Lady Brown: Pt 3

The very next day, the Cage was already packed—hot, loud, and smelling like a mechanic’s workshop had exploded inside. Heat shimmered, sweat running down the metallic rails where spectators leaned in, shouting over one another.

Inside the ring, two fighters circled like predators—Fifer, lean and twitch-fast, and Marro, broad-shouldered with a mean glint in his eye. The air between them crackled with faint arcs of light, each man throwing short, sharp bursts of magic from their palms.

“MARRO STARTING WITH SUNBURST SHOTS—” the announcer’s voice boomed through the tinny speakers as a golden spark zipped past Fifer’s cheek, close enough to singe hair.

Fifer answered with a volley of his own, pale-blue flickers snapping toward Marro’s chest. Marro blocked with a raised forearm, the projectiles bursting harmlessly against the faint shimmer of a ward.

They traded light, testing range—quick flicks, feints, forcing the other to blink, flinch, make a mistake. The crowd roared every time one slipped past the guard, smacking into ribs or shoulders.

Marro made the first real push—three fast shots in a line, then he lunged through the gap. His fist cut through the air toward Fifer’s jaw. Fifer ducked low, pivoted on one heel, and slammed a hook into Marro’s gut. The bigger man grunted but shoved forward, throwing another light burst point-blank that exploded against Fifer’s shoulder.

“NOW IT’S GETTING DIRTY—” the announcer laughed.

They were chest-to-chest now, magic forgotten as they brawled—knees, elbows, fists thudding into flesh. Marro tried to grapple, but Fifer slipped out like water, darting to the side and pelting him with two more light bursts. Marro staggered.

Fifer closed the distance in a blink—low kick to the knee, a sharp jab to the temple—then the finishing blow: a clean uppercut that lifted Marro’s feet off the floor.

“DOWN HE GOES! FIFER WINS BY KNOCKOUT!” the announcer shouted, and the crowd erupted—some screaming victory, others hurling curses at lost bets.

Coins clinked, tickets changed hands, and the smell of sweat and magic dust lingered as handlers dragged Marro’s limp body from the ring.

Two figures arrived at the scene. One was a man in a long coat with a brimmed hat tipped just enough to shadow his eyes. The other was a cloaked figure with oversized hands—my gloves pulling all the attention they could get.

Heads started turning. The noise in the Cage didn’t stop, but I felt the stares stick to us like burrs. It was the kind of shift you notice even if you’re not looking for it—fights slowing, people muttering to their neighbors, sizing us up.

Cassian didn’t break stride. If anything, he leaned into it, tipping his hat at a few gawkers like this was his stage.

We reached the betting table—the same one-man show as before. The guy behind it took one look at Cassian, then at me, and smirked like he’d just figured out what kind of trouble we were bringing.

“You here to place a bet?” he asked. His eyes flicked to my gloves, then back. “Huh… different kind of bet, I see. Big man’s down the alley, up the stairs.”

Cassian tipped his hat again in silent thanks. Then, without warning, he clamped both hands on my shoulders like I was about to bolt.

“Really?” I muttered, side-eyeing him. “You're holding me like this so I don’t run away?”

“Exactly,” he said without a hint of shame, steering me toward the alley.

I rolled my eyes but let him push me along, my boots scuffing the dirt floor as we left the main ring behind.

The office was just like I remembered—same desk, same worn leather chair, same smell of smoke and dust. And behind the desk, the same man, head bent over a stack of papers, until the sound of our boots made him look up.

“Welcome!” he said, smiling like a merchant who’d already decided what he was charging. “I’m guessing you’re here to enroll a fighter.”

“Correct, sir,” Cassian answered before I could open my mouth. I stayed rooted to the spot. Last time I came in here, I’d been turned down… and then jumped on my way out.

“This is my fighter right here.” He gave me a push forward. I stumbled a half-step but caught myself before I looked like a total fool.

Cassian dropped a heavy bag of vells on the desk.

“Alright, 80 vells,” the man said flatly.

“Excu—” I started, but Cassian cut me off.

“That doesn’t sound like the usual 40,” I muttered.

“Correct,” Cassian said without missing a beat. “Every four days, we have a magic fight—a mixture of physical combat with a little flavor. Very popular with the fans, so I make sure to pay extra.”

“Allow me to converse with my client—uh, fighter,” he added, then yanked me into a huddle.

“Can you use magic?” he whispered.

I just stared at the floor. “If I did, would I even be here?”

