"Done," I cut him off. The truth is, I''m curious to test my limits with this new understanding of my tattoo''s influence.


    The announcer beams. "Excellent! Five-minute break, then we''re back on!"


    As she walks away, I glare at Cain and Anja. "You two need to stop volunteering me for things."


    "Oh, come on," Anja scoffs. "I saw how you handled that mountain of muscle. Two average-sized fighters will be child''s play for you."


    I glance toward my new opponents at the edge of the pit. One is lean and wiry with quick, nervous movements. The other is stockier, with a shaved head and a nose that''s been broken multiple times. Both look experienced—not brawlers like Drax, but actual fighters.


    "They''re coordinated," I observe. "They''ve fought together before."


    "So what''s the plan?" Cain asks, rubbing his hands together eagerly.


    I take a deep breath, focusing on the snake tattoo. It feels warm against my skin, responsive to my attention. "I need to keep them separated. If they can flank me, I''m finished."


    "Use the pit to your advantage," Anja suggests. "The ground''s uneven near the edges."


    The bell rings, signalling the fighters to take their positions. I hand the cloth back to Anja and step forward.


    "Don''t die," Cain calls after me cheerfully.


    "Your concern is touching," I mutter.


    The two fighters enter from opposite sides of the pit. Wiry circles left while Broken-Nose circles right. Their movements confirm my suspicion—they''ve trained together.


    The announcer raises her hand. "Special match! Two against one! Same rules apply!" She drops her arm. "Fight!"


    They attack immediately, perfectly synchronized. Wiry feints forward while Broken-Nose charges from my right. It''s a basic pincer movement, designed to force me to commit to one direction.


    Instead of choosing, I stand my ground, channelling focus into my tattoo. The warmth spreads through my chest, down my arms, and into my legs. Time seems to slow slightly.


    Broken-Nose reaches me first, throwing a heavy right hook. I slip inside his guard—a move Captain Maya drilled into me countless times—and drive my elbow into his solar plexus. As he gasps for air, I pivot sharply, using his momentum to shove him directly into Wiry''s path.


    They collide awkwardly, buying me precious seconds to reposition.


    "Keep them colliding!" Anja shouts from the sidelines.


    I circle the edge of the pit, forcing them to adjust their approach. They recover quickly, spreading out to cut off my movement. These two are definitely experienced.


    Wiry attacks next, throwing a lightning-fast combination. I block the first two punches, feeling the impact reverberate through my forearms, then deliberately give ground. He presses forward eagerly—exactly what I wanted.


    I suddenly plant my lead foot and throw a feint at his face. When he raises his guard, I change levels and drive forward with a powerful takedown, lifting him completely off his feet.


    The crowd roars as I slam him into the dirt, but I can''t follow up. Broken-Nose is already closing in from behind. I roll away just as his boot stomps where my head was a moment ago.


    Back on my feet, I feel the snake''s essence flowing more freely now, responding to the increased danger. My strikes feel sharper, more precise, as if the tattoo is guiding my movements.


    Wiry scrambles up, dirt covering his back. Both fighters approach more cautiously now, having felt my strength firsthand.


    "You fight like a soldier," Broken-Nose calls out, circling warily.


    I don''t respond. Words waste breath.


    They attack together again, but this time I''m ready. I feint toward Wiry, making him hesitate, then pivot sharply toward Broken-Nose. The sudden direction change catches him off-guard. I drive forward with a powerful straight right that connects squarely with his already-damaged nose.


    Blood sprays as my fist connects with Broken-Nose''s face. There''s a strange sensation—a surge of power from my tattoo, as if the snake itself senses the danger and responds. The energy pulses down my arm, amplifying my strike beyond what I''d intended.


    The impact is devastating.


    Broken-Nose''s head snaps back violently, his feet actually leaving the ground. He flies backwards, crashing through the makeshift rope barrier and lands in a heap among the front-row spectators. The crowd erupts, half in shock, half in bloodthirsty delight.


    I stare at my fist for a split second. That wasn''t entirely me.


    "Holy shit!" Cain''s voice cuts through the roar. "Did you see that? He just—"


    No time to contemplate. Wiry has recovered his composure and circles me cautiously, reassessing his approach now that he''s alone. His eyes dart between me and his unconscious partner, calculating his odds.


    "It''s just you and me now," I say, my voice low enough that only he can hear. "Walk away."


