Page 63 of Brotan

In the cage, Granite circles Crow like a predator, saying something I can't hear. Crow remains on his knees, offering no resistance. Granite draws back for what can only be a finishing blow.

"CROW!" My voice tears from my throat, raw with desperation.

He doesn't hear me. The punch connects with sickening force, dropping him flat on his stomach, face turned toward where I stand at the edge of the crowd. His eyes are closed.

"Get up!" I scream, fighting my way to the front, using my elbows, knees, anything to create space. My dress tears as someone grabs at it, but I keep moving until I'm pressed against the cage. "Crow, look at me!"

His eyes flutter, then open—unfocused at first, then sharpening as they find mine.

"Fight!" I cry, fingers curling around the chain link. " Fight for yourself for once in your goddamn life! Fight for me!"

His eyes sharpen with recognition. Confusion. Disbelief. Then something else—anger, purpose, life flooding back into his battered body.

Granite, seeing me and hearing my pleas, throws back his head and laughs. "Your human thinks you can win," he mocks, loud enough for me to hear. "Let me show her what happens to weak orcs who let themselves be pets."

He lunges forward for the final blow, fist raised to crush what remains of Crow's resistance.

It never lands.

Crow's hand shoots up, catching Granite's fist mid-air. The larger orc's momentum halts so abruptly that the whole cage shudders. The crowd falls silent, collective breath held.

"My name," Crow says, voice carrying in the sudden quiet, "is Brotan Thronshade." He rises to his feet, still gripping Granite's fist. "And I am no one's pet."

He twists, and Granite howls as something in his wrist gives way. Crow releases him, steps back, and settles into a fighting stance I recognize from the night I first met him—balanced, controlled, lethal.

"You want a real fight?" Crow asks, the beast I've glimpsed beneath his control finally showing itself. "Let's give them one."

Granite charges with an enraged roar. This time, Crow doesn't just evade—he counters with a right cross that snaps Granite's head back, and a follow-up body shot that makes the larger orc grunt in pain.

The fight transforms. No longer a scheduled execution, but a test of skill against power. Granite has size, but Crow has something more valuable—experience forged through survival, technique honed by necessity. Each movement calculated, deliberate, effective.

"Get her out of here," someone shouts near me. "Quinn's seen her!"

Hands grab my arms. I struggle until I recognize Hammer at my side.

"We need to move," he says urgently. "Quinn's men are coming."

"I can't leave him," I protest.

"You've done what you came to do. Look at him."

In the cage, Crow fights with renewed purpose, every movement precise. He's no longer going through motions, no longer an orc resigned to defeat. He's magnificent—powerful yet controlled. The crowd's mood has shifted, excitement replacing bloodlust as they witness skill instead of slaughter.

"He's fighting for you now," Hammer says. "Don't make his sacrifice meaningless by getting caught."

I let Hammer pull me back into the crowd, my eyes never leaving the cage. We've barely made it ten feet when shouts erupt behind us.

"There she is! The doctor!"

Ryker's voice cuts through the noise of the fight. I look back to see him pointing in our direction, security pushing through the crowd toward us.

"Run!" Hammer pushes me ahead of him, creating a path through the spectators.

The warehouse erupts into chaos as those nearest us try to get out of the way, others pressing closer to see what's happening. My torn gown tangles around my legs as I run, slowing me down. Through gaps in the crowd, I catch glimpses of the cage: Crow gaining the upper hand, Granite bleeding from a cut above his eye, Quinn's face twisted with fury.

Then a gunshot cracks through the air, and everything changes.

The crowd scatters in panic, creating a momentary opening in the sea of bodies. Before I can move, someone grabs me from behind with a painful grip on my arm that spins me around.

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