Chapter Text
“Wolf Pup,” Clover murmured, tracing the scars on Michael’s chest with his fingertips, “Is that meant to be ironic?”
“Guess so,” Michael answered. He’d been a lot smaller when George had given him the name, saying that he fought like a feral wolf pup. Nowadays Michael was much bigger, even in human form, and he liked to think that his technique was more refined.
“Do you think wolves have as much stamina as you?” Clover wondered, hand straying lower as he kissed Michael’s neck.
“They usually keep up long enough to make the fight interesting,” Michael told him, “But I’ve heard that in the wild they can run pretty far.”
Clover grimaced. “Right. Sure.”
“Honestly, the hardest thing about fighting animals is usually keeping them interested in you,” Michael continued thoughtfully, “It doesn’t look good if they all just wander off to nap when you’re trying to kill them.”
“Hm.”
Michael pulled Clover into his lap. “You ready for another round?”
He grinned, leaning down to kiss Michael. “By Rovriss, I was worried were done.”
There was a sharp knock at the door. Before Michael could tell whoever it was to fuck off, it opened and George walked in with a tray of cups, fruit and a pitcher. Michael propped himself up on an elbow and gave him a what the fuck gesture.
“You have a visitor.”
“I’m already entertaining a guest,” Michael returned, a hand on Clover’s thigh, “All night.”
He set the tray down beside the one Michael and Clover had already pillaged on the bench at the foot of the bed. Being one of the best fighters in the country offered decadent luxuries. “She represents the royal family.”
Clover looked between Michael and his bastard manager. “Is this my cue to leave?”
“No.”
George rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Just put some clothes on.”
With a loud and petulant groan, Michael extracted himself from between Clover’s legs and grabbed the nearest pair of trousers, wondering what the fuck the royal family wanted with him. He’d assumed that they wouldn’t care to meet him personally until he won the tournament.
As Clover poured himself a glass of whatever George had brought in—wine, Michael realised with a grimace—George opened the door for a well-dressed stranger.
“You may go,” she told George with a smile.
Michael smirked. George hated being told what to do.
When he was gone, she turned to Michael. “I’m Zeppik,” she greeted, bowing, “I represent the crown. You gave an impressive performance this morning. Klotan would have been pleased.”
A routine execution. A handful of criminals with daggers and spears they had no idea how to use versus Michael and his scimitars. As a rule, George never signed him up for sweat-inducing fights before the important ones if he could help it.
Michael shrugged. “That’s my job.”
Zeppik wandered over to the display rack at the end of the room. All of Michael’s killing tools were hung behind iron bars, only to be unlocked immediately before fights. He’d barely even been allowed time to polish his swords this morning before they were locked away again.
“Are these all yours?”
“Yep.”
“Which are your favourites? I hear that the whip sword is popular with the fans,” she said, looking at the curl of steel in the corner.
“The urumi?” Michael approached the display, considering it. “I guess it looks impressive, but it’s hard to control. Sometimes I can get it to cut deep, sometimes I end up just slapping opponents with the flat part of the blade.” Which worked well in the arena. Crowds hated fights that ended too quickly and cleanly and Michael hated deliberately holding back to prolong them, even if he was much better at it than he used to be. “Plus there’s alway the risk of it turning on me.”
“That would be unfortunate,” Zeppik agreed.
Michael looked over the other weapons. He’d never really considered what his favourite way to kill was. “The bagh nakhs feel like my claws,” he decided, pointing out the small pieces of steel for her, “Scimitars are great, I can use them at night or day, but I’m always conscious of them, you know? With bagh nakhs, I don’t even think about them. They just feel… natural.”
“Interesting.” Zeppik went to sit on the bench, Clover pouring her a glass of wine. “What do you plan on doing if you win the Grand Tournament?”
“I’ll ask my manager to organise a three day orgy to celebrate, then start training for the next one,” he answered easily. The prize money would be good, George would be proud of him. Surely he could afford to allow him some company to relax with for a few days before they left the city. Tilting his head, he examined the scars on his hands and arms. “Might see if I can get these upgraded. Keep my future opponents on their toes.”
“Hard working and forward thinking,” Zeppik said with a smile, “Your parents must be proud.”