    His answer is a desperate lunge, throwing a wild hook that I easily sidestep. His balance is compromised by fear—I can see it in his eyes. He knows he''s outmatched.


    I pivot on my back foot and throw a haymaker aimed directly at his chest. The impact is thunderous. I feel ribs give way beneath my knuckles as all the air rushes from his lungs. He doubles over, gasping.


    The snake tattoo pulses again, sending another wave of power through my arm. I launch a second strike to the same spot, this one even harder than the first. The sound it makes is sickening—a wet thud followed by a crack.


    Wiry collapses to his knees, then pitches forward onto his face. He''s not moving, but he''s still breathing. Something primal stirs within me—the urge to finish this completely, to demonstrate my dominance beyond any doubt.


    I drop down, straddling his back. My fists rise automatically, ready to rain down punishment. The snake tattoo burns hot now, urging me on, demanding completion. I bring my fist down once, connecting with the back of his head.


    "That''s enough!" someone shouts, but the voice seems distant, unimportant.


    I raise my arm again, feeling detached from my own actions. This isn''t about the fight anymore. It''s about the release—channelling all my hatred for magic, for the Academy, for everything that''s happened since that night eleven years ago.


    My second strike never lands. Suddenly, bodies are pouring over the barrier, hands grabbing at my shoulders and arms, pulling me backwards.


    "He''s done! He''s done!" The announcer''s voice cuts through my haze. "Match over!"


    I struggle against the restraining hands, the snake''s influence still coursing through me, demanding completion. It takes four men to drag me off Wiry''s prone form.


    "Mark! Snap out of it!" Anja''s voice finally penetrates my fog. She''s standing in front of me now, her blue eyes wide with concern and something else—fear.


    The realization hits me like cold water. They''re afraid of me. Not just Anja, but everyone. The crowd that had been cheering moments ago now keeps its distance, murmuring amongst themselves.


    I shake off the remaining hands and stand up straight, forcing the snake''s influence back down. The tattoo gives one final throb of protest, then goes dormant.


    "I''m fine," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.


    Wiry is being helped to his feet by the venue staff. He''s conscious but dazed, blood trickling from his mouth. Broken-Nose is still out cold, being tended to by someone with rudimentary medical knowledge.


    The announcer approaches cautiously, holding out a small leather pouch. "Your winnings," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Double, as promised."


    Stolen story; please report.


    I take the pouch without a word and turn toward where Cain, Anja, and Wentworth stand, watching. Their expressions are a mixture of awe and wariness.


    "I think we should go," Wentworth says quietly.


    I stand there, the leather pouch heavy in my hand, feeling the weight of everyone''s stares. The crowd parts as we make our way toward the exit, whispers following in our wake. My knuckles throb—split, and bloody from the fight.


    <hr>


    "Where to now?" I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence once we''re outside. The night air feels good against my skin, cooling the heat of battle that still lingers beneath my tattoo.


    Cain clears his throat, eyeing the pouch in my hand. "Well, now that you''re flush with cash, how about buying your faithful companions some dinner?" His voice attempts its usual levity but falls slightly flat. "After that display of... enthusiasm, I think we''ve all worked up an appetite."


    I look at him properly now. Despite his joking tone, his eyes betray him—there''s a new wariness there.


    "Sure," I say, weighing the pouch. "First real money I''ve had since arriving in this damned city."


    "There''s a decent place not far from here," Wentworth suggests, his voice oddly respectful. "The Silver Kettle. Good food, private booths."


    Anja hasn''t said a word since we left the pit. She walks slightly apart from us, her usual animated chatter conspicuously absent.


    "Anja?" I prompt.


    She startles slightly. "What? Oh, food. Yes, that''s fine."


    We walk in awkward silence for several blocks. The streets are quieter now, most of the respectable citizens having retired for the evening. Only the occasional group of revellers or lone workers passes us.


    "That was quite something back there," Wentworth finally says, his tone measured. "I''ve studied combat techniques academically, of course, but to witness such raw efficiency..." He adjusts his spectacles. "Most impressive."


    "Yeah," Cain adds with a forced laugh. "Remind me never to steal your breakfast. You''d probably rip my arms off and beat me to death with them."


    I don''t respond. What could I say? That I nearly lost control? That the snake''s influence pushed me further than I intended to go? That for a moment, I wasn''t entirely myself?


    The Silver Kettle is a modest establishment with polished wooden tables and soft lantern lights. The server''s eyes widen slightly at my appearance—dried blood spattered across my shirt, knuckles raw and crusted with more of the same.


