The storm continues to rage when we exit the clearing. Wes, Kaya, and I hang back a few feet from the trio before us, and they do so with the group in front of them, and so on. The spaces between groups are staggered, though, with a few trios walking faster and taking different routes. It'd be odd if anyone saw ten groups of three walking together.

I walk ahead of Wes and Kaya, keeping a few paces between us. The pair talk in hushed voices, deep in conversation. If it wasn't for the occasional snap of my fingers to signal a turn or change in direction, I don't doubt they'd end up in the lake like Finn. Just the thought of the rat is enough to spark my anger. He went ahead with Darren as one of the first groups that left for the tavern.

We're one of the few groups that continue on the usual path to the tavern, taking us through the dark, sketchier parts of the sector. Despite this area's reputation for having a limited number of guards, I pull the hood of the thin cloak lower. Glancing to the trios ahead of me, I notice that many of the crew members that wear a cloak similar to mine have taken the same route as us. There's also no more than one cloaked figure per group.

I guess it would be too suspicious to have groups of three covered people with work passes pinned to their fronts. The cloaks aren't new; those of us that are more...acquainted with the guards, so to say, wear them whenever we head to the Boar's Head. It's easier to blend in with the shadows than hide in them, and the guards are more likely to stop and search someone slinking through alleys than they would someone with a cloak and Permit clearly displayed. Many of those working in the brothels or anyone employed in finance prefer not to show their faces when traveling at night in case they are recognized by someone angered by their services, whether it be an unsatisfactory night or an unfair tax collection.

The weak street lamps flicker overhead. My heartrate picks up a little and I shorten the gap between me and Kaya. No matter how many times I've walked through the faintly lit night, the dark never fails to plant a seed of uneasiness and fear. For the hundredth time tonight, I wish for even a simple flame lantern to hold. Just a small bit of light I can control and keep close to ward off the unknown shadows surrounding me. But to hold any source of light would draw attention to me and risk a guard recognizing and arresting me. So, I push down the spark of panic that the darkness never fails to ignite and push forward.

We pass those who are known for doing their deeds under the cover of night without use of Permits. I used to wonder why they were never arrested or at least warned, but after a few glances at their eyes full of malice and faces scarred by jagged blades explains it.

After a few minutes the dark path begins to transition into the more common, populated streets. The lights are stronger here, but not by much. We pass small, identical houses with white exteriors and blue roofs. Quaint homes much like the one Nona and I lived in for a few years.

A couple turns take us into a road with a few shops, their dark windows filled with various wares for sale. The only building alive comes from down the street. Boisterous laughter and drunken yells reach our ears before the tavern comes in sight.

For the first time in a month, I walk towards The Boar's Head. The building hasn't changed since the first time I saw it; the tall brown walls that have always been kept in good condition, the white lettering spelling out the name. It's been a couple years since I've gone through the main entrance – perks of being wanted by the guards – and I can't be bothered to remember what it looks like. The cloaked figures that came before us dart around back and I follow. Wes and the others go through the main entrance.

I reach the back just as someone unlocks the cellar and take the stair down to the shelves of liquor and crates with the deceptive alcoholic labels. Crouching on the ground, I run my hand along the grooves of the floor until my fingers brush the thin latch. I grab it and heave the wood upward. A ladder extends down to a small dark room. Wasting no time, I climb down first, nearly slipping on the worn wood in my haste. Skipping the last few rungs, I drop to the dirt floor. A door stands before me and lower my hood before throwing it open.

The sudden bright light causes my eyes to blink rapidly in an attempt to adjust. There's a chorus of cheers as soon as I step out. The sight makes me smile – it's been too long since I've been here. I wave and take a breath – and nearly gag. The scent of alcohol, sweat, and blood assaults my nostrils. The four weeks of absence seems to have taken away my nose's immunity to the odor of the Pits.

Breathing through my mouth, I plunge into the crowd. I'm met with slaps on the back and greeting shouts, asking when I'll be getting back in the ring. Hopefully in just a few minutes. Looking around, nothing has changed since I stopped coming. Still the same packed dirt floor, the same yellow-brown walls cluttered with names of the most popular fights and champions. A good amount has my name, good to know my title hasn't been stolen. The screen plastered high above displays the current fight, allowing those farther from the pit to witness the challengers. As usual, the only women here, aside from a couple barmaids, are those from the crew.