“They’re dead,” he replied shortly, snatching up the pitcher of mead to pour what remained into a glass, “They were executed as traitors when I was little. I’ve been serving Raklotan in penance ever since.” He paused. “I think it’s been about twelve years?”
“Traitors? What did they do?”
Michael took a swig of the mead. “They sheltered refugees.”
“That’s serious,” Zeppik said, eyebrows raised. She plucked a grape from the tray and considered it for a moment. “Do you think they were right to do that?”
He scoffed. “Of course not. I’d still have parents if they’d just minded their own business.” If they’d considered what seeing them die like animals would do to their son. If they’d even thought about what would become of him if he was lucky enough to survive his own execution at the tender age of like three feet tall.
Zeppik was quiet for a moment. “You’ve served Raklotan well.”
Michael shrugged. “Always proud to do my duty to my country.”
Clover looked shocked and upset, but if Zeppik realised he was talking shit, she didn’t show it.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” she told him, sipping her wine, “It’s rare to find great fighters among those sentenced to the arena. Would you continue fighting if you could choose not to?”
Michael knew the answer, but he still didn’t know what a representative of the crown was doing here and George hated it when he implied that he didn’t love killing for entertainment. “I’d like to see more of the world one day,” he answered neutrally, “When we travel, I don’t really get to… experience the places we visit.” He gestured around. “I haven’t even left the Royal Stadium since we got to Zeti for the festival. And I think I’d like to retire and settle down eventually, maybe.”
Zeppik nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting.” She downed the last of her wine and stood. “Thank you for speaking with me.”
Michael frowned as she went to the door and gave it a knock so that George could let her out. “That’s it?”
She gave him a last smile. “That was all, thank you.”
“What the fuck was that about?” he wondered when the door closed behind her.
George didn’t come in to explain the sudden intrusion to him, so Michael finished his mead and got back on the bed, pushing Clover onto his back so he could kiss him.
“Did they really make you fight as a kid?” Clover asked when they parted, concern in his eyes.
Michael groaned. “Can we just get back to the fun stuff? I have a big fight tomorrow night.”
“How are you feeling about tonight?”
“Good.” Michael was well-rested, well-fed and well-fucked. He couldn’t be more ready.
“This is a big one,” George reminded him, “Lord Ebrek is…”
“I know. He has a good record.”
“He has a great record,” he corrected, “Look, you need to expect that you won’t be coming out of the arena.”
Michael stopped stroking Clover’s hair to frown at him. “What?”
“This is a fight for your life, Michael.”
“They all are.” Michael sat up against the headboard, Clover shifting into his lap. “What’s up with you?”
George huffed. “This fight is the most important of your life,” he said sternly, “I expect a good show.”
“You always get one from me,” Michael reminded him.
George regarded him for a long moment. “You’ve been a good investment,” he finally said, “Probably my best yet.”
Michael grinned at the praise.
“I need to make sure Sasha’s ready for her fight,” he huffed, heading for the door.
Michael gave him a salute. “See ya.”
“Take it easy today.”
“Okay?”
The door closed quietly behind George, leaving Michael and Clover with just each other for entertainment.
“He’s acting weird,” Michael observed, eyes on the door.
“Nervous about the fight?” Clover guessed, occupying himself with Michael’s earlobe, “How often do his fighters perform in the Grand Tournament?”
Michael kneaded his ass. “Me and Sasha are the first.”
“Are you nervous?” he asked, getting the oil from the bedside table. They were nearly out. Michael should have George get some more for after the fight.
“Nah. I’ve done everything I can to get ready for it.” Michael took the bottle and slicked up his fingers. “I’ll either win or lose, no point stressing about it before I even get into the ring.”
“Fair enough,” he said into his neck.
Michael paused. “Are you gonna be watching the fight?”
Clover pulled back, giving him a long look. “Do you want me to?”
Michael looked down, chewing his lip for a moment before nodding.
Cupping his cheek, Clover pressed a kiss to his lips. “Then I’ll be watching.”
