Page 2

The cheers surrounding the dark and dirty fighting pit were deafening to Maude as she tried to catch her breath after a particularly nasty kick to her ribs.

She checked to see if the hood wrapped around her shirt was still up and concealing most of her features before choking down a groan as she rose from where she had hit the ground.

She was underground at The Broken Bones Pub, standing seven feet below the riotous crowd of gamblers in the illegal fighting pits of Logi, and she was ready to end this fight.

She pressed a hand to her ribs and turned to face her opponent, an unwashed brute of a man, who was leering at her torn shirt where the dark band of fabric she wrapped around her chest was showing.

Okay, enough .

Maude used the moment of distraction to feint to her left, leading him to crouch in preparation for another blow.

She launched herself off his bent knee and up to his shoulder, where she wrapped her legs around his throat and twisted to the ground, bringing him down hard into the dirt.

Her ribs ached in protest at the movement, the breath in her lungs thinning with the pain, but she was able to hold him down with her legs.

He struggled under her weight for a moment before he slowed and eventually passed out, her knees clamped down on his airway as they were.

Maude released his neck and stood, shaking his sweat and stench off her .

Most onlookers cheered at her victory, but some grumbled about lost money simply because they hadn’t expected a woman of Maude’s build to win a brawl.

Standing just under six feet tall, Maude’s broad shoulders, curvy figure, and thighs packed with muscle usually gave strangers the idea that she would be slow and substantial. She couldn’t blame them, she guessed.

Contrary to what the masses believed they saw, Maude was quick to strike and harder to land a hit on than most women with her training were.

She never felt the need to explain or defend herself to people who bet against her because of how she looked— it was their loss.

Maude was confident in how she moved in her skin, and these fights only further proved that.

She turned toward the pit runner, who held out a hand for her to help her out of the hole in the ground. Maude eyed the distance from the ground to the lip of the pit. With a running jump, her hands grasped the edge, and she hauled herself up, ignoring the outstretched hand.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to accept help now and then,” the pit runner, Sigurd, sighed.

“Yes, it would,” Maude flatly replied, holding a hand out for her earnings.

Sigurd, the only person she knew by name in this godsforsaken hole in this city, stood at the same height as Maude and seemed about ten years older than her.

His coloring was uniform: silver blonde beard, thick silver hair hung to his back, and bright blue eyes so clear they could’ve been ice.

Maude thought it was unnerving to look at him sometimes.

He dropped the coin bag into her hand, giving her an exasperated look.

She turned away from him without another word and made her way to the bar, where she set a single coin down on its sticky surface, sliding it toward the barkeep.

King Helvig stared back at her, his cruel face twisted in a false beneficial smile.

The barkeep quickly took the coin, thank the gods, and placed a horn tankard filled to the brim with ale in front of her, which she gladly accepted, gulping down half of it into her empty stomach.

She was working her way towards burnout, but the ale helped her feel stronger; it kindled her ever-present fury, as alcohol did for most people.

Maude wiped her mouth and put her back to the bar counter to watch the next fight.

To her right, a lanky man had fallen asleep with his tankard in hand and cheek on the bar in front of his half-eaten plate.

Maude spied the hired guards for The Broken Bones Pub, making their way over to the man a second before they swiped him from his stool.

She ignored the struggle that sparked next to her and fixed her gaze on the three fighting pits, all currently occupied by men and women battling out some insult or debt.

No one noticed her slender fingers slipping into the struggling man’s pocket, and no one noticed when those fingers withdrew his heavy coin purse.

Focusing on the group of people limbering up beside the pits, Maude sized up each opponent as if she were going to be fighting them.

Sigurd typically matched her up with whoever was just looking for a fight that night—she never had any personal quarrels with the patrons in this pub.

In the limited but warm torchlight of the underground fighting pits, the crowds of men and women drinking, placing bets, and generally debauching themselves felt more like home to Maude than any other place.

