Imalroc awoke to a creak from the cellar door. His eyes popped open, tension crackling in his shoulders and back. He resisted the urge to flip over and remained facing the wall, his knees curled protectively toward his chest in a useless effort to preserve warmth. Footsteps crossed the cellar floor toward his bed.

"Imalroc," Master Toriem's voice came from above him, and he felt the jolt of a boot kicking his lumpy mattress. "Time to wake up."

He shifted slowly, turning onto his back and scrubbing at his eyelids in an exaggerated display of sleepiness. A theatrical yawn and accompanying stretch earned him a snort from the handler. Imalroc looked past Master Toriem and eyed the early morning light, grey and unforgiving, seeping in through the partially opened cellar. His handler did not normally come in so early.

Master Toriem had no food, but over one arm he had draped the thick piece of wool that they used as a blindfold whenever Imalroc was taken out of the cellar. Imalroc took a steadying breath. It had been two days since he had last stood in sunlight.

"Stay seated. For today I'm going to put you into the cage with minimal restraints, but you make a single error and I will wrap you in chains and drag you behind the cart. Understood?"

"Yes, Master," Imalroc murmured. Master Toriem had a habit of using some graphic threats, but had Imalroc had yet to actually see the handler follow through on one. Toriem was saving it up, no doubt. Keeping him in suspense. He shifted restlessly while the blindfold was tied in place.

Once he was in the cage with his hands fastened to the bars by a loop of rope, they were on their way. The blindfold began to slip as the cage bounced over increasingly uneven cobblestones. They were moving into the East Outer Ring, home of the elite battleboxes.

Imalroc slumped back against the bars of the cage and watched with hooded eyes as an all-too-familiar building swung into view. It was an imposing structure; an enormous, whitewashed cube built several stories above the buildings around it. He was no stranger to this place. He had fought one of his first real fights for Duke Wester here. The memory made him grimace.

The white exterior walls of the battlebox arena were inlaid with decorative slats of dark wood that shone with oiled luster. A graceful arch curved over a pair of pale blue doors, big enough to allow three horse-drawn carts to pass through abreast of each other. Above the entry arch a sign, dulled by age, bore an old world slogan about the art of battleboxing. Something to do with joy and honor, if Imalroc remembered correctly. They really ought to find something more appropriate to the sport. Like "shit and more shit."

Imalroc watched Master Toriem leap down from the driver's perch. The handler tugged one of the tassels that hung to either side of the entrance. A faint gong-like noise sounded somewhere within the building, and then a window opened above.

"Go 'round to the deliveries gate!" a reedy voice called sharply, accompanied by a withered hand waving in the direction the speaker wanted them to go. Imalroc was almost sure he knew who was speaking.

"We have business with Ori Canning," Master Toriem began, "And wish to—"

"Whatever it is you wish is of no consequence. Go around to the other gate! Damned be all you young pricks, spitting in the face of hallowed traditions!" the voice shrilled.

Imalroc leaned back as far as the rope binding his wrists would allow and smiled to himself. Warwick still ran Iffroa like it was his private kingdom.

"Sorry," the handler muttered. Imalroc watched Master Toriem turn back toward the cart, his face chagrined. Anyone who had spent some time around a battlebox as storied as Iffroa would have known that the main doors were never opened unless a fight was on. Superstitions were treated solemnly in a place like this. Master Toriem was in for a bit of an education.

The cart rolled forward over stones worn smooth by years of busy foot-traffic. A boy was waiting for them at the appropriate side entrance.

"Fair morning. You have an appointment with the booker?"

"Yes, with Ori Canning. We're supposed to do a weigh-in for our fighter." Lady Toriem's voice bounced off the courtyard walls.

Imalroc started slightly. He had not realized she had come along. But far more concerning than her presence was what she had said. A weigh-in.

His heart flopped in his throat, blood galloping. Only two possibilities. They were either going to try to sell him to Ori Canning as a servant of the boxes or...he refused to consider the second possibility. Iffroa was a battlebox for champions and he had tarnished his record well enough to get his invitations revoked.

"If you and your handler could follow me, milady, the guards will see that your fighter is placed in a holding cell. I will take you to Master Canning."

The Toriems alighted and followed the boy up a set of narrow stairs. Four guards appeared and approached the cage, each holding a long pike with a hook on the end.

Imalroc squatted on his heels, bracing himself.

One of the guards glanced in at him as she approached the cage and let out a yelp. "Earthbound gods! Don't open that door!" she shouted at the others.

"What's wrong?"