Usually, Michael liked to run some drills in the hours leading up to a fight, but this was a night fight and, somewhat unusually, he wouldn’t be allowed any weapons of his own. George didn’t like that, but he’d told Michael that Lord Ebrek’s manager had been adamant that Michael fight unarmed to even the playing field. Michael had won plenty of fights with just his teeth and claws, so he assured George that he’d be fine.
It didn’t really matter. Michael’s wolf form was his easiest weapon, he didn’t need to familiarise himself with the balance of his body or practise hitting targets anymore. It all came as naturally as breathing. If Michael wasn’t ready now, he never would be. It was as simple as that.
George returned that afternoon, apparently pleased with Sasha’s success, though he still seemed on edge about Michael. It was off-putting. He and Michael both knew the stakes for every fight. The only thing that made this one any different was that it would be performed in front of the royal family, which, when it came down to it, didn’t actually make it a difference at all.
After making sure Clover would have a good seat, they headed out to the yard at Michael’s end of the arena. There were three others like it around the circumference of it, though the only one being prepared for tonight’s event would be the one opposite Michael’s. The other two were in use now and, through the portcullis, Michael could see a fighter hurling spears at a large boar, the audience cheering every time one hit. Boars were good entertainment. It took a lot to bring them down.
“See you tonight?” Clover asked.
Michael looked back at George, who gave a noncommittal shrug. “If I live that long,” he settled on, realising belatedly that it was a shit joke. Fights like tonight’s could go either way.
He leaned in to kiss Michael. “I’ll be waiting,” he murmured.
Michael grinned and kissed him back.
“Let’s get you a seat,” George gruffed, nodding for Clover to follow him.
For a daytime fight, Michael would be preoccupied with getting armoured up, but there weren’t many preparations to be done for tonight. He changed into some loose pants and a codpiece—the one piece of armour he was allowed—and found a somewhat comfortable patch of dirt to sit on while he watched the current event, occasionally being offered food and drink by passing servants.
To the jeers of the crowd, the boar charged at the fighter and gored them with a tusk, easily pushing them to the ground and savaging them. The boar was announced the winner, but it didn’t care enough to stop tearing the innards out of the asshole that had filled it with spears.
A trudging clanking sound approached. “Excuse me.”
Michael looked up to see someone in heavy metal armour standing over him. He got up to give them space as the portcullis lifted, realising that the other three were doing the same. Halberd and lasso at the ready, they charged into the arena to wrangle the boar with the help of the three other heavily armoured people, the portculli closing behind all but the one to the left.
Although this wasn’t an event, the crowd acted like it was, cheering as the boar rammed the nearest wrangler to the ground. Someone tried to lasso it, but the rope caught on the spears, getting the boar’s attention but doing nothing to contain it.
George appeared at his side. “You’re on in an hour.”
“Cool.”
He frowned. “If they can get the fucking ring cleaned up.”
All four wranglers were on their feet now, but the boar had backed itself into the wall opposite its intended exit.
With a sigh, George looked up at the darkening sky and the silver Cut. “We’ve never talked about funeral arrangements.”
Michael laughed. “Seriously, what’s going on? You’ve been weird all day.”
“This is the Grand Tournament,” he gruffed, “It’s a big deal, they expect funeral rites for all the big fighters. If you want something nice, I can put something together.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
With a hum, Michael considered the boar and the spears stuck in its body. “Did the yaayeng god have special ceremonies?”
“Venlios? Yeah, she does. There’s a temple in the city, they probably do yaayeng funerals.”
“One of those, then, I guess.” He gave George a grin. “If I need one.”
George’s gaze stayed fixed on the arena.
The audience was getting restless. Many of them had been waiting all day for this event, arriving the moment the stadium doors opened to get good seats. George was right, though he always was about this kind of thing. This was Michael’s biggest fight yet.
That being said, he still wasn’t sure if he’d call it the most important. The stakes were the same as they’d always been: win or die. If he won, they’d soon be back on the road, George searching for new fighters to challenge on Michael’s behalf. The pampered life he’d been living since arriving in Zeti would end; George always said too much indulgence would make him lazy and slow, he needed to spend his free time training, not eating, sleeping and fucking.
There would be another festival next year. George would likely spoil him again because he’d be proud to have a defending champion under his belt. This new cycle would be Michael’s life until someone was strong enough or fast enough or lucky enough to be the one to end it. So no, he didn’t think the results of this fight would be particularly impactful. It was just his job.
