft bellies, their wives draped in jewelry, groups of boys yelling wagers before the fight even began.

Young women laughing behind their fans, and older men leaning on canes, eyes shimmering with old hunger for blood sport.

Noah's gaze swept around the stands again, then shifted back to the pit.

For now, there was nothing to find. He would simply have to wait.

[][][][][]

The bell above the shop door jingled, though it wasn't the sound of a customer.

A burly man pushed his way inside, shoulders broad enough to nearly scrape the wooden frame.

His followers trailed after him, three younger men with hungry, cruel faces, eyes darting around the shelves of dried goods and grain sacks.

The shopkeeper stiffened behind the counter, wringing his hands. "B– Bruno," he stammered. "You're early this week."

"Early?" Bruno barked out a laugh. "You think I need to follow a schedule, old man? No. I come when I please."

He sauntered forward, boots clapping against the creaky floorboards. The scent of cheap liquor clung to him, mixed with smoke and sweat.

His thick fingers drummed against the counter once before he leaned forward, close enough that the shopkeeper could see the broken teeth when Bruno grinned.

"You got my money?"

The shopkeeper swallowed hard and slid a small pouch across the counter.

Bruno picked it up, weighed it in his palm, then sneered. "This is it?"

"It's all I made this week," the man whispered. "Business has been—"

The thug didn't let him finish. His boot lashed out, slamming into the shopkeeper's chest.

The man cried out as he toppled back into the shelves, jars clattering to the floor and shattering around him.

"Pathetic," Bruno spat. He flicked his head toward his men. "Teach him a lesson."

The followers grinned. They stormed forward, fists slamming into the shopkeeper's face, gut, and ribs.

The man folded under their blows, curling in on himself, coughing and groaning. Still, he begged between gasps.

"Please! Please! I'll have it tomorrow. I swear!"

Bruno laughed, low and cruel. He crouched down, leaning over the wheezing man as his lackeys kept striking.

"Tomorrow? That's what you said last week. That's what you always say. But what do I see? Dust on your shelves and no coin in my hand."

He waved a hand, and the beating slowed. The shopkeeper coughed blood onto the floor, trembling.

Bruno reached into his coat and pulled free a long, thin knife. The steel caught the light of the lanterns, gleaming bright.

The shopkeeper's eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically. "No— please, Bruno, I'll pay! I swear I'll—"

"You're right about one thing," Bruno interrupted, his grin widening. "You'll pay. Starting now."

He grabbed the man's left hand and slammed it against the counter.

The shopkeeper cried out, struggling, but one of the lackeys pinned his arm down.

Bruno raised the knife. "This is what happens when you waste my time."

The blade came down.

The shopkeeper screamed as Bruno sliced cleanly through the man's little finger.

Blood spurted, splashing across the counter. The scream turned ragged, desperate, shaking the small shop to its beams.

Bruno licked his lips, savoring it. He leaned close, watching the shopkeeper's face twist in agony.

Then he pressed the blade again, sawing off another finger, then another.

Each cut brought a new scream, each scream music to his ears.

By the time he was done, three fingers lay scattered on the counter.

The shopkeeper's cries had weakened to sobs, his body shaking violently as blood dripped onto the floor.

Bruno straightened, flicking the blood from his knife. "There. Now maybe you'll remember who owns this street."

He jerked his chin at his followers. "Wreck the place."

They grinned and obeyed, kicking over shelves, smashing jars, sending flour bursting into the air like smoke.

The shopkeeper could only watch helplessly, clutching his ruined hand against his chest.

Bruno leaned down one last time, his voice a growl in the man's ear. "Tomorrow. Triple the usual sum. If not… you won't have a hand left to sell your scraps with."

He turned and strode out, his men trailing after, laughing and jeering as they left the destroyed shop behind.

They took a side alley, a shortcut toward the next street.

Bruno's knife spun lazily in his fingers, his laughter echoing off the narrow walls. "Did you see his face? Like carving through butter. Gods, I love this job."

The lackeys chuckled, trading jokes and snide remarks, when suddenly, their steps slowed.

At the far end of the alley, a figure stood waiting.

A man, tall and broad shouldered, with hair the color of flame spilling to his shoulders.

Even in the dim light of the alley, his grin was unmistakable.

Bruno narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

The man took a step forward, his teeth flashing in the gloom.

"Me?" he said. "I'm Snake."

His eyes gleamed with delight. "But tell me, boys… do you want power?"

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