The scent of blood and rusted iron was even stronger in the sub-level of the city. Varkas led them through a series of damp tunnels to a sunken arena lit by flickering gas lamps. This was the "Low-Pit," a place where street fighters and disgraced soldiers traded blows for a few silver coins, far from the eyes of the law.
"If you want to win the Star-Steel in the main tournament, you need to prove you can fight while suppressed," Varkas said, leaning against a grime-streaked pillar. "In the main arena, there are mana-sensors everywhere. If you use even a spark of that dragon-breath, the Iron Inquisition will be on you before the match ends."
Alaric stepped into the dirt-covered ring. The cold-iron chain on his arm felt like a lead weight, dulling his senses and making the humming power in his chest retreat into a dark corner of his soul. He felt sluggish, heavy, and frustratingly... human.
"Hey, Tin-Man!" a voice boomed from the opposite side of the pit. A massive brawler with scarred knuckles and a jagged wooden club stepped into the light. "You look like you've spent too much time praying and not enough time bleeding. You lost, little Paladin?"
The crowd, mostly miners and low-lifes, cheered for the brawler. Evelyn watched from the shadows, her eyes fixed on Alaric's chest, watching the faint, suppressed purple glow behind his scars. She knew that if the seal broke, the city would burn, but if it held, Alaric might just remember who he used to be.
Alaric didn't answer. He picked up a blunt training sword from the rack—a simple hunk of heavy iron. He felt the weight, balancing it in his hand. His wings were bound tight under his cloak, making his balance feel off-center, as if he were learning to walk all over again.
The brawler lunged, swinging the club with a guttural roar.
In his mind, Alaric's dragon-instinct screamed at him to exhale, to freeze the man's heart, to tear him apart with claws. But the limiter held the power back. Alaric had to rely on his old life. He stepped to the left, a movement ingrained in his muscles by years of grueling temple training. He parried the club, the vibration jarring his human bones and sending a sting of pain up his arm.
Focus, Alaric told himself, gritting his teeth. Be a ksatria, not a beast.
He countered with a sharp jab to the brawler's ribs, then a swift sweep of the leg. The big man crashed into the dirt, coughing as the wind was knocked out of him. It wasn't a pretty win, and Alaric's heart was hammering painfully against his ribs, but he had done it without a single drop of magic.
"He's slow," Varkas whispered to Evelyn.
"He's learning to survive his own strength," Evelyn replied, her voice soft. "If he can control the man and the monster at the same time, he won't just be a weapon. He'll be something the world has never seen."
Alaric stood over his opponent, his breath coming in ragged gasps. For the first time since his resurrection, he didn't feel like a puppet stitched together by a witch. He felt the sting of a real bruise and the burn of real sweat. He was reclaiming a piece of his soul, one drop of blood at a time.