"They've got Imalroc in there. That's him, isn't it?" she asked. The man beside her leaned in, holding his pike cautiously in front of him.

Imalroc threw caution to the wind and met his gaze with a silent stare. Warwick wouldn't let these idiots touch him.

"Damn. That's him all right. And he's barely tied up. Go get the battlebox clearer."

One of the guards ran off at once, while the others took turns inching up to the cage and backing up when he caught their gazes. He stayed steady in his crouch and eyed the circling pack of them. He half-hoped someone would come close enough to test his teeth.

"Sweet Eternals, why can't you people work anything out for yourselves?" The peevish voice from earlier grew louder as the speaker approached.

Imalroc risked looking away from the pikes to watch as a shriveled, balding old man barreled into view around one side of the cage.

"But sir, it's—" the female guard started to explain.

"Just get the damn fighter out of the—" He stopped when he saw Imalroc, and his watery eyes went wide beneath his bushy eyebrows. "Ah. Shit."

"That's what I was trying to tell you, sir," the guard said.

The old man sighed and passed his hand over his face."Yes, yes. Go get a pair of shackles."

"Wrist and ankles, sir?"

"Wrists, definitely. The rest we'll leave be. Unless he's in a mood." Warwick set about unlocking the cage, and when the guard reappeared he took the shackles from her and swung the door open.

"Sir, do you want one of us to go in first?" a guard asked as the old man climbed into the cage.

"Not necessary," he replied with a grunt. "Imalroc's not going to hurt me. Will you?" He looked directly into Imalroc's face.

"No," Imalroc replied softly. Anyone else and he would have been contemplating just how fast he could get his hands free to break their neck. But Warwick Albirone was as close as Imalroc had come to having a friend in a long while.

"Good. I'm going to put these shackles on you, and then you'll come out of the cage as quiet as a mouse. No trouble for the guards."

"I can't promise anything."

"Play nice. They're new, Imalroc. You're scaring them half to death already, and if you make one of my guards piss their pants again, you're going to clean it up."

"I wouldn't dream of frightening one of your innocent guards! Gentle fucking lambs that they are," Imalroc returned.

Warwick sighed, crouching down beside him with a wince.

"You're as charming as ever. What noble fool forgot to put shackles on you? And do they have a desire to die?" As he spoke, the old man slid one thick metal wristlet around Imalroc's forearm, and then did the same to the other.

"Master Toriem. The one who tried to get in the main entrance," Imalroc replied with a sour smile. "More stupidity than longing for death, I think. He believes I'm tame."

Warwick snorted. He screwed three metal bars into place between the wristlets before working to undo the thick rope fastening Imalroc to the cage. "Didn't think I'd see you here again," he said quietly, glancing over.

Imalroc's chin sunk a little lower. He dropped his gaze to avoid the pity shading Warwick's expression. "Didn't think I'd be coming back. I was almost out."

"Tried to tell you to get that stupid plan out of your head." Warwick shot a glance back to where the guards were still watching. He shook his head. "It can't be helped now. Come on, let's get you to a holding cell." Warwick scrabbled out of the cage ahead of Imalroc.

He followed the old battlebox clearer, making a fluid leap down to the ground. The pikes hovered all around him, manned by a guards who looked like they might run for it at any moment. Imalroc glared down the edge of his nose, silently daring them to swing those pikes a little closer.

"Come now," Warwick said, "To the holding cells. No trouble." The clearer snapped his fingers at the guards. They kept the pikes pointed at Imalroc's chest while he strolled inside the battlebox house.

He turned down a dim hallway and hesitated, staring into the gloom. Too many nights of his life had been spent in the twilight of the holding cells, watching the clearers drag fallen corpses past and waiting for his turn to bleed.

The cold weight of metal thudded directly between his shoulder blades. Imalroc whirled around with a guttural snarl, the guards shouted, and all thoughts but defense and attack drained from his mind. The nearest pike was almost within snatching distance. He was in a fighting stance before he even realized his weight had shifted.

"Stop it!" Warwick yelled, his voice thin. "He can pause a moment if he damn well pleases!" The clearer shoved forward and knocked a few pikes aside. He jabbed one gnarled finger in Imalroc's direction.

"You. Get in the cell. That one." Warwick indicated the nearest empty holding cell.

One of the guards rolled the metal grating back from the entrance.

Imalroc stood like a statue, reigning everything back beneath his crawling skin. Warwick could keep him safe, but only if he kept quiet. He ducked his head and went inside without a word. There was an audible release of breath from the assembled guards once the gate was locked behind him.

