Page 48 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

By mid-morning, two of my engine crews are nose to nose over some scavenged weapon cores—old Alliance tech, rare as breath in the Scar. One of the bastards, Gorrik, starts throwing accusations. Claims Riven stole half his salvage, lied about kill counts, threatened one ofhisgirls in the south barracks.

I don’t tolerate threats.

Especially not towardher.

I roll in with dust still clinging to my coat and the red of last night’s storm still in my hair.

Riven’s already sneering by the time I step into the circle of men.

“She ain’t even your property,” he spits, blade half-drawn. “You fuck her once and suddenly we all gotta bow to yourpet ghost?”

Wrong thing to say.

Real wrong.

I don’t talk.

I move.

My blade’s at his throat before he can blink.

“You got a choice,” I say, voice quiet, calm. “Fight me clean in the pit, or I gut you dirty in the dirt.”

Riven smiles, crooked teeth stained with synth blood. “I ain’t afraid of Red Eye.”

I step back.

“Good.”

The arena is packed by noon.

Steel bleachers line the edge of the fighting pit—an old reactor basin turned battleground, ringed with torches and old bones. The crowd chants low, rhythmic, stomping metal boots on scrap flooring.

“Red Eye. Red Eye. Red Eye.”

I strip to the waist.

The cold wind cuts across my skin, carrying the smell of rust and sweat and blood. My scars itch. My muscles twitch. The heat inside me builds, uncoiling from spine to fists.

Across from me, Riven paces like a caged predator, glistening with engine grease and bravado. He’s younger. Faster.

I’m meaner.

“Ready?” I growl.

The bell clangs.

He charges.

It’s not a clean fight. Not even close.

We trade blows like thunderclaps, skin on skin, bone on bone. He cuts me above the eye early, gets a cheap knee in under my ribs. I let him think he’s winning.

Then I twist his arm backward, dislocate it with a snap, and slam him into the floor hard enough the stone cracks.

He tries to crawl.

I pin him with a boot, blood dripping from my brow.