    "Private booth," Wentworth requests smoothly, sliding a coin across the counter. "And perhaps a damp cloth for my friend."


    We''re led to a secluded corner. I sit with my back to the wall, an old habit from mercenary days. The server returns with food menus and a small basin of water, but no cloth.


    "Sorry, sir," she says nervously. "We''ve no spare towels tonight."


    I dip my hands into the water, watching as crimson clouds bloom and disperse. It stings, but the pain is clarifying, helping me focus.


    "So," I say, looking up at my companions as the server hurries away. "Are we going to talk about what happened back there?"


    Cain fidgets with a fork. "You mean how you nearly turned those guys inside out? Nah, a totally normal Sunday night activity."


    "I''ve seen combat before," Anja says quietly. "In Jeolara, during the border skirmishes. But that was..." She shakes her head. "Different."


    "It was the tattoo," I admit, surprising myself with my candour. "When I fight, it... responds. Enhances things. But tonight was stronger than before."


    Wentworth leans forward, academic curiosity overriding any discomfort. "Fascinating. The emotional state of combat must trigger some form of sympathetic response in the magical construct of the tattoo. A feedback loop, perhaps?"


    "It''s not magic," I snap reflexively.


    "Of course," Wentworth concedes, though his expression says otherwise. "Whatever you wish to call it, it''s remarkable. You''re remarkable."


    The server returns with our food, eyeing the bloodstains on my shirt with visible discomfort. I realize I must look like a madman—blood-spattered, with no obvious injuries of my own.


    "So," Cain says through a mouthful of food, "what''s next on the Mark adventure tour? More underground fighting? Maybe wrestling a chimera?"


    "I need to understand what''s happening with this," I reply, touching my arm where the snake tattoo lies dormant beneath my sleeve. "And I need to be able to control it better."


    I finish the last of my food, watching as the others eat. The tension from earlier has faded somewhat, replaced by an uneasy quiet punctuated only by Cain''s occasional attempts at humour.


    "I need new clothes," I say, looking down at my blood-spattered shirt. "Can''t exactly walk back to the Academy looking like this."


    "You could claim it''s a new fashion trend," Cain suggests, gesturing with his fork. "Blood-splatter chic. Very avant-garde."


    I ignore him, fishing out a few coins from the pouch of winnings. "Is there anywhere still open at this hour that sells clothing?"


    "Night Market should still be running," Wentworth offers. "It''s about fifteen minutes from here, near the southern canal."


    I nod, then look at the others. Their plates are mostly empty, and I can see the weariness in their eyes. It''s been a long night, made longer by my display at the fighting pit.


    "You don''t all need to come," I say, dropping more coins on the table to cover our meal. "It''s late. You can head back if you want."


    Cain yawns dramatically. "Well, if you insist—"


    "I''ll come with you," Anja interrupts, surprising me. She hasn''t said much since we left the pit.


    I study her face, searching for signs of the fear I glimpsed earlier. "You don''t have to, Anja. I know what happened back there was... intense."


    She meets my gaze directly. "I''m not afraid of you, if that''s what you''re thinking."


    But she is. I can see it in the slight tension around her eyes, the way she''s sitting just a bit farther from me than usual. I don''t blame her. I frightened myself tonight.


    "It''s fine," I say quietly. "You should get some rest. All of you."


    Wentworth clears his throat. "I actually have an early class tomorrow. Advanced Runic Applications with Professor Hallinfear."


    "And I''ve got... sleeping to do," Cain adds. "Very important sleeping."


    I nod, relieved they''re taking the out I''ve offered. The last thing I need is to worry about their reactions while I''m still processing what happened myself.


    "Anja," I say, turning to her specifically. "You''ve been a good friend—my first real friend here. I don''t want to ruin that."


    Her expression softens slightly. "You''re not ruining anything, Mark. I just..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I''ve never seen that side of you before."


    "Neither have I," I admit. "Not exactly."


    She studies me for a moment, then nods slowly. "Alright. Get your clothes, and get some rest. We''ll talk tomorrow."


    "Tomorrow," I agree.


    We leave the Silver Kettle together, but at the first intersection, we part ways—Wentworth and Cain heading toward the Academy''s main entrance, Anja toward the eastern gate closest to her dormitory.


    "Don''t do anything I wouldn''t do," Cain calls over his shoulder. "Which leaves you a lot of options, actually."


