Page 5 of Forged in Fire
I snort, adjusting my stance on the balls of my feet. At 6’2”, I’m hardly a runt. But beside this beast, I look half-grown. The sweatpants and vest cling to my frame, damp with exertion, the familiar restriction around my chest reminding me to keep my movements fluid.
“Come on,” he presses, “what you waiting for?” He’s dancing from foot to foot, still grinning, his massive frame surprisingly light on its feet. The muscle definition in his chest ripples with each movement, and I can smell the metallic tang of old blood mixed with fresh sweat.
Asshole.
I don’t answer. I exhale slow and controlled, feeling my ribs expand against my snug vest, then lunge.
Steel whistles through the stale air. Garrus parries with a brutal sweep, the clash of metal on metal ringing through the chamber. The impact travels up my arm, nearly wrenching the blade from my grip, rattling my teeth, and sending vibrations through my jaw. I grit them, taste iron, dance back on the balls of my feet, reset. My boots scuff against the sand scattered over the concrete, kicking up dust that stings my eyes and coats the back of my throat.
Faster. Sharper.
I feint left, feeling the pull in my obliques as I pivot, then strike high. Garrus swats it aside like I’m swinging a reed, his forearm muscles bunching with casual strength. His laughter booms off the stone walls, echoing in the cramped space. “That all you got?”
“I’m pretty sure it is!” laughs Allard.
“Fuck off,” says Luther. “You’re just pissed because he’s winning on points.”
“Points don’t matter in here. Only blood.” Allard’s accent always gets thicker around the pit. Eastern Bloc, I think, though I’ve never asked for details. We never do.
“Come on, boy,” Garrus grunts, goading me. It doesn’t work. I learned long ago that words mean nothing in a fight.
The air between us tastes like iron and sweat, thick enough to choke on. I ignore the burn in my thighs, the way my ribs scream when I twist, the ache building in my arm. Muscle memory takes over—shoulder rolling into the next slash, hips twisting to lend weight behind the strike, feet finding purchase on the treacherous floor. The blade nicks his forearm, parting skin easily. A pinprick of red blooms on his dark skin, bright against the network of old scars. Training never carries any weight unless you’re using real weapons.
Garrus’s grin widens, showing teeth stained with old coffee. “There he is.”
“And boom! He scores!” Luther is jubilant.
“Lucky break,” says Allard.
I don’t let myself smirk.
Focus.
“Again,” I grind out, my voice rough from exertion and the dust in my throat.
His counter is a hammerfist aimed at my ribs, his knuckles scarred white from years of breaking bones. I barely sidestep—still catch the glancing blow against my side. Fire lances up my ribs, sharp enough to steal breath, but I move anyway, spinning into a low sweep that puts my full weight behind the strike. He staggers, just a fraction, swaying. But it’s enough. Satisfaction swirls in my chest, warm and dangerous.
Closer.
Blood slicks my palm where the blade’s hilt has worn rough, mixing with sweat to make my hold treacherous. I adjust my grip, feeling the familiar grooves in the leather wrapping, blinking the salt-sting out of my vision as perspiration tracks down my forehead. Overhead, the lights flicker with the building’s ancient electrical system, casting Garrus in jagged shadows that dance across his bare torso, turning him into something monstrous and primal. I like it better that way. No mercy here. No rules. Just meat and metal and the honest brutality of survival.
“One more.” My voice is like gravel as I suck in air that burns my lungs.
Garrus cracks his knuckles again. “Make it—”
A door slams open behind us.
Garrus’s head swings toward the sound, his focus shifting. I don’t take my eyes off him—I’ve sparred with the bastard enough times to know never to let my guard down around him. He wouldn’t hesitate to land a blow if I turned my back, wouldn’t even consider it dirty fighting. Just smart.
Footsteps echo through the training hall, and the scent shifts. Something cleaner. Soap and expensive cologne. Out of place.
Garrus tenses, his massive shoulders bunching as he assesses the intrusion. I don’t turn yet. I keep my stance, blade up, point steady despite the tremor in my overworked muscles, taking the moment to catch my breath and let my heart rate settle back toward something approaching normal.
Garrus exhales through his nose. “Looks like playtime’s over.” He drops his knife with a clatter that echoes off the walls, the weapon spinning on the concrete before coming to rest.
“Oh, come on!” Luther gripes. “This is costing me a bundle.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, turning to face whoever just walked in. I don’t sheath my blade. Not yet. I turn slowly, letting my gaze track the intruder.