A booming voice welcomed the audience in Common Paethi, making Michael jump. He looked around, trying to figure out who could be making such a noise, but as far as his ears could tell it was coming from a cone-shaped thing mounted on a post behind Michael’s team’s seats. They didn’t seem bothered by it, Clover giving him a wave when he realised Michael was looking at him.
“Tonight is the night we’ve been waiting for, the final showdown between Raklotan’s two greatest fighters!” the cone told everyone, “To the north, we have fan-favourite Wolf Pup, brought to you by George Schertz and long-time sponsor Hadden Ashgaze.”
George and Hadden stood, waving to the rest of the audience. Michael hadn’t realised that Hadden, the artist who’d been giving him his scars all these years, would be watching the fight. She normally only watched his fights before and after giving him new scars, making notes on his performance to decide what designs were most successful.
He guessed that it was good business, appearing at such a well-watched event. There could be potential customers here and she’d want to look confident in her skills.
As George and Hadden sat, the announcer cone introduced Lord Ebrek and his team, but Michael tuned it out to look up at the full moon and pull in its energy. His skin crawled and bubbled and swelled, the feeling spreading inwards to his muscles and bones. The pieces of bone hidden in his lips grew and connected, points piercing his lips to form a second set of much more vicious teeth. Michael’s loosely-worn pants and codpiece became tight as his body expanded to fill them, fur bursting from his skin as he crouched to hold himself up by his clawed hands while his legs warped out of shape.
By the time he’d settled into his other body and started listening again, Lord Ebrek had been let into the arena to hype up the audience, waving and bowing with his helmet under his arm. With his other ears, Michael could hear him bragging about previous victories.
“I’ve slain a thousand beasts!” he boasted, “Their pelts are carpets! Their flesh feeds my horses! Their heads are mounted on the walls in my home!” He turned to his team and held up his fist. “I will bring you this beast’s head, my love!”
Beast? Beast?
Someone in an expensive-looking dress, Lady Ebrek, Michael assumed, waved back at him.
Oh. This guy enjoyed this. Nobody was forcing him into the ring, he had a life outside of it, a family, people who cared about him, but here he was, pretending Michael was nothing more than an animal.
Lord Ebrek put his helmet on, accepting a sword from a team member who then retreated behind the falling portcullis at his end of the arena. He gave it a few confident swings, the crowd roaring in anticipation as he turned to face Michael.
Michael crouched as the portcullis in front of him lifted, ready to launch himself into the arena to the cheers of the spectators. Before he could, a loud crack echoed through the yard, his leg buckling. Looking back to find the source of the noise, he saw one of his own team members, a guy who’d offered him mead earlier, retreating fearfully, a sledgehammer discarded on the ground between them. A sharp pain shot through Michael’s leg and he found the source.
Groaning, he waved to George to get his attention, but he appeared deep in conversation with Clover and Hadden and didn’t see him. Michael couldn’t fight like this. They had to call the fight off.
“Get out there!” someone shouted. They were heavily armoured like the boar wranglers had been, a halberd pointed at Michael. Two more entered the yard, approaching slowly in an attempt to push Michael out.
For all Michael’s attempts to tell them without words that he was hurt, they seemed to not understand, continuing to threaten him with their weapons. Or they didn’t care. George was finally looking at him, apparently angry that he wasn’t already in the arena. Nobody cared. They wanted to watch him fight.
Steeling himself, Michael limped out on all fours, broken leg screaming with every step. The portcullis fell behind him, trapping him in with Ebrek. A horn blew, signalling the start of the fight. The sound of the audience drained from Michael’s ears, all confusion about his leg being broken shifting to the back of his mind as he turned his focus on Ebrek.
Ebrek wore chainmail under his clothes. Michael could see it peeking out from under his sleeves, how it weighed him down as he approached, twirling his sword. Normally, Michael would be the one to strike first, lunging at his opponent and allowing them to dodge to excite the crowd, but, given the state of his leg, he opted to creep along the wall, circling Ebrek.
Unfazed, Ebrek mirrored his movements, as if he’d been expecting this. Words like rigged and sabotage blinked in Michael’s head, but he pushed away the distraction of those thoughts. They wouldn’t keep him alive.