I reach the edge of the Pit just as Wes strolls in from a door beside the one I entered from that leads up to the tavern. Another round of shouts sound at the sight of him. One by one, most of the remaining crew trickle out after him, a few staying upstairs to listen on guards and secure our area. Kaya is one of the last ones to come through and her eyes search the mass until they land on me. The beginnings of a smile quickly turn downwards when she sees me on the edge of the pit.

I can barely hear hey over the rowdy patrons when she says, "What are you doing? You can't just jump in, you haven't fought in weeks."

I wave her words away. "It's not like I've been laying around all day – I think I'm still in decent enough shape to fight. Besides, how'll I ever get back in the swing of things if I don't get back in the ring?"

She says something else, but a loud cheer drowns her out. We lean over the knotted rope railing, peering into the namesake of the underground fighting arena. A red-haired man crouches on all fours and coughs, spitting on the dirt. When I first came, I would have cringed at the sight of the blood dribbling from the man's mouth, but I've had my fair share of cuts and bleeds to be squeamish of such a little thing. The man who delivered the blow stands above the red-head, shaking out his fist. The fallen man raises his head to his opponent, studying him for a moment, then holds up two fingers. Surrender.

The crowd hollers its approval – looks like he's a favorite of the people. He must be recent since I haven't seen him before.

The victor holds out his hand to his opponent. The defeated man doesn't hesitate to accept, and they clap each other on the back. The injured man winces. One of the nicer aspects of the fights is that they are generally good-natured – well, as good-natured beating each other up for money can be.

The two men climb up the rope ladders, and the winner helps the red-haired man up and to a seat. He waves over two drinks as the Collector goes over to give him his winnings.

The build-up of stress and anxiety of the past weeks translates into nervous energy. It takes all I have not to sprint to the Announcer taking names and calling out challenges. He stands by the pole where papers are pinned and flips through, looking for the most interesting matches. A couple names are called out and he jots down the offer on the blank sheets reserved for patron offers. As the Announcer flicks past the papers for crew fighter challenges, I glimpse my respective sheet and the names filling up the space excite me. Looks like I'm in high demand.

"Lynn," Kaya hisses. "You're not being rational. Don't fight now, it's been too long, and you're hyped up from the day."

I ignore her. I need an outlet. My fingers reach for the pencil hanging on a string as the Announcer calls out the next match, but it's snatched away before I can touch it. Turning from the post, I glare at the person. Dammit.

"Lynn, you're not fighting. Not for a couple hours, at least." Wes holds the stick of lead out of my reach.

"Come on, Wes, how is waiting a few hours going to change anything? It's not like I'm going to magically improve if I sit out. This is a waste of time – and money. Just look at all the offers." I gesture to the post. "A lot could be brought in tonight if you just let me in." I reach for the pencil but the vast difference in height between us lets him hold it barely above his head.

He shakes his head firmly. "There are new people since you've left, and they might be people who don't appreciate being bested by a girl. I'm not losing another good fighter after Sera. Don't run back in now. Wait a couple hours, get accustomed to the atmosphere again and scope out the new patrons. Make sure you don't end up fighting someone who could put you in the same place as Sera."

Now I know how Sera felt earlier. Arguing with Wes is like talking to a brick wall, and I spin on my heel and head to the bar across from the Pit. Kaya's already there, taking up her usual spot pouring the drinks and calling out the never-ending orders coming in. I push past the swinging door and throw my cloak onto a stool beside her and walk back out. The only acknowledgement I get from her is a quick glance my way to make sure I don't head back to the Pit against Wes's ruling.

I hang around the Pit for a while and watch a few fights, none of them lasting more than five minutes. Then I wander around the tables, grabbing empty glasses and sending them back on trays of the rushing servers. I end up taking over the sobriety tests for would-be fighters, rejecting anyone who stumbles on the white line etched into the ground. The last thing we need is a drunk participant causing a serious injury or doing something extremely stupid, ending up with an all-out bar brawl.

