Rohan awoke to the sound of water sloshing. The dim morning light filtered through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting faint shadows across the small, worn-down room. He blinked, adjusting to the sight before him, the woman from last night kneeling beside a wooden bucket, pouring water over herself with a small tin cup.

  “You’re awake."

  She said without turning around. She dipped her fingers into the water and ran them through her dark, damp hair.

  “Figured you'd sleep a little longer.”

  Rohan sat up slowly, feeling the dull ache of his wounds, some of which had reopened during his restless sleep. She glanced back at him, her lips pulling into a small smirk.

  “You should wash up too. I doubt you want to walk around Duskwatch smelling like blood and sweat.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He muttered, shifting to put his boots on.

  She rolled her eyes and stood, reaching for a rag.

  “You’re really not.”

  She walked over, kneeling beside him, eyes flicking to the faint red seeping through the bandages wrapped around his shoulders.

  “At least let me clean those up before you start bleeding all over my floor.”

  Rohan hesitated, but the sting in shoulders made the choice for him. He sighed and nodded. She handed him a damp cloth.

  “Here, wipe down while I get my needle.”

  As she rummaged through a small wooden box, he peeled off his shirt, revealing old scars and fresh wounds still healing. She paused, her fingers brushing over a spool of thread.

  “You’re young to have so many scars.”

  Her voice was softer now, lacking the teasing edge from before.

  Rohan didn’t answer at first. He ran the cloth over his arms and chest, the cold water sending a brief shiver down his spine.

  “Life hasn’t been kind.”

  She hummed in response, threading the needle with practiced ease.

  “My husband had scars like yours. He was a mercenary. Knew how to take a blade but never learned how to dodge one.”

  She knelt beside him and pressed a clean cloth to one of his wounds before starting to stitch it closed.

  Rohan clenched his jaw at the sharp sting but didn’t move.

  “He’s dead?”

  “A long time now.”

  She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask. The room was quiet except for the soft pull of thread through skin and the occasional drip of water from the bucket.

  Once she finished stitching him up, she tied off the last thread and sat back on her heels, examining her work.

  “That should hold, as long as you don’t go getting yourself cut up again.”

  Rohan pulled his shirt back on, rolling his sore shoulder before meeting her gaze.

  “Do you know where I can find the fight ring?”

  She arched a brow, wiping her hands on a cloth.

  “You planning to get yourself some new scars already?”

  “I need work.”

  He said simply.

  She studied him for a moment, then sighed.

  “There are a few places, but if you’re looking for real coin, there’s only one that matters, The Pit.”

  “The Pit?”

  She nodded, standing to grab a cup of water.

  “It’s the biggest underground ring in Duskwatch. You win, you get paid. You lose, you’re lucky if you walk out.”

  She took a sip before adding.

  “It’s run by a man named Varlek. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers, but if you prove yourself, you might get in.”

  Rohan adjusted his belt, securing his father’s dagger at his hip.

  “Where is it?”

  She smirked.

  “Eager, aren’t you?”

  She stepped closer, resting a hand on her hip.

  “Follow the main street until you hit the market square. There’s an old tavern called The Broken Chain. Ask for the ‘special ale.’ They’ll take you where you need to go.”

  Rohan nodded, storing the information away.

  “Thanks.”

  She scoffed.

  “Don’t thank me yet. You might regret asking.”

  He was already heading for the door when she called out again.

  “Try not to die, will you? Be a shame to stitch you up for nothing.”

  Rohan didn’t look back, only raising a hand in silent acknowledgment before stepping out into the streets of Duskwatch.

  He followed the woman’s directions, weaving through the crowded streets. The market square was alive with merchants shouting their wares, beggars huddling in corners, and cutthroats eyeing easy prey. He ignored it all, keeping his focus on his destination, The Broken Chain.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The tavern sat at the edge of the square, its wooden sign hanging crookedly from rusted chains. The stench of cheap ale and unwashed bodies hit him as soon as he stepped inside. The place was dimly lit, filled with rough-looking men drinking and muttering in hushed tones.