“You got a point…” And before I could argue, his hand darted into my pocket, grabbing the other bag of 40 vells.

“WHAT ARE—” His palm slapped over my mouth.

“He’ll be fighting, but he can’t use magic,” Cassian told the man, confident as ever.

The man arched a brow. “Why the hell would I make an exception? I’ve been running this cage the same way for over three years.”

Cassian just grinned wider, dragging out the moment before pulling up a chair and sitting down like he owned the place. “Look at it this way. A person who uses zero powers enters a magic match. If I were a bettor, what would I do?”

The man thought for a moment. “I’d obviously bet on the magic user so I win money.”

“Exactly…” Cassian snapped his fingers. “Now, what happens if the one everyone bet against wins?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Then I’d lose money…”

Cassian leaned in, elbow on the desk. “And who would that money go to?”

Silence. The man glanced out the window at the roaring cage, then back at Cassian. “The money would go…”

“It would go to me,” Cassian finished for him.

The man stood, heat in his voice now. “You seriously think someone who can’t use magic can beat those blessed by the Goddess of the Sun?”

Cassian rose too, nose to nose with him. “Give us a chance, and you’ll find out.”

They stared each other down. Finally, the man slumped back in his chair. “So be it. I’ll make money either way—from your win…” His gaze slid to me. I quickly dropped my chin so my hood hid my face. “…Or your defeat.”

Cassian grinned, snatched up the handshake that wasn’t offered, and turned to leave.

“You’ll be on in thirty,” the man called after us. Then—

“Wait.”

Cassian stopped mid-step, half-turned in the doorway.

“What’s your fighter’s name?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze drifted back to the man, slow and deliberate, like he was considering whether this was even information worth giving. Then his eyes slid to me. And I swear, the grin he wore wasn’t just a smile—it was a warning, a dare, and a joke only he was in on.

He stepped back into the light of the room, boots echoing on the wooden floor. “My fighter’s name?” he repeated, tasting each word, letting them hang just long enough for the air to feel heavier.

The man across the desk raised a brow.

Cassian leaned forward on the desk, his voice dropping to something smooth, certain, almost smug.

“Chetia.”

The word landed like a coin on stone. Short. Sharp. Final.

Cassian didn’t explain it. He didn’t have to. The smirk, the glint in his eyes—it said everything.

And before the man could react, Cassian turned on his heel, motioning me after him, leaving the name to linger in the stale office air like the ringing in your ear after a gunshot.

The silence hung heavy between us, thick like smoke in the alley. We watched the fights before us to pass the time. Minutes passed, maybe more, until I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed Cassian’s sleeve and yanked him toward the shadowed alley beside the building.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” I demanded, voice low but fierce.

He blinked, genuinely surprised. “Do what?”

I slammed my glove into my palm, the sound sharp against the quiet. “I can’t use magic. You knew that. So why the hell did you push me today? You could’ve waited until tomorrow, or the next fight — hell, the next year — for all I care.”

He turned to face me fully, eyes steady and unflinching. His voice dropped into a calm, unshakable rhythm, like the pulse of something bigger than either of us.

“Because, Rilke… every second you wait to step into that ring is a second you let them define who you are. You’re not just fighting magic or muscles out there. You’re fighting every damn voice that told you ‘no.’ Every shadow whispered you weren’t enough. Every moment you thought you had to stay quiet and disappear.”

He took a step closer, his hands clenched at his sides, like he was holding back a storm.

“I didn’t sign you up today because I’m reckless. I did it because you’re ready. Not because the world’s going to hand you a victory, it won’t. You’ll have to fight tooth and nail for every inch, but that’s what makes it worth it. Because winning without struggle means nothing.”

His voice cracked,

“I believe in you, Rilke. Not just because you pulled me out of that alley… but because I see what you can be. The fire you’ve been hiding, the strength they refuse to see.”

He locked eyes with me, fierce and unwavering.

“So believe in me, because I believe in you.”

Cassian’s words still hung in the thick air between us when suddenly, the sharp clang of the bell shattered the silence.

“NEXT MATCH STARTING! SPECIAL MATCH!” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crackling speakers, electric and urgent.

I blinked, heart jolting.

Cassian’s eyes locked onto mine, fierce and unwavering. “That’s you, Rilke. Get out there.”

He stepped forward and pointed at me, his finger trembling just slightly as it hovered an inch from the bridge of my nose. “Remember what I taught you…”

Then he lowered his hand and gave the gloves strapped to my fists a firm pat. “And especially what I gave you.”