Eventually, someone relieves me of the duty. I look to dust covered clock hanging above the bar and groan. Only one hour? How has all of this been only an hour. With nothing else to do, I head back to the bar. Kaya rapidly fills glasses and swings them onto trays, bottles spinning in and out of her hand. There are a few others around her, trying to keep up, but it's not enough to tackle the constant slew of requests. I take one look at the ever-growing stack of orders from tables and patrons lining up at the bar itself and take it upon myself to relay the wishes in a somewhat organized manner.

Finally, the demand for drinks slow, no one wanting to end up too drunk to fight or gamble. Kaya slumps onto a stool and I lean against a wall on the floor. Kaya's eyes flick from the door leading up to the public portion of the tavern to the crowd. "Lots of new faces tonight," she murmurs.

"They're all vetted, remember? Every single one goes through Wes. He'd know if they'd expose us. Don't forget we've got the others upstairs keeping an eye on things. We're fine."

The wary expression remains, but she nods.

"You know, you could work out some of your nerves down there," I suggest, gesturing over the bar in the direction of the Pit.

Kaya shakes her head, her hand traveling up to the back of her neck. "No, I've had enough violence to last me a lifetime."

At the mention of her past, we both fall silent. I watch my incessantly bouncing leg, all the pent-up energy centering itself there and making it jitter. Kaya's anxiety and anger shows itself in the little ways, never craving the wild release my emotions do. She doesn't fight in the Pit – ever. She can keep her temper under control. I depend on the Pits, channeling the thoughts and memories of things I can't and couldn't control into actions that follow my own whims. Not someone else's.

An annoyingly high-pitched voice draws my attention to the screen hanging above the bar. Kept for security reasons, in case the two-minute raid warning is issued, it's mostly ignored. Tonight, there's no raid, but another ball is broadcasted.

Kaya reads my mind. "Odd how they haven't mentioned the Transfer or the deaths."

"If they haven't spoken about it today, I don't think they ever will. If the same reels are shown across the kingdom, maybe they don't want other provinces knowing about it."

"Probably. If we don't hear anything from the others upstairs later, hopefully today will be the last anything like that happens." I can tell from the expression on her face that the last thing she believes is there won't be anything like today ever again. It's likely just the beginning.

The perky voice squeals and I look back to the screen. A lady babbles in the background about the third ball in a month and how gorgeous everything is, but I tune her out. The camera pans across the bright courtyard and the gleaming entry of the ivory palace. Nobles descend from the carriages rolling into view. After today, the sight of the horses pulling along the coach makes me wonder if they're just for show, if Aurelians are transported to the castle in some other vehicle and hide their wonders from us.

As usual, the beautiful gowns mesmerize me. Even through the camera, the delicate silk and filigree and jewels captivate the eye, so much time and effort gone to make just one dress. I almost feel guilty yearning for them, knowing it was Standards that must've spent days to make just one garment and the material used could feed one family for at least a couple years. Their attire is just one mark on the long list of things I envy of the Aurelians.

"For such a tough girl, you sure do like pretty dresses." My eyes snap to the owner of the condescending tone; a man with a crooked nose, leaning over the bar.

"What's wrong with that?" I ask coolly. He's not the first to question the vast differences of my interests.

"Well, girls who like to dress up in sparkles and heels are too busy to fight, and not competent enough, if you ask me."

"I didn't," I say, but he continues as if I didn't even open my mouth. Hell no.

"So, what I'm thinking is that you're just a bluff." He crosses his arms and has a smug expression on his face, like he magically uncovered some hidden secret.

"I fail to see how an interest in clothing somehow renders me unable to hold my own, so I recommend you widen that narrow mindset you've got." I sigh in pretend pity and stand. "But it seems like you're incapable of performing such a feat, so instead, how about you ask around about how I got my reputation. Oh, or, you could look at the walls with plastered with my victories." I gasp in mock surprise. "Who would've thought of that?"

The man isn't fazed. "Oh, I already did. And I already talked to some other of the patrons." Well someone came prepared. I inwardly roll my eyes. "But I think many of them are distracted by that pretty face, too caught up in those looks to focus on fighting. There's one who isn't fooled, though. I talked to him first and he told me about it all. He revealed that everyone here humors your challenges and skills, letting you win in the hopes of a greater reward." His mouth curls into a grin and I shudder at the implication.