Page 32 of Tempest Rising

As he moved, his torn shirt shifted, giving me a glimpse—a barely there shimmer under his collarbone. At first, I thought itwas sweat catching the light, but the glow pulsed, steady and unnatural, its rhythm matching the rapid beat of his heart.

A mark. Not just any mark—a slave mark.

A sickening cold settled in my chest.

My fists came up instinctively, muscle memory taking over as I blocked another hit, but everything else in me froze. He wasn’t fighting because he wanted to. He was fighting because he had no choice—bound, controlled. I knew that glow too well, the telltale shimmer of magic sunk deeply into skin. Master’s magic.

Mason swung again, and I dodged, but I wasn’t really there anymore. My mind spun, piecing it together as if the understanding had blindsided me just as effectively as his fists could’ve. Every blow he threw, every ounce of power he unleashed—it wasn’t for the victory. It wasn’t for survival. He was a prisoner here, a puppet, forced into the ring like a weapon put on display for the crowd’s twisted pleasure.

The stone beneath my feet rumbled in sync with his next lunge, jagged tremors radiating outward as his fist connected with the ground where I’d just been, cracking through the surface like an earthquake. That sudden surge of power hadn’t come from his sheer physicality alone—no, it was magic. I felt the ground react to him, bending to his will.

He threw a hook at me, his eyes flat—expressionless. There was no fire in them, no sense of the man behind the brawler. Just cold detachment.

I sucked in a breath and stepped back further, summoning winds around me with a snap of my fingers. The air crackled in response, a current gathering between us, kicking up dust andstone shards. His next punch sliced through the conjured gust, disrupting it, but the wind slowed him just enough.

My balance shifted, movements becoming more deliberate. I wasn’t aiming to best him anymore—not when I knew he wasn’t doing this willingly.

The crowd began to stir louder, impatient, their voices cracking through the tension like thunder. They craved bloodshed, something visceral, something primal to feed their hunger. They had no interest in the magic at work around me, in the anger simmering just under my skin.

A rush of memory hit me hard—her, the delicate trace of a similar brand my mother carried before she died, a silent reminder of her suffering. The rage I felt now was the same that had been festering since she was taken from me, something I’d tried to bury beneath layers of frosted control.

I couldn’t save her.

But maybe—just maybe—I could save him.

The timing wasn’t right to dwell on it. We were in the middle of a fight, and I had no time for drawn-out realizations. I knew we had to give the crowd what they wanted, or they’d start asking questions neither of us could afford to answer. So I made up my mind. Mason needed to win, and I was going to help him do it.

Mason lunged forward, his massive frame cutting through the air with brutal precision. I dodged the first punch, spinning on my heel to avoid the second. The crowd roared, their excitement building with every near miss. They wanted blood. They wanted a spectacle.

I pivoted, feigning a jab at Mason’s ribs, but he was too fast—his arm came up to block, forcing me back a step. We circledeach other, our eyes locked, as the crowd’s cheers surged around us.

It was a dance. A brutal, violent dance, but one that required precision and timing. I had to give them a show, but I couldn’t let Mason take too many hits. Not when I didn't know what was at stake for him.

The ground trembled beneath us as Mason tapped into his stone magic. Cracks formed in the floor under his feet, surging with power, and I felt the weight of the earth in each footfall he took. His next move came faster, his fist charged with a dull, vibrating glow of energy.

I let it connect, a calculated hit that sent me sprawling to the ground. Pain exploded in my jaw, but I gritted my teeth through it. The crowd erupted in cheers. Mason stood over me, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with regret. He didn’t want to do this, that much was clear. But he didn’t have a choice.

I stayed down, letting the referee call the match in Mason’s favor. The crowd roared, already moving on to the next spectacle, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

I slipped out of the chaos of the arena, crossing the concrete threshold into the locker room. The door clanged shut behind me, muffling the roars and jeers of the crowd, leaving behind a hollow silence. My head was still ringing from Mason’s final blow, but the adrenaline made the pain manageable. Not my first knockout and sure as hell wouldn’t be my last.

Mason was already there, sitting on one of the benches in the far corner, his broad back hunched and his fists hanging low between his knees. The water dripping from the frayed pipes above sounded like a leaking faucet in a forgotten basement.The stench of sweat, blood, and mildew clung to the room as the fight outside ramped up in intensity.

I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, my ribs aching from that well-timed punch I’d sold just enough to keep the crowd happy. Mason didn’t move when I walked closer, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. His skin had reverted to its more human-like form—no trace of the stone that had briefly covered him during the fight. Even gargoyles needed to conserve their power.

I leaned my back against the row of lockers, crossing my arms over my chest. For a moment, I said nothing, the silence stretching between us until it became a thing with sharp edges. Finally, I broke it—my voice low, calculated but lacking the usual harshness I reserved for this pit.

“I saw it, you know.”

Mason didn’t even glance up, but I saw the minuscule twitch in his jaw—the only sign that my words had landed. I continued anyway, keeping my tone casual, like we were just two fighters cooling off after a particularly rough round in the pit.

"The mark. You're not here because you want to be, are you?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Mason's shoulders tensed, his entire body going rigid. When he finally looked up, his eyes were hard, guarded. The wariness in them was something I recognized all too well—the look of someone who'd learned the hard way that trust was a luxury they couldn't afford.

"Mind your own shit, fighter," he growled, his voice rough like gravel. "You don't know what you're talking about."

I stayed where I was, not backing down. The unsaid truth hung between us like a physical presence. "That mark—it's not just there to keep you in the ring, is it?" I pressed, my voice sharpening. "Who's pulling the strings? You keep fighting like this, and you're as good as dead. You've got people counting on you out there, don't you?"

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