The second was smarter. Faster. He circled, looking for openings, and found one when Ahrick's guard dropped for just a moment.
The blow caught him in the ribs.
I heard Ahrick's grunt of pain even over the roar of the crowd. He staggered but didn't fall.
The third opponent charged while he was vulnerable, and for a terrible moment I thought it was over. That I was about to watch him go down, watch someone else win me, watch everything fall apart.
But Ahrick's eyes found mine across the pit.
Just for a second. Just long enough for something to pass between us—something I didn't have words for.
Then he moved.
It wasn't pretty. Wasn't the controlled violence I'd seen before. This was desperation and determination and sheer stubborn refusal to lose. He took hits that should have dropped him. Kept moving when his body was screaming to stop.
And he won.
The crowd erupted. The horn sounded. Ahrick stood in the center of the pit, swaying slightly, blood running down his side from where the blow to his ribs had reopened old wounds.
His eyes never left mine.
They brought me to the prize room first this time.
I paced. Checked the first aid kit. Laid out everything I might need—bandages, antiseptic, the needle and thread I'd used before with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
When Ahrick limped in I saw immediately that I'd been right to worry.
He was holding his left side, his breathing shallow and careful. Blood soaked through his pelt, fresh and dark. His face was a mess of bruises, one eye swollen completely shut now. But it was the way he moved that scared me—like every step sent shards of glass through his ribs.
"Sit," I said, my voice sharper than I'd intended.
He obeyed without argument, lowering himself onto the bed with a sound that was half groan, half gasp.
I moved to him immediately, my hands already reaching for the worst of the damage. "Let me see."
He shifted, trying to give me access to his ribs, and the movement made him hiss through his teeth.
I pressed carefully along his side, feeling for breaks, and when my fingers found the spot he went rigid.
"Broken," I said quietly. "At least one rib, maybe two."
"I know."
"You can't keep doing this." The words came out before I could stop them. "Ahrick, you're going to get yourself killed."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You can barely move."
He met my eyes with his one good one. "I'll heal."
"Not fast enough." I grabbed the antiseptic, my movements jerky with frustration and fear. "The fights are every other day. You don't have time to heal between them. Each one is going to be worse than the last."
"I know."
"Then why—" I stopped, pressing the cloth soaked in antiseptic to a cut on his shoulder harder than necessary. He didn't flinch. "It's okay. You can stand down. Let someone else win next time."
"No."
