"A charity fight?" Coach Warren's voice cut through the quiet gym, sharp with disbelief. "You think that'll wipe your slate clean?"

Kane paused, looping the handwraps around his wrists, each pull deliberate and tight. He hadn't expected that response. He thought the coach would be impressed — excited, even — that Kane was trying to turn over a new leaf. That someone, anyone, might believe it, so he could start believing it himself.

"I don't know," His voice came out low, wavering slightly. Kane shifted his weight, one foot scuffing against the worn gym floor. "I don't really know what else to do. She said it could work. We could donate the winnings—"

"Don't get too ahead of yourself, boy." Warren let out a short, dry laugh. "You gotta win first."

Kane shot him a glare before turning toward the corner of the gym, where a row of battered punching bags hung in silence. His steps were measured, each one heavier than the last, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him.

"Well, what other options do I have?" He unwrapped one fist, flexing his fingers as if shaking off the tension. The thin red marks from the handwraps stood out against his skin. "The Septentrion's a week away. It's the best time to attract attention without making it seem like an obvious plea. I think it could work."

He braced against the bag, testing its weight with a shove before throwing a quick jab. The thud echoed through the gym, sending the bag swinging wildly on its chain.

Warren followed slowly, arms crossed. "And this girl?" His tone shifted, edging toward suspicion. "You really think she's doing this out of the goodness of her heart?"

Kane took another swing, the impact resonating through his arms. The bag creaked on its chain, swaying under the force.

"It's more of a mutual benefit," Kane said, steady but clipped. "She gets a story. I keep my place in the Arcanum."

The coach snorted. "I wonder how many times she's used that one before."

Kane's fist connected again, harder this time. The smack of knuckles against leather drowned out the coach's chuckle.

"What other choice do I have?" His voice cracked under the strain. He swallowed back the tension. "If I don't clean this up, I'm done. No chance at being anything other than another fighter with five seconds of fame."

Warren raised an eyebrow, glancing at Kane's bloodied knuckles. "Ouch."

Kane's shoulders tensed. His hands dropped to his sides, the realization of his words hitting him like a blow. He'd just described his coach's entire career — and his own worst fear.

Warren sighed, leaning against the wall. "With your skill, that wouldn't happen. They'd ship you off to the Legion. You could work your way up from there."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear. Sure, the Legion would take anyone with a strong arm and a high pain tolerance.

But the Nightblades were different. They weren't for fighters who clawed their way up, hoping to be noticed. They were chosen — handpicked by the Marshal himself for their ability to think as much as fight.

Kane's goal was clear — to him, at least. Make it to his fourth year at the Arcanum, apply for the position, and begin the training immediately.

Kane had heard the stories of the grueling process. The first year was hell on earth, meant to weed out anyone who couldn't endure the mental and physical toll of precision combat.

Because Nightblades weren't trained to overpower their enemies. They were trained to outthink, outmaneuver, and eliminate threats before they became wars. It wasn't about destruction. It was about control.

That's what Kane wanted.

Not to be another name scrawled on some forgotten roster, another fighter who lived and died for a crowd's applause.

He wanted to be seen. Chosen. Remembered. Not as a fighter, but a protector.

Kane shook his head, refocusing on the punching bag. His knuckles throbbed with every punch, but the practiced rhythm steadied him.

Warren watched him for a moment. "You know," he said slowly, "there's a difference between wanting something and being ready to earn it. You don't get to the Nightblades by fighting charity matches."

Kane didn't look up, focusing instead on the steady beat of a few more punches. "Not yet."

The coach chuckled low under his breath, shaking his head. "You're stubborn as hell, you know that?"

Kane glanced up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I've been told."

"Yeah, well... maybe that's what'll save you." Warren reached into his bag and pulled out a small box, tossing it to Kane without ceremony.

Kane caught it one-handed, his brows knitting together as he flipped the lid open.

Inside was a gold ring with a large purple jewel.

His class ring.

For a moment, Kane's breath caught. He shifted the ring between his fingers, tracing the edges where the Arcanum's slogan was etched into the band. The jewel gleamed in the dim gym light — not bright, but enough to make his chest ache with pride and longing.

"Obviously, they weren't sure if you deserved it yet," the coach said quietly. "The Arcanum gave it to me to hold onto — said you'd have to prove yourself before they handed it over."

"And you're giving it to me now?"

Warren shrugged. "It's not official yet. But you show up to that fight wearing this, and you're making a statement. You're telling the Arcanum you're ready to be part of something bigger."

Kane slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly, the weight grounding him in place. A soft smile tugged at his lips. For the first time in what felt like forever, something inside him settled.

But only for a moment.

The ring's jewel glinted in the dim light, and as Kane turned his hand, his vision darkened.

The rain drummed against the roof, masking the sound of heavy boots on the front steps.

Kane stood in the doorway of his home, fists clenched at his sides as the debt collector loomed before him. Rain slicked the man's coat, dripped from the edge of his hat, but his gaze was dry, greed burning in his eyes as he scanned the faces of the Hallow family.

"I take it you know what I'm here for," the collector said, his voice smooth and cold. His gaze lingered on