    I watch them go, feeling a strange mixture of relief and isolation. For a brief moment, I''d allowed myself to believe I could have normal friendships here, despite everything. Now I''m not so sure.


    Anja pauses at the corner, looking back at me. "Mark?"


    "Yeah?"


    "Whatever that was tonight... we''ll figure it out. That''s what friends do."


    She doesn''t wait for my response, just turns and continues walking. I stand there for a moment longer, her words echoing in my mind.


    Friends. It''s still an unfamiliar concept, one I never sought out during my mercenary years. Captain Maya always said attachments were dangerous in our line of work. But here, now, I''m beginning to understand their value.


    I turn and head toward the Night Market alone, my footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. The snake tattoo remains dormant under my sleeve, but I can feel its presence—a constant reminder that I''m carrying something I don''t fully understand.


    Something I need to learn to control before I truly hurt someone.


    I walk alone through the empty streets, my footsteps echoing off stone and brick. The night air carries a chill that seeps through my blood-stained clothes, but I barely notice it. My mind is too busy replaying what happened at the fighting pit.


    That wasn''t me back there. Or rather, it wasn''t entirely me.


    The snake tattoo has always given me strength when I needed it, a slight edge in combat—but tonight was different. Tonight, it felt like the snake was fighting through me, not just with me. The distinction matters.


    I flex my hand, examining my bruised knuckles in the dim light of a street lamp. The skin is split and crusted with dried blood—some mine, most not. The pain is dull, distant, almost comforting in its familiarity.


    "You''re losing control," I mutter to myself, voicing the fear I couldn''t admit in front of the others.


    Captain Maya''s voice echoes in my memory: "Control is everything in combat. Lose it, and you''ve already lost the fight."


    But this isn''t just about combat anymore. This is about something living under my skin, something with its own hunger for violence. Something I don''t fully understand.


    I continue walking, letting my feet carry me forward while my thoughts spiral inward. The streets grow narrower as I approach the Night Market district, the buildings leaning toward each other like conspirators. Fewer lamps here, more shadows. The kind of place where mercenaries like me used to do our business.


    My mind drifts to Anja''s face when she pulled me off Wiry—the shock, the uncertainty. Even Cain''s jokes couldn''t hide his wariness. And Wentworth... his academic curiosity might be the most dangerous reaction of all.


    I''ve spent years building walls around myself, keeping everyone at arm''s length. It was safer that way—for me, for them. Now, for the first time since Captain Maya, I''ve let people get close. And what do they see? A man who can barely control the power living inside him.


    A man who might be more monster than human.


    The thought stops me cold. Is that what I''m becoming? Is that what the snake wants?


    I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. I''ve reached the Night Market without realizing it. Despite the late hour, there''s still activity here—vendors closing up shops, late-night revellers making their final purchases, shadows moving with purpose in the alleyways.


    My eyes catch on a small shop wedged between a spice merchant and what looks like a pawnbroker. A simple wooden sign hangs above the door: "Stitch & Thread." The windows are dark, but a sliver of light shows beneath the door.


    I approach and knock, not really expecting an answer. To my surprise, the door creaks open almost immediately.


    "We''re closed," says a gruff voice from the darkness inside.


    "I need clothes," I reply, gesturing to my blood-spattered shirt. "Just something simple."


    The figure in the doorway shifts, and light from somewhere deeper in the shop illuminates a weathered face. The man is old, with skin like tanned leather and eyes that have seen too much. He takes in my appearance with a single glance.


    "Blood''s not yours," he says. Not a question.


    "Most of it isn''t."


    He studies me for a moment longer, then steps back, opening the door wider. "Come in, then."


    I hesitate, instinct warning me that this is too easy, too convenient. But I need the clothes, and something about the old man''s demeanour suggests he''s seen worse than me.


    I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click. The shop is narrow but deep, with racks of clothing stretching back into shadows. The light comes from a single oil lamp on a counter near the back.


    "Fighting pit?" the old man asks as he moves past me, heading toward a rack of plain shirts.


    "How did you know?"


    He gives me a look that makes me feel young and foolish. "Been in this city forty years. I know the look." He pulls a dark shirt from the rack and tosses it to me. "Try this. Should fit your frame."


    I catch it, noting the quality of the fabric—simple but well-made. As I examine it, something catches my eye. Near the collar, almost invisible unless you''re looking for it, is a small symbol stitched in thread barely darker than the fabric itself.


    A snake.