  Rohan approached the bar, his gaze steady. The barkeep, a thick-armed man with a jagged scar across his nose, glanced at him with mild interest.

  “I’m looking for the special ale.”

  Rohan said evenly.

  The barkeep’s brow twitched, but he said nothing. Instead, he jerked his head toward a door at the back. Two burly men stood in front of it, arms crossed. Rohan didn’t hesitate, moving toward them.

  One of them, a bald brute with a broken nose, grunted.

  “First time?”

  “Yes.”

  The man looked him up and down, unimpressed.

  “Matches ain’t for kids.”

  Rohan frowned.

  “I can fight.”

  “You’ll have to prove it.”

  The other guard chimed in.

  “Brawls first.”

  “Brawls?”

  The broken-nosed man smirked.

  “Matches are one-on-one, real fighters only. Brawls are for those looking to earn their place. You go in, they throw numbers at you, could be ten, could be fifty. You win, you move up. You lose, you get carried out.”

  Rohan rolled his shoulders.

  “Fine. When do I start?”

  The two men chuckled. The bald one opened the door.

  “Right now.”

  Rohan stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

  The pit reeked of sweat and blood. A crude circle of torches cast flickering light over the dirt floor, illuminating nine men standing in tense silence. Some were grizzled fighters, others looked like desperate men looking for money or a way up. Then there was Rohan, young, lean, and underestimated.

  A bell rang and Rohan ducked as a fist came flying toward his face, pivoting just in time to see a man get tackled to the ground. Someone screamed as they were sent sprawling, already bleeding from a broken nose.

  A burly man lunged at Rohan, aiming to grab him. He moved out of reach, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs before slamming his fist into his throat. The man gagged, stumbling back. With no time to finish him, another fighter charged in.

  A punch connected with Rohan’s jaw, sending him falling. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, rolling with the impact instead of resisting. He tasted blood, but he’d felt worse.

  Stepping forward, he fainted a punch before driving his knee into the attacker’s stomach. As the man doubled over, Rohan grabbed his head and smashed it against his knee. The sickening crack of a nose breaking sent a wave of cheers through the crowd. The man collapsed, unconscious.

  The fight was a blur of sweat and violence. Rohan moved fast, avoiding groups, letting them take each other out. He took hits, his ribs ached from a well-placed kick, his lip split open from a wild swing, but he kept going. He was smaller, but he was faster. He wasn’t fighting to win honorably. He was fighting to survive.

  One grabbed him from behind, thick arms locking around his throat. Rohan clawed at them, his vision darkening. With a desperate move, he slammed his head backward into the man’s face. The grip loosened. He stomped down on the mans foot, then twisted free, turning and jamming his elbow into his temple. The man hit the ground, unmoving.

  The last few minutes were a haze of fists, blood, and sheer endurance. Rohan fought like a cornered wolf, biting, gouging, and breaking bones when he had to. When the dust settled, only he remained standing, breath heaving and knuckles raw.

  Rohan staggered, barely staying on his feet. He wiped blood from his brow and looked up. The men watching from the edges of the pit were no longer dismissing him. They were watching him. Evaluating him.

  The moment the bell rang, the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter. Some yelled at the fallen fighters, while others roared in approval at Rohan’s unexpected victory.

  Then, from the stands, coins began raining down. Silver and copper clattered onto the dirt floor, some rolling away, others landing near the unconscious bodies of the defeated.

  Rohan, still catching his breath, bent down to pick up a few of the scattered coins. Before his fingers could close around them, a heavy boot stomped down in front of him.

  "Stop.”

  He looked up to see a tall, scarred man watching him with a smirk. His arms were crossed, and the way he carried himself screamed authority. Around him, a few other me, probably handlers or organizers, watched with mild amusement.

  “You’ll get your share, don’t touch what’s not yours.”

  Rohan straightened, wiping the blood from his lip. He didn’t argue. He had pushed himself to the limit in that fight, but now wasn’t the time to show weakness.

  The scarred man gestured toward an open gate leading out of the pit.

  “Come on. You survived your first brawl. Let’s see if you survive getting paid.”

