Page 3 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

R iven

My pulse thunders in my ears, ragged and raw, as I circle the sparring pit. The floor is slick with sweat and old blood, worn smooth by decades of violence. Across from me, Garrus grins, his scarred knuckles cracking as he flexes his massive hands.

The man’s built like a goddamned fortress—shoulders like boulders, veins mapping his arms like rivers, scars crisscrossing his dark skin in pale ridges that tell stories I probably don’t want to know. My blade feels too light in my grip, the familiar weight suddenly inadequate. Too small.

Good .

I need to learn to outwit a bigger opponent.

“Coming at me, runt?” Garrus goads, rolling his neck with a sound like grinding stone. The bright lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face, turning his grin into something bestial.

Fuck, he’s big.

“Come on, Barlowe! I’ve got money on you!” Luther calls from the sidelines, where he’s leaning against a pillar. Allard is beside him, smirking. The fucker is probably itching to watch me take a fall.

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.

A messenger. Too clean for this pit—his pressed gray suit crisp, sharp collar starched; unscarred hands that have never held anything more dangerous than a pen practically scream “admin jockey.” Although I guess I shouldn’t hold it against him. Somebody’s got to do that shit.

His eyes skim over the blood spattered on the floor, over Garrus’s battered features, before landing briefly on me. His face stays blank, but I catch the slight widening of his pupils, the way his throat works as he swallows.

“Riven.” No honorific. No preamble. Just my name, clipped and bureaucratic.

It’s how we operate here; no visible hierarchy, no means of singling anyone out as a high-level target.

His respect shows in the way he keeps his eyes lowered and maintains a careful distance, like he’s feeding dangerous animals.

“What?” I say, still breathless, sweat tracking down my spine and pooling at the base of my throat. I need to work on my fucking fitness. Or maybe Garrus just hits harder than I remember.

“You’re wanted at the head office.” The words come out clipped, professional, but I can hear the slight tremor underneath. This place gets to everyone, eventually.

I dip my chin once, a minimal acknowledgment. That’s all he gets before he pivots and leaves briskly, his footsteps moving quickly, like he can’t stand being in this place longer than necessary. Can’t say I blame him. It reeks of sweat, blood, and worse things that don’t bear thinking about.

Garrus snorts, wiping blood from a split on his knuckle with casual indifference. “Must be a job.”

I flick the dirt off my blade with a sharp snap of my wrist. “Or someone pissed off the wrong people again. Want me to settle a petty score.”

“Then they’d call me. You don’t take those assignments.” There’s something almost like approval in his voice, buried under layers of professional respect.

No, I don’t.

Without wasting time on farewells, I leave the training area.

Luther and Allard turn away, haggling over a handful of notes Luther is holding.

Garrus saunters off to find another victim, already scanning the room for fresh meat.

He loves this shit—the violence, the dominance, the simple honesty of it.

Me, I do what’s necessary to keep on form. Nothing more.

I grab a ragged towel from the rack, the fabric rough against my fingers, swiping it over my face.

The cloth comes away dark with sweat and grime, streaked with traces of blood that might be mine or Garrus’s.

The Guild sends plenty of mercs out for petty kills, personal grudges, the kind of work that leaves a sour taste in your mouth long after the coin’s spent.

But my name isn’t on those contracts. Not anymore.

Never again.

Now they only call me out for the important stuff. The work that matters.

The locker room stinks of mildew and old iron, overlaid by coarse soap.

I strip off my wet training gear, the fabric peeling away from skin that’s flushed red from exertion, toss it into the basket beside the door, and prowl naked to the stalls.

The scars mapping the tanned flesh of my ribs and back don’t bother me—just mile markers from fights not worth remembering.

The shower hisses to life, ancient pipes groaning, steam curling against my skin as I step under the scalding spray.

Water sluices over me, hot enough to sting, turning muddy pink at my feet as it carries away the evidence of violence.

I scrub quickly over taut muscle, methodically working soap into skin—shoulders, arms, hands, under my nails where blood likes to hide, the back of my neck.

No lingering. No wasted movement. I lather the cropped bristles of my hair, feeling the coarse texture against my palms, then dip my head beneath the spray to wash the suds away, scrubbing my hands over my head and face as water cascades down my chest.