The first blow always told Yvir who her opponent was. The punch to her liver showed that this woman wasn’t afraid of beating the shit out of her. Reeling, covering her face, only for the yelling crowd to push Yvir back towards her attacker, barely ducking under another looping punch.

Her opponent was reputedly a Border veteran, now a caravan guard that happened to frequent tavern fights such as this. It showed in her confident ease. She was a head taller than Yvir, at least four stones heavier, more skilled, and grinning because she knew it. Easy winnings. At least, that’s what she thought. There was a saying when visiting Lowtown: It would either swallow you in or spit you out. Either way, you were fucked. This woman would learn her lesson soon enough.

Yvir smiled back despite her split lip. There were some things the army taught you, sure, but she had picked up some things as a tavern brawler. Like kicking between a man’s legs wasn’t so different as kicking between a woman’s, if done right. The woman’s smile splintered away after that. Yvir pounced and began her finishing move, her right elbow cracking against her opponent’s face until she stopped moving. Better than breaking her knuckles – Yvir had learned that the hard way.

Men pulled her away from the fighter’s bloodied face, the crowd quieting as they always did when they realized Yvir wasn’t called the Headswoman on account of turning heads at her appearance: striking gray eyes of Cadric descent with the black bunned hair of Qein heritage. She was called the Headswoman because she bashed the skull off any woman or man that dared to challenge her.

Battered purple and black in some parts, Yvir still walked casually as she could, up the stairs to bookkeeper Wu. Two men wearing tailored black silk tunics blocked her path. They wore the colors of the Taorin, an underground syndicate, the most feared Jinnto in the capital. “Masterless warriors” was the original meaning behind Jinnto. What they really were had no such nobility in the word: bandits; lawbreakers; killers. One of the men chuckled at her approach. He resembled more of an ox than a man, with the leering eyes of a cat.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Thought you were going to kick it in,” he said. “I bet good money you would.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Gim.” Yvir offered a bloody smile.

Gim shook his head in disgust and waved her on. “The rate you’re going, you won’t last another year.”

Yvir continued up to the banistered terrace above the tavern, every step a throbbing pain to her left side. She knew Gim was a whore’s bastard, but he had a point. She’d have to heal up before she could properly fight again, and by then all the debts she and her mother owed would just grow deeper.

Bookkeeper Wu was a wiry old man, a white wisp of a beard hanging over his pointed chin. Most tended to think he was weak with his wizened age, but she knew no one was the wiser. The wooden cane he held was rumored to hold a hidden blade. Yvir had never seen its use, though she wasn’t keen on meeting its edge just yet.

The old man looked over the railing of the second floor, watching the patrons renew their spirits, laughter and sweetwine to replace the limp body and blood on the floorboards. He turned to Yvir and pointed to the chair before his desk. A small bundled purse rested on the table.

“There's your share.”

“It’s light,” Yvir said, sullen.

“I know,” Wu said, his tone still unbearably casual, as if he was answering a child. “It’s the debt you chose for not throwing your fights, and for not strong-arming your neighbour’s debts.”

“I don’t work for you,” she stated.

Wu smirked. “You never will, child. You’re not a man, and you will never be one of us. You belong to us. Was it not Taorin hospitality that allowed you and your mother to begin a new life here, in the capital?”

Yvir didn’t say a word. Her hands hung low, nails digging into her palms, puncturing skin.

“Until that debt is settled,” the man continued cooly, “you can carry on fighting and let your mother work herself to the bone, or, luckily for you—a recent job requires your particular… talents. Do this, and both your debts go free.”

Yvir took a deep breath. The saying for Lowtown was right: it would either swallow you in or spit you out. She opened her fists, a bead of her blood dropping to the floor.

“What do I do?”