“Or forfeit.”

With another headbutt, Zevi muttered, “Curs don’t forfeit. I know, Kaleb. I know. You wouldn’t forfeit. You need to win. It’s the only way for us to jump castes, but”—Zevi took a whimpering breath—“I’d rather stay cur than you be dead.”

Kaleb petted him for a few moments. “I’d rather die. This is not enough.”

The answering sigh was expected, as was Zevi’s resolute attitude shift. He stood, walked to the fire, and dropped several rolls of wraps into a large metal pot that simmered over the coals. He said nothing as he did so. When he was done, he collected his bag and went to stand at the mouth of the cave. “I’m ready.”

They walked in silence to the carnival. When it was first begun, the Carnival of Souls was where the witches had worked their arts and sold talismans to protect daimons from summoners’ circles. Of course, now, everyone knew that not many human-born witches could draw a daimon to the other world. It was The City’s witches who had been behind the summonings; they’d roamed both worlds then. Daimons who troubled them were summoned to the human world, where they were entrapped. Until Marchosias had stopped them, the witches were the daimons’ greatest source of death or imprisonment. Marchosias had been the lion at the front of the fight, slaughtering the oldest witches and their children to prevent another generation of their kind until they accepted the treaty that gave them the human world and left The City to daimons.

Centuries later, Marchosias was still pushing back the unending growth of the Untamed Lands, cutting away at the wild plants that the witches had set to flourish. He had changed things and continued working for the good of The City, and they all knew it. In return, they followed him absolutely—and fought for a worthy role in the world he’d carved out for them.

Some fighters, ones who forfeited after a good fight, would be chosen to serve in his militia. Others might be found deserving of trades training. The competition was as much a fight arena as it was a showplace where daimons could try to improve their lot in life, even if they had no actual expectation of winning. Kaleb, however, had a real chance at winning.

With no more acknowledgment than terse nods at those he knew, Kaleb made his way to the fight grounds for his match.

The wood shavings and sand under his feet were still wet from the judgments that had required punishments. Often, fresh shavings were brought in after Judgment Day, but the crowds were hungry for the sort of violence they’d been denied by Aya’s match. The still-bloody ground where the fight would happen today was testament to the expectation and hope that there would be ample blood spilled.

“Tell me again that you won’t die,” Zevi demanded as they stood at the edge of the circle.

“I won’t die here.” Kaleb pulled his boots off and handed each to Zevi. “Tell me you won’t forget the rules.”

“I promise.” Zevi ducked his head sheepishly. Neither mentioned the time that Zevi had launched himself at a fight circle and been summarily knocked backward like a bit of flotsam, but Kaleb knew that they both thought of it every fight. Seeing Zevi unconscious made Kaleb lose focus that day. It had nearly killed them both: Zevi from the force of the shock and the impact of the fall and Kaleb from a set of claws that ripped furrows down his chest and then tore clear through his stomach muscles.

Zevi shoved Kaleb’s boots into his bag. “Nic will draw claws fast.”

“I know.” Kaleb peeled off his shirt, but kept on the loose trousers he was wearing. He hated ruining another set of clothes, but he wasn’t going to strip bare in front of the audience.

Absently, Zevi accepted the shirt with one hand, and with the other he dug around in his bag. In short order he retrieved Kaleb’s mouth guard from the depths of the bag and held it out. “He’ll aim for a straight kill with you.”

“I know, Z.” Kaleb took the mouth guard, looked at it warily, and then handed it back. “I can’t use this for more than a minute today. I need my teeth.”

Zevi’s eyes widened as he realized what Kaleb was planning. “You don’t need to do that. You’re good enough to—”

“Bet security,” Kaleb interrupted. “No claws before third blood.”

The mingled anger and fear in Zevi’s eyes made Kaleb regret telling him. They stood silent, neither giving voice to the inevitable truth that Kaleb’s teeth would mean the fight would be bloodier faster.

“We need the money,” Kaleb said mildly.

“I could earn it.” Zevi held his bag open so that a tattered red mask was visible.

“No.” Kaleb smacked Zevi’s hand away from the bag. “I will take care of us, Z.”

Kaleb would do a lot of things that he found abhorrent before he’d ask Zevi to whore himself. Life as a cur in The City meant that the choice between whoring or killing was inevitable, but when he’d brought Zevi out of the Untamed Lands and into his home, he’d tried to make sure Zevi didn’t have to do either of those things. Zevi was his pack, his family, and Kaleb would do anything to protect him.

The crowd parted to allow Nic and Kaleb to reach the ring. As they were equals, they took the ring simultaneously. Neither one bowed.

Kaleb had removed his shirt only. Nic, however, had stripped completely; he had no compunction about baring himself to the crowd. However, he also made no secret of his willingness to wear the red mask as well as the black one.

The crowd on the ground around the ring was packed so tightly that several hawkers had to prod them backward in order to raise the ring. One enterprising hawker had brought a white-masked witch with him for crowd control. The status and wealth implied by having his own witch made the citizens all notice the hawker. The witch’s clothes were stained with dirt, and as he lifted his arms, his sleeves fell back, exposing the ownership brands on his wrists.

The hawker preened under the crowd’s nervous attention as his witch muttered whatever words he needed and gestured with his outstretched hands. As the spellwork became manifest, the blue-and-gold eyes of the witch gleamed, their eeriness highlighted by the starkness of his mask. It was part showmanship, but it was still effective: in moments, the perimeter of the circle was free of obstructions.

The witch and the hawker both bowed to Kaleb and Nic. Then the hawker held out his card to Zevi. “At your service, sirs, if you should need us.”

With a low chuff of warning at the witch, Zevi took the card. No one liked having any witches in The City, but laws and contracts were enforced by magic, so witches were a necessary evil. Kaleb nodded once at Zevi, who shoved the card into the morass of things in his ever-present bag.

“Are we going to do this or are you going to stand around making eyes at your bi—” Nic’s words were cut off when Kaleb slammed his fist into Nic’s mouth.

Kaleb said, “Show respect.”

“No bloodpoints!” The hawkers scurried and waved their hands. “Circle first.”

“Right,” Kaleb said mildly. He bent to the bucket and withdrew a handful of the salt-and-chalk mixture. The salt stung the scrapes on his knuckles where Nic’s teeth had torn the skin.

Nic moved to stand back-to-back with Kaleb. “You’d better hope your bitch has a protector lined up for after today.”

After a lifetime in the streets, Kaleb wasn’t going to be truly angry about Nic’s barbs. They necessitated a statement—which Kaleb had made with his fist—but they didn’t upset him in any way that would benefit Nic. As they finished drawing the circle, the barrier snapped into place.

“To a better future,” Kaleb said as he extended his hand to Nic.

For a moment, Nic’s facade of callousness wavered. He nodded once. “To not being the bottom of the order.”

They exchanged a smile.

Kaleb hadn’t released Nic’s hand more than a moment before they both struck. Nic hit Kaleb with a combination; both punches drew blood.