Osric didn't fall asleep easily.
Each time he closed his eyes, the fights he had watched replayed themselves—stances, footwork, the way weight shifted before a strike. He went over them again and again, breaking them apart, imagining what he would have done differently. By the time exhaustion finally took him, his thoughts were still moving.
When evening came, he was already on his way.
Lowbrook's streets were dim and familiar, lantern light casting long shadows along cracked stone and uneven paths. Osric walked with his cloak drawn close, pace steady, mind elsewhere. His body felt rested enough. Not perfect—but ready.
Tonight mattered.
Two fights.
He had gone over it carefully.
The first opponent needed to be weak. Not reckless, not durable—certainly not strong. Someone he could end quickly, before fatigue set in and before injuries had a chance to accumulate. One clean victory. Minimal damage.
The second fight was the real test.
That one would decide everything.
Osric knew he wouldn't be able to choose freely. The crowd would offer volunteers, and he would have to judge them in moments—experience, posture, confidence, restraint. He would need to choose someone dangerous enough to satisfy the system, but not someone who could grind him down through sheer endurance.
Timing would matter.
As would restraint.
So focused was he on these thoughts that he didn't notice the footsteps behind him.
They kept their distance. Not close enough to draw attention. Not far enough to lose him.
Osric turned down a narrower street, then another, following the same path he had taken on previous nights. The abandoned stone building came into view ahead, half-swallowed by shadow.
Still, he didn't look back.
If he had, he would have seen a young man lingering at the edge of the street, face half-hidden beneath a hood pulled too low to be casual.
Jeffrey watched him with narrowed eyes.
He recognized Osric immediately.
There had been doubt at first—people like Osric didn't change much—but the way he walked now erased it. Straighter. Purposeful. Not the posture of someone used to keeping his head down.
Jeffrey frowned.
After reporting Osric's survival to Ruben, he had been told to keep an eye on him. Nothing dramatic. Just watch. Make sure the little rat didn't disappear again.
He'd found Osric the night before, slipping back to that broken hut he called home. And tonight, Jeffrey had been waiting.
What he hadn't expected was this.
Osric stepped into the abandoned building without hesitation.
Jeffrey stopped short.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.
He knew this place.
He'd been here before—never as a fighter, but as a spectator. To gamble. To watch men beat each other bloody for coin and pride. It wasn't somewhere weaklings belonged.
And yet Osric had walked in like he owned the place.
Jeffrey hesitated only a moment before following.
Curiosity won out.
If Osric thought he was something now—if he was stupid enough to step into a pit like that—Jeffrey wanted to see it with his own eyes.
He slipped inside, unnoticed, already smiling.
The crowd stirred as the previous fight ended and the winner stepped back, chest heaving. Blood ran from a cut above his brow, but his eyes were sharp as they swept across the onlookers.
"Another," someone shouted.
A few men laughed. A few stepped back.
Osric moved forward.
It wasn't dramatic. No raised voice. No posturing. He simply lifted a hand.
The fighter hesitated.
Osric was lean. Unassuming. Smaller than most of the men nearby. Safer, then—certainly safer than the thick-armed brute a few steps to his left, or the scarred veteran leaning against the wall.
After a moment, the fighter nodded.
"You," he said.
Osric stepped into the ring.
The murmurs followed him. Skeptical. Curious. Dismissive.
Jeffrey froze where he stood.
His mouth parted slightly as he stared, disbelief written plainly across his face.
That's… Osric?
The signal was given.
The other fighter rushed him immediately, confidence plain in his movement. A wide right swing—strong, but careless.
Osric was already moving.
Not fast.
Precise.
His body shifted just enough for the strike to pass where his head had been. A second blow followed, then a third, each met with measured footwork and tight blocks. Osric's arms moved almost on their own, guided by something deeper than conscious thought.
There.
The opening wasn't large. It didn't need to be.
Osric stepped in and drove his weight forward, fist snapping into the man's exposed side. The sound was sharp. Solid. The breath left his opponent in a harsh gasp.
Before he could recover, Osric struck again.
One clean blow.
The man crumpled, legs giving out as he collapsed to the stone.
Silence—then an explosion of noise.
Cheers. Shouts. Coin clinking as bets were hastily settled.
Osric stepped back, breathing steady, barely winded.
Jeffrey couldn't move.
His eyes were locked on the ring, heart pounding as the image burned itself into his mind.
That wasn't luck.
That wasn't desperation.
Osric hadn't survived.
He had changed.
Jeffrey swallowed hard.
There was no mistaking it now.
If he stepped into the ring with Osric, he would lose.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, sharp and uncomfortable. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he replayed the fight again and again. The way Osric had moved. The calm. The certainty.
That wasn't something a weakling learned by accident.
Nobody told me about this, Jeffrey thought, pulse quickening. Nobody said he could fight like that.
A knot of nervous energy twisted in his stomach. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave immediately—to put distance between himself and the ring, between himself and the boy who wasn't supposed to be dangerous.
Still…
Osric against him? No. Not anymore.
But Ruben?
Jeffrey exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax.
Ruben was different.
Everyone knew that.
Osric had tackled Ruben only days ago, in the woods.
Dragged him down in a moment of desperation that should never have worked.
That was how they told it afterward, anyway.
Luck. Surprise. Ruben not taking him seriously.
Which had been true. Partly.
Ruben hadn't gone all out.
If he had, Osric would have been crushed.
Jeffrey clung to that thought as he turned toward the exit, already rehearsing how he would explain this to Ruben. He had seen Osric alive. Seen him fighting. Seen him win.
That alone was worth reporting.
He took a step—
And froze.
Osric was still standing in the ring.
He raised his hand again.
The noise around him shifted, confusion rippling through the crowd.
"A second fight," Osric said evenly.
Jeffrey's breath caught.
Again?
The victor of the first bout hadn't even been dragged fully clear yet. Osric wasn't panting. Wasn't shaking. He stood there like he had more to give—and worse, like he knew he did.
Jeffrey slowly lowered himself back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ring.
No.
He couldn't leave yet.
Not after this.
Whatever happened next… Ruben needed to hear all of it.
Every detail.