As Michael moved, he settled on the least painful way to walk, keeping his weight off his injured leg as much as possible. The audience was restless, thirsting for more action. George would be annoyed by the show Michael was giving them. Pushing them out of his mind, he used his hands to launch himself at Ebrek, allowing his momentum to carry him past as Ebrek dodged and followed him with his sword.
A flaw in Michael’s older scars that Hadden often regretted was that they were far too insensitive. In his other body, there were parts of Michael’s skin that were completely numb, making it difficult for him to feel his size and tell if something had hit him. By contrast, some of her later work was much too sensitive and Michael roared in pain at the shallow cut Ebrek left in his waist.
At least the audience loved it.
Whatever had been done to it, Michael’s leg seemed to be staying straight. He’d expected it to bend out of shape the way he often saw broken limbs do in fights, but if he grit his teeth through the pain he could still use it. He’d fought wounded plenty of times. What did it really matter if the injury was inflicted before he entered the ring?
Ebrek ran at Michael, aiming at his face. Heavier swords like his required bigger swings to get enough momentum to do damage and even with his reduced mobility, Michael could jump back in time to only let it graze his chest, another sensitive place that had him hissing as he rebalanced. Ebrek didn’t give him time to rebalance. He lunged forward, slashing at his good leg. At least that one had the insensitive scars.
With every swing and jab, Ebrek pushed Michael back further and further until he hit the wall, trapped. The cuts were superficial, considering his thick skin, but he was wearing him out fast. Michael swiped at Ebrek and he dodged, swinging at his shoulder. It gave Michael an opening to dart past him and recover, whining as his leg gave out and sent him to the ground. He controlled his roll with his arms, putting more distance between himself and Ebrek.
Glancing up at his team, he saw Clover watching with a scared expression, mouth in his hands. Had he ever watched a client fight to the death before? Was this why he’d apparently intended not to watch until Michael asked him to? Did he think he was watching Michael die?
Michael was too distracted. Ebrek pushed his sword into his stomach, piercing deep. The audience roared. Several inches of the sword were slick with blood when Ebrek pulled it out, backing away to raise a fist to the crowd. Michael felt sick. Would anyone even know that the fight had been rigged if he died?
Swaying a little, Michael watched Ebrek as he hyped up the audience, grateful for the opportunity to get his head on straight again. He’d had close fights before, more than anyone could count, and he’d won fights by the skin of his teeth. Ebrek was cocky. He thought Michael was done for. He could see victory.
As he turned back to him, Michael jumped at him, whimpering as Ebrek easily stepped out of the way. He stumbled and fell, looking back in time to watch the sword come down hard on the thick, insensitive skin of his back.
The sword stuck. Michael yanked himself away by his claws, pulling the sword out of Ebrek’s grip. Taking a moment to recover, he tried pulling at the sword himself while Ebrek hurriedly backed away. It didn’t easily budge, so he left it alone and bounded at Ebrek.
Just like before, he lunged as if to bowl him over, but as Ebrek stepped aside to the left, always to the left, Michael twisted to bring his legs around at Ebrek’s, sending him to the ground. His leg was in agony, but as Ebrek scrambled to get to his feet Michael ignored it and forced him to the ground, grabbing his helmet by the silly tuft of hair sticking out the top and wrenching it off. Whoever sponsored his helmet was probably hiding their face in shame right now, but Michael didn’t stop to look at the audience.
There was shock and fear in Ebrek’s eyes. Michael wondered if this was the first time he’d ever truly been afraid for his life, if he’d never before been able to empathise with those who were condemned to the arena and wondered if every fight would be their last.
Michael sunk his other teeth around Ebrek’s throat and tore it out, spitting the meat aside to take another bite. He kept ripping away flesh until the only thing keeping Ebrek’s head connected to his body was a gory spine, easily twisted in two by Michael’s other hands.
With a savage roar, Michael took Ebrek’s head by the hair and held it up for the audience to see. He turned to Ebrek’s team and hurled it at them, Lady Ebrek screaming in horror. Michael wondered what her problem was. Was that a fucked up way to kill someone or something?