Dellen exited the Northcote Estate, ready to meet Marcus and Miranda. He walked towards the estate’s carriage pick-up, where a sleek, elegant carriage awaited him.

He stepped aboard, and the carriage hummed to life. They lifted off smoothly into the late evening sky. Dellen gazed out the window, enjoying the view as Copperopolis unfolded beneath him. The dance of the buildings, the ground, and the city was easy to get lost in.

This time of night, the cog home to the Northcote Estate was close to the city’s center.

Below, Dellen could see the landscape transition from the opulent estates found around other high families to the more densely packed neighbourhoods of a less affluent cog. He wanted to switch carriages before reaching his destination, just in case it mattered. It might have been more practical to walk the final mile, but he wasn’t yet sure of his skill navigating the city.

The pilot brought the carriage down at a bustling landing bay in one of the more diverse neighborhoods. Dellen disembarked, eyes scanning the area for a suitable airship to continue his journey. He spotted a small, inconspicuous carriage parked nearby, its pilot leaned against the side, waiting for fares.

Dellen approached the pilot, a man with a thick beard and a friendly grin.

“Where are you headed tonight?”

“Estenbridge,” Dellen said, naming the cog that was home to the warehouse where he was to meet Marcus and Miranda.

His second trip was shorter than his first; the pilot brought the airship down in a quiet landing area. Distracted by an elevated heart rate, Dellen flipped him a few coins and disembarked.

He could feel the energy of the upcoming fight coursing through him; it almost felt like his Spark Core was over-producing in anticipation, his Electrical Aether humming in response.

Dellen approached the address that Marcus had given him. The area was a maze of narrow streets, shadowy alleyways, and old brick buildings. He walked down a particularly dark, narrow alley, guided by the distant sound of voices and occasional bursts of rough laughter.

He rounded a corner and spotted a discreet door at the rear of an old warehouse. Two burly men stood guard, their arms crossed over their chests, eyeing Dellen with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Before he could say anything, one of the guards caught sight of someone approaching from behind Dellen. He relaxed his stance and gave a nod, signalling that the newcomer was a familiar face.

Dellen turned to see Marcus striding towards him, wearing a grin and accompanied by Miranda, who looked as fierce and confident as ever.

“Ah, there you are, Dellen!” Marcus exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Ready for a night of thrilling bouts and unforgettable memories?”

Miranda gave him an encouraging wink.

The guards stepped aside without a word, allowing the trio to enter the warehouse. The heavy door creaked open, allowing the sounds of cheering and din of lively gathering to roar out.

Dellen followed Marcus and Miranda into the crowd before them, feeling the energy of the spectators pulsing around him. The three of them squeezed through the throng of people, making their way toward the edge of the makeshift ring.

Miranda leaned close to Dellen, her voice a low and serious murmur amidst the noise. “You need to stay focused in here. Keep your wits about you, and don’t let the crowd or your opponent rattle you.”

Marcus glanced at a scrap of paper he had pulled from his pocket. “There are eight fighters in total tonight, including you. Your match is the third one. Your opponent is named Raxton. He’s been around the circuit for a while.”

It was left unsaid that one slip-up from Dellen and Raxton would leave him on the ground.

Dellen nodded, taking a breath to center himself. He knew that Miranda’s training was just the barest minimum he’d need to survive against a seasoned fighter.

An announcer called everyone to the ring; the first match was about to begin. The two fighters were announced as Gavril, a stocky man with a fierce expression, and Niall, a tall, wiry figure with a mop of unruly hair. They stepped into the ring, and the crowd roared with anticipation.

The fight was intense from the beginning, with Gavril and Niall trading blows at a furious pace. Gavril focused on delivering powerful punches, using his brute strength to his advantage. In contrast, Niall relied on his agility and speed to dodge and counterattack. The crowd was on its feet, cheering and screaming. Each punch punctuated by a fresh roar.

Miranda leaned in again, her tone measured and analytical. “Watch their moves, Dellen. See how they use their strengths and exploit their opponent’s weaknesses. You can learn from both their success and their mistakes.”

Dellen nodded, his eyes fixed on the fight. He studied the fighter’s techniques, hoping to glean any insights that might give him an edge for his own match.

Stolen story; please report.

After several rounds of back-and-forth combat, Gavril managed to land a punishing blow that snapped Niall’s head back, sending him crashing to the mat.

The crowd erupted, hands in the air, screaming. Dellen felt a pulse of matching excitement run through him.

The first fight over, he leaned over to Miranda. “How do I bet on myself?”

“Talk to Marcus.” She shook her head. “Cocky betting on yourself in your first match before you’ve even seen Raxton fight.”

Dellen grabbed Marcus’s arm to get his attention. “I want to bet on myself.”

“You sure about that?” He said, his voice colored with amusement.

Dellen nodded in the affirmative.

Marcus chuckled and gave him a light punch to the shoulder. “I’ll put the bet in for you; what do you want to wager? Ten sovereigns, twenty?”

“What’re my odds?”

“You’re a new and unknown fighter; Raxton is a known winner. If you win, they pay you back eight to one.”

“Eight to one,” Dellen said in a low voice to himself. Even with odds like those, he’d need to win a lot of fights to fund house Northcote going forward, but it would help him have a bit more cash on hand. He handed Marcus a bag. “Here’s three.”

“That’s less than I expected.”

