Page 62 of Brotan

Granite climbs into the cage, bouncing on the balls of his feet, feeding off the crowd's energy. His youth shows in every motion—unrestrained power without the precision that comes from surviving the battles Crow has fought.

"And his opponent," the announcer's voice drops dramatically, "the former champion who dominated these rings for three years before disappearing. Tonight marks his return to the cage! The Savage! BROOOTAN!"

The crowd's reaction shifts—boos mixing with cheers, the energy turning ugly with bloodlust as if the mere mention of his name awakens something primal in them. And then he appears.

Crow.

My heart stops.

He walks toward the cage with his head down, shoulders hunched—nothing like the proud warrior I know. No leather cut, just bare skin marked with tattoos I've traced with my fingertips. His face is blank. His eyes empty. He’s defeated before the fight has even begun.

Something inside me breaks at the sight. I surge forward, pushing past the orcs surrounding me.

"Crow!" I try to scream, but the crowd's roar swallows my voice.

A massive hand clamps over my mouth, pulling me back as I struggle.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Hammer hisses in my ear. "Quinn's men are watching for exactly this."

I wrench away from his grip. "He needs to know I'm here!"

"And he will," Hammer says, "but not like this. We didn't come here to get you killed."

My vision blurs with frustration as I struggle to keep my composure when Crow enter the cage, never looking up, never scanning the crowd as he usually would. He's already surrendered—to Quinn, to this fight, to whatever fate awaits him after.

"There has to be a way," I plead, turning to Hammer. "We have to reach him before it's too late."

The bell rings, cutting through the chaos. The fight begins.

Granite doesn't waste time with circling or sizing up his opponent. He charges, throwing a haymaker that would cave in the skull of anyone with slower reflexes. Crow dodges—barely—but makes no attempt to counter. Another punch comes. Then another. Crow blocks or evades, but never strikes back.

"What's he doing?" I whisper, though I already know.

"Exactly what Quinn wants," Hammer says grimly. "Making it look good before he goes down."

Punch after punch, Crow remains standing, but for how much longer? Blood trickles from a cut above his eye. Red punch marks bloom across his ribs. His movements grow slower with each hit he absorbs. Meanwhile, Granite is smiling, playing to the crowd, clearly enjoying his dominance.

"He doesn't know, does he?" I realize. "Granite has no idea this fight is rigged."

Hammer's expression darkens. "Kid probably thinks he's earned this win. That's how Quinn operates—he uses people against each other. Makes them think they're climbing up when they're just pawns."

The orc to my left, the thickset with a jagged scar across his cheek—suddenly tenses. "Ryker's with Quinn now," he says, nodding toward the announcer's platform.

I follow his gaze to where Quinn stands with his entourage. A tall, lean man has joined him. The same man who came to my clinic, who threatened me with that cold smile. As I watch, Quinn says something to Ryker, who nods, then signals to someone in the crowd.

That person turns and signals to someone in Granite's corner.

"What's happening?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.

"The end," Hammer says. "Quinn's giving the order."

Granite charges again, but this time there's something different about his approach—more purpose, less showmanship. His movements shift from performative to lethal. He feints left, then connects with a vicious right hook that sends Crow reeling. Crow drops to one knee, head bowed.

He isn't going to get up. He's going to let this happen.

"No!" I tear away from Hammer before he can stop me, pushing through the crowd toward the cage. Someone grabs my arm but I wrench free. A man twice my size blocks my path and I duck under his outstretched arm.

"Crow!" I scream, but my voice drowns in the roar of bloodthirsty spectators.

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