— ZORYN —
After that first win, the bracket no longer feels hypothetical.
It feels personal.
For the second match, my second opponent is a horned marsh-beast, all muscle and low center of gravity, with a fighting style built around grappling and crushing holds. He tries to lock me down early—arms like iron bands, breath hot and wet against my neck.
It almost works.
Almost.
I slip out of his grip at the last second, twist my hips, and drop him with a clean throw that knocks the wind out of him so hard he wheezes like a bellows. The crowd howls when I plant a foot on his chest and wait for the horn.
He yields, dazed but grinning.
Somewhere behind me, Roan yells, "THAT'S MY ZOR!"
Match three—the third fight is fast.
A fox-kin—slender, clever, and irritatingly smug—who darts in and out like he's dancing. He nicks me twice, shallow cuts, just enough to draw blood and make the crowd hiss.