“Hundred sovereigns.” Dellen finished.

Marcus glanced down at the bag and back up at Dellen. “You nobles do everything differently.” He looked at the bag again and then at Dellen. “Stay here and watch the match; I’m going to need to get this approved.”

Marcus came back just as the second bout was winding down, one fighter stumbling drunkenly around the ring. “Your bet is in, though it’s going to make waves if you win.” He looked at Miranda. “Trust you to keep my life interesting.”

“You don’t need my help for that.” She said. “We’re just here to give you some extra spice.”

The second match ended with a decisive blow to the jaw that sent the loser to the floor, spraying blood and teeth. Dellen twisted his face. There was no guarantee that it wouldn’t be him next.

“When’re the next matches scheduled?” Dellen said to Marcus.

“How about you win one before planning your next?”

“I’m just curious,” Dellen said.

“About six days,” Marcus said.

Six days. He only had five days left before the city went up in flames. This was his best chance.

He went to his side of the ring and waited to be signaled to climb in.

“Remember what Miranda told you,” Gilgamesh said. “It’s a dance, and I’m sure you can dance better than these coarse laborers.”

Dellen eyed him askance and replied in a mutter he hoped Gilgamesh could hear over the crowd. “I appreciate the encouragement, but I don’t feel much like a noble.”

“Just do well. Let’s not have a repeat of your forging.”

“You can stop encouraging me now,” Dellen replied.

A bell rang. “Ladies and gentlemen, in preparation for the third match, we invite you to place your bets. Tonight we have a proven fighter, a known quantity, a crowd favorite, Raxton!”

A surge of noise met the announcement.

“And against him, we have a new contender, Dellen!”

The crowd response was muted, almost absent compared to the approval that had come for Raxton.

“Final call for bets, final call for bets.” Yelled the announcer.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey, you, Dellen. You’re up; climb in.”

Dellen kept his head high and his back straight. He could do this.

“The match starts on the bell.” Said a gruff voice behind him.

Time seemed to stretch and slow. Dellen waited for the bell, it had been less than a quarter minute between previous combatants climbing into the ring and their fights starting, but for him, the time dragged.

The bell rang.

Previous fighters had rushed each other, Dellen and Raxton circled. Each of them testing the other.

Raxton struck first, throwing a right hook toward Dellen’s head. Remembering his training with Miranda, Dellen quickly leaned back, evading the punch. He countered with a swift jab, connecting with Raxton’s jaw.

Seizing the momentum, Dellen followed up with a series of quick jabs, forcing Raxton to take a defensive stance. The crowd cheered, and Raxton’s face took on a black, angry demeanor.

Raxton lifted his fists and snapped his arms out. From beneath his sleeves metal plates telescoped out and wrapped around his palms. A sneer deformed his face. “This is going to hurt.”

He rushed at Dellen, but leaned too far; his first swing went wide; Dellen ducked, and then heard a crack.

He was out of the time stream and standing upright on a railed balcony with the landscape spinning by at an idle pace.

“You survived for a second there with your head bent almost parallel to your shoulder,” Gilgamesh said.

Dellen groaned.

“Do you feel a residual pain?”

“No.”

“Are you going to that fight again?”

“No,” Dellen said. “I’m going to win that fight.”

The days rushed by in a blur of forging and training. This time, the scarring on his neck was a touch less.

Raxton lifted his fists and snapped his arms out. From beneath his sleeves, metal plates telescoped out and wrapped around his palms. A sneer deformed his face. “This is going to hurt.”

He rushed at Dellen but leaned too far; his first swing went wide, Dellen pivoted and evaded the hit entirely. He swung in close and unleashed a flurry of blows against Raxton’s left side. Raxton deflected his first hit, but his second was steelskin on flesh, cracking Raxton’s ribs.

Raxton grunted and slammed an elbow into the underside of Dellen’s jaw.

Dellen’s head rocked back, teeth slamming together, neck vertebrae releasing an unwholesome crunch to his ears.

“I’m not going to lose to some amateur like yourself.”

“No,” Dellen said. “You’re going to lose, badly.”

Raxton’s nostrils flared.

He charged at Dellen. Dellen wove around him. Raxton favored his left side a little.

Dellen slipped to the right and threw a punch. Raxton blocked it on his shoulder and returned a hit of his own. Sweat pouring down his face, Raxton grimaced at him. “You’re overconfident.” He stepped inside Dellen’s guard and punched him in the face.

He was out of the time stream and standing upright on a railed balcony with the landscape spinning by at an idle pace.

“I’m not quite sure what happened there; I think he broke your nose and shoved the bone into your brain,” Gilgamesh said.

“How colorful,” Dellen said.

“Think you can win this time?”

Dellen looked at his hands, then up at Gilgamesh. “I made it a little longer this time; I think I can manage it.”

“You know, you could postpone the fight.”

“No, I don’t think I can. The next matches aren’t until after the city burns.”

Days blurred by.

Dellen forged, Dellen practiced, Dellen trained. Dellen died.

Dellen fought again and again.

Raxton lifted his fists and snapped his arms out. From beneath his sleeves metal plates telescoped out and wrapped around his palms. A sneer deformed his face. “This is going to hurt.”

Dellen eyed the man, feeling calm. Raxton was a good fighter, and a vicious one, he was willing to kill to win so long as he could make it look even slightly like an accident.

He held up his hands and spoke, “Only for you.”