  Rohan followed the man through the open gate, stepping out of the pit and into a dimly lit corridor. His body ached from the fight, but he kept his body straight.

  The corridor led to a small back room, where a few other fighters were either being patched up or counting their earnings. Behind a wooden desk sat a burly man with a thick beard, counting stacks of coins with slow, deliberate movements. The scarred man stopped beside him and gestured toward Rohan.

  "This one made it through his first brawl."

  He said.

  The bearded man looked up, his dark eyes scanning Rohan with mild interest.

  "Huh. Didn't think you'd last, kid."

  He grabbed a handful of coins from the table, counted them, and tossed them into a small cloth pouch before sliding it across the desk.

  "Your cut, not bad for your first night."

  Rohan caught the pouch and felt the weight of it. It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd had in a long time. He gave a small nod.

  "You can come back tomorrow for another brawl, If you keep winning, we might consider letting you into the matches."

  He leaned forward slightly.

  "But if you get yourself killed, we ain't responsible."

  Rohan smirked faintly.

  "I’ll be back."

  The bearded man chuckled.

  "Yeah, they all say that."

  With his winnings in hand, Rohan turned and walked out, stepping into the cool night air. His body ached, his knuckles were bruised, and his ribs throbbed with each breath, but for the first time in a while, he felt like he had a real path forward.

  Rohan made his way back through the winding alleys of, his pouch of coins tucked securely inside his coat. The streets were quieter now, the chaos of the city settling into its usual late-night rhythm, drunken laughter, the occasional scuffle, and whispers of unseen deals being made in the shadows.

  As he reached the small, rundown building where the woman had taken him the night before, he immediately felt something was wrong. The door was slightly open, and inside, low voices murmured. He stepped inside cautiously.

  The dim candle light flickered against the cracked walls, revealing the woman from last night slumped against the mattress, her face bruised and swollen. Dried blood crusted the corner of her lip, and her arm had been hastily wrapped in bandages. Another woman knelt beside her, carefully dabbing at her wounds with a damp cloth.

  The moment she noticed Rohan standing in the doorway, her expression hardened.

  "Get out."

  She said coldly.

  "She doesn’t need more trouble tonight.”

  Rohan clenched his fists, feeling a simmering anger rise in his chest. He had seen injuries like this before, beatings, punishments.

  Before he could speak, the injured woman lifted her head weakly.

  "Let him stay."

  She murmured. Her voice was hoarse, but firm.

  "He's fine."

  Her friend hesitated, eyeing Rohan with suspicion before finally exhaling sharply and standing up.

  "Whatever. Just don’t bring more problems here."

  She muttered before stepping back to give them space.

  Rohan stepped forward, crouching beside her.

  "Who did this?"

  His voice was low, controlled, but the anger underneath it was unmistakable. She gave him a tired smile, the kind that had long given up on justice.

  "Someone who had a bad night gambling."

  She said simply.

  Rohan knew better than to push for answers tonight. The exhaustion in her eyes and the slow, pained way she breathed told him enough, she needed rest more than anything else.

  He helped her lie back down on the mattress, careful not to disturb her injuries. Her friend still watched him with wary eyes but said nothing as she handed Rohan a damp cloth. He hesitated before taking it, then gently wiped away some of the dried blood on the woman’s face.

  "You didn’t have to come back."

  She murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "Needed a place to stay.”

  She gave a weak chuckle but winced at the pain it caused. After a while, her breathing steadied, and she drifted into sleep. Her friend, still skeptical of Rohan, sat near the door, arms crossed.

  "You can sleep there."

  She finally said, nodding toward a corner of the room where an old blanket was folded.

  Rohan didn’t argue. He sat down, leaning his back against the wall, and let out a slow breath. His body ached from the fight earlier, his bruises beginning to throb now that the adrenaline had worn off.

  As the candle burned lower, the night stretched on in heavy silence. Outside, Duskwatch continued its restless existence, but inside this small, dimly lit space, Rohan allowed himself a moment of stillness.

  Tomorrow, he will return to the pit. Tomorrow, he will fight again. But for now, he closed his eyes and let exhaustion take over.