The thought of calling The Broken Bones Pub her home caused her to shudder with disgust.

“That’s just depressing,” Maude muttered, taking another drink of her ale and swiping the bread off her recently vacated neighbor’s plate, digging in. Already, she could feel the food and drink working to refuel her reserves .

“What’s depressing? The current fight happening or the general atmosphere?

” A bright voice sounded from down the bar.

A shot of light in her darkness. “Because if it’s the former, they are flopping around the pit like fish out of water.

But if it’s the latter, I would have to disagree.

This underground Hel-hole gives off a certain kind of gritty but otherwise charming feel, don’t you think? ”

Maude turned to the stranger and wasn’t sure if she should stare or make a snarky comment.

She evidently opted to stare because no words came to mind.

With their hood pulled forward and hunched over the bar counter, she couldn’t make out much about them except their irritatingly lighthearted attitude.

She chose not to respond and returned her attention to the fight.

“Well, in any case, I am looking forward to a much more entertaining match coming up,” the gratingly happy voice continued.

Again, Maude said nothing and sipped from her tankard. The annoying chatterer stood and took up the spot to her right that was recently vacated by the man who had been dragged out.

“Would you like another ale with your…ale? It’s my treat.”

Maude almost snorted. She hadn’t laughed in years, and this stranger almost drew out the foreign act from her.

He ordered two more ales and offered one to her. But still, she said nothing and only looked straight ahead. The stranger pulled the second tankard back and chuckled.

“As stimulating as this has been, others are waiting on me. May Tyr favor your future battles.” He turned to leave but stopped before going further, saying over his shoulder, “I look forward to seeing what the Allfather has planned for you.”

Maude only inclined her head to the ominous parting words as the stranger walked away.

She sighed, thankful the interaction was over, and turned to face the bar with her finished drink.

She needed to close her eyes and focus on centering herself again—her next round in the pit was coming up, and she always needed a moment to attempt to reign in her ever-present rising anger at her situation.

Control was everything, Maude reminded herself.

Something she would never breathe out loud is that she didn’t enjoy fighting like this.

It made her sick that she had to brawl like this and show the worst parts of herself to the people of Logi.

It made her just like him . Her anger heightened; she could feel the heat starting to radiate off her skin as her thoughts continued to spiral out of control.

Worthless, weak, absentminded fool.

Words from her past threatened to choke her as the loud atmosphere of the fighting pits dulled to a faint buzzing in her ears.

At the touch of a hand on her lower back, her breath was stolen from her lungs as she withdrew a hidden dagger from her thigh, twisting around and holding it to a man's throat.

“Maude! It’s me!” Hands held up to show he was unarmed was Sigurd. Sweat trickled down his face from his proximity to her radiating skin. “Gods, you fire wielders are all such hot heads.”

Sigurd only knew her affinity for fire because of previous incidents in the fighting pits when her temper got away from her. She shrugged off the thought and tried not to recall her immense mistake that night, the secret she had almost exposed.

“Don’t touch me,” Maude snapped, lowering her dagger and sheathing it back at her thigh.” Is my next round up?”

“Yes, check your weapons and drop into the pit.” Sigurd shook his head as he walked away, blonde locks glowing in the low light.

Maude rolled her eyes; she never checked her weapons. Not when any asshole could steal them from the low security crate at the entrance of the pit. Instead, she stashed them in the darkest corner of the bar behind a broken panel in the wall.

Maude’s hand went to her thigh, fingers entwining in the faded red strip of fabric she had tied around the handle of her dagger. This dagger… she kept this on her always.

Rolling her neck and stretching her arms behind her back, Maude made her way to the pit. Separating the fighting pits from the bar with an invisible line and shining in bright red letters, the wooden sign hanging from the ceiling read:

NO GALDER USE BEYOND THESE WARDS, VIOLATORS WILL BE GUTTED.

Subtle.