"Warwick!" Imalroc called, pressing against the grate.

The old battlebox clearer gave him a narrow-eyed look but drew closer. "What?"

"Can you go upstairs and find out what they're planning?" Imalroc dropped his voice so the guards could not hear.

"And why should I do such a thing?"

"I need to know what they're sending me into. I think they might try to sell me to Ori."

"Sell you to Master Canning? What would they do that for?"

"They can't set up a battle for me. Not here, not with my fight record as it stands. But I know they're doing a weigh-in...which means either a battle or a sale. It's got to be a sale."

"Eternals, Imalroc, you don't want to be sold to Ori Canning—"

"Just find out for me."

"All right. I'll try," Warwick mumbled. He stumped away from the cell, and Imalroc dropped into a crouch with his back pressed against the nearest wall.

If he was right, if they were selling him to a battlebox booker, it meant he was almost out of the boxes for good. Warwick put him to work with some small tasks that would keep him out of the way. Show Ori Canning that he was nothing but a husk of a once-great fighter, now good for nothing but scrubbing cobblestones. He would fade from the minds of everyone who mattered, fade into shadow until he could buy out his own worthless contract. And then...freedom.

Imalroc squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered against the wall. Please let him be sold. Sweet Eternals, let them give up on him. He was so close.

When he heard Warwick's approaching footsteps, he leapt up quickly enough to set his head spinning. He caught himself against the metal door of the cell, eyes fixed on Warwick's lined face.

"Well? How much are they selling for? How long do you think I'll have to work to pay it off?"

Warwick shook his head. "You were far too good a fighter for anybody to sell you off. They're setting up a fight." The old clearer stared past Imalroc into the cell.

Imalroc dropped his bound hands and swallowed. "No. There's no way they'd get a battle here. I've lost the past six fights! They don't let fighters with that record set foot in Iffroa's battlebox!"

"True enough on most days. But somebody must owe those cousins a favor, because they've got a fighter to go against you. A good one too."

"No. No, Warwick, you must have heard it wrong—"

"His name's Hanover. One of the Duke of Umber's fresh faces. He's never fought in Iffroa before, so he'll be hungry to prove himself. I saw him in the Arble a few seasons back, and he's got guts. You're going to have to be careful."

"I won't fight him," Imalroc whispered.

Warwick's eyes snapped to his face, and he smashed an open palm into the metal grate, making Imalroc flinch back. "You damn fool, no more of that game! Things will only get worse for you if you lose again! Imalroc, you've got to fight back this time. If you don't, he's going to beat the blessed life right out of you!"

"I can take a beating. I've taken plenty. One more..."

"It's not going to be just one more! Don't you understand that? You're far too good, and they don't let fighters like you just walk out of the battleboxes and off to live the rest of your life. Maybe...maybe if you please your owners well enough, they'll retire you when your skills have really gone."

"I've heard that lie before." He welcomed the heat of rage boiling through his veins. At least it drowned the despair slicking the inside of his skull.

"Come now—" Warwick pleaded, but he got nothing else out.

The unmistakable tromp of guards' boots rang down the hall. Imalroc turned away from Warwick and began to pace the cage.

"Warwick!" Ori Canning's smooth voice rolled out, an oversized sound for the small man to whom it belonged. "Get out of the way. We've a weigh-in to finish." The booker's boyish face split into a smile when he saw Imalroc lurking in the far corner of his cell.

"Eternals above and below," he began with plain admiration, "He was always something to see, I'll give you that. Some of them don't look worthy of their legend. Never a problem for this one."

"I told you he hasn't lost his edge." Lady Toriem glided closer with a smile.

"That remains to be seen, milady," Canning parried.

"Against the wall," Master Toriem ordered.

Imalroc obeyed, keeping his head lowered so none of them could see what was seething in him.

Canning unhooked the complicated set of bolts that adorned the cage door and swung it just wide enough for the line of waiting guards to enter."You know how this part goes. Step onto the scale," Canning said.

Imalroc stayed frozen against the wall, staring at the metal slab the guards had laid out.

"Move," snapped Master Toriem. The command was given with the speed and menace of a whip cracking, and he responded instinctively. He stepped forward into the ring of pikes, and stood on the scale with head bowed.

Canning toyed with the weight balances, and for a while there was only the faint click of metal scraping over metal. When the booker stepped back, he marked something down on a thick stack of parchment. "He's light." Canning tapped one finger against the paper.

Lady Etiana's smile was still etched across her face, but the strain of keeping it there hovered in her eyes.

Imalroc was unsurprised by the scale's report. He knew he'd lost muscle, sitting in that fucking cellar eating scraps. Still, it wouldn't be enough to put off the fight.

"He's lighter than normal," Master Toriem said coolly, "but we're building him back up. And he's still got speed and accuracy on his side."

"You think," Canning said.

"We wouldn't be signing up for this if we thought he'd lose," Lady Toriem answered.

Canning shot one more look at Imalroc and then shuffled his papers. "Only a few more things to sign. For the owner, milady." He moved to the opposite side of the hallway, leaving Master Toriem and Warwick to close the cell.

Warwick fumbled with the locks, glancing nervously at the young handler behind him. The clearer's gaze brushed across Imalroc's and he cleared his throat. "Sir...are you sure it's a good idea to fight him here?" Warwick asked.

"What do you mean by that?" Master Toriem asked.

Warwick shrugged. Somewhere in the midst of his whirling thoughts, Imalroc recognized what the old man was trying to do for him. Trying to talk his masters out of risking a fight.

"I only mean to say...he's not been himself the past few times," Warwick muttered.

"He had a shoulder injury. Wester wasn't giving him enough time to recover," Master Toriem replied, turning back to watch Imalroc.

Warwick shuffled his feet beside him. "Of course sir...and perhaps that's just it, but...I suppose you ought to know what they were saying the last time he was here."

"Which was?"

"Oh, it's no true diagnosis sir, nothing of the sort. Only some talk that maybe the problem wasn't with his shoulder so much as it was with his nerve. They said he'd lost his spirit. The fight was all out of him. No way to win without it, sir."

"I don't think that's true," Master Toriem said softly. "I think there is quite a bit of anger in there."

"Anger...surely so, sir. But anger is not the same thing as fight."

"But it will serve well enough. He's going to fight here, and he'll win."

"Of course, sir," Warwick mumbled. The handler crossed the hall toward his cousin, and Warwick pressed his fingers against the mesh of the holding cell as if in silent apology. He'd tried.

They loaded Imalroc back into his portable cage before the ink was dry on the papers Lady Toriem had signed. He sat with his head pressed into his knees as the cart rolled out of Iffroa's shadow.

Sunlight spilled into the cage, falling in warm bands across Imalroc's shoulders and back. His skin still felt like ice. He remained unmoving, even when they got him back to the Toriem estate and tried to get him out of the cage.

"Get up." Master Toriem's voice was directly above him.

"No," Imalroc mumbled. He didn't care what happened.

He heard the handler's intake of breath, and waited for the blow that was sure to fall. A tentative hand touched his shoulder, fingertips barely pressing down.

Imalroc did not wait for the handler's grasp to tighten. He launched himself upward, bound hands shooting out in front of him like a club. The handler leapt backward. Master Toriem was fast, Imalroc could give him that. But not nearly fast enough. He swung his knuckles directly into the handler's face.

Master Toriem let out a yelp and staggered backward against the side of the cage, blood spilling down his chin from a split lip. Imalroc dropped into a crouch.

"Rerdas!" Lady Etiana's shriek brought the butler and another man running across the courtyard toward the cage.

"Get out now!" thundered the butler, brandishing a long stave through the open cage door and directly in Imalroc's face. He sneered at the wavering stave. The handler had regained his feet. Master Toriem looked dazed, unaware of the red stream dripping onto the cage floor.

"Out!" the butler yelled, and the stave struck Imalroc in his collar bone. That was going to bruise a bit.

"Don't," Master Toriem said thickly.

Imalroc stared at him for a few heartbeats longer, and then straightened. He shuffled out of the cage and hopped onto the ground. He allowed the butler and the handler to herd him back into the cellar, while Lady Etiana and the other man watched nervously.

They left him tied up in the dark. He knew that the handler would come back and punish him, but he didn't care. Hopefully, Master Toriem would beat him badly enough that Iffroa wouldn't accept him for the fight. Maybe he would just kill him. Imalroc stared at the wall and felt the thought echo through his head. He had never been one to wish for his own death. His dreams were of vengeance and escape, but never that way.

He rested his forehead against his knees again. One more fight. There had to be at least that much left in him. All he had to do was survive once more and then maybe they'd finally give up on him. Imalroc eased onto his side on his thin mattress, keeping his bound wrists tucked into his chest. Master Toriem was right. As long as his heart was beating, he would have the will to fight in him. It might be the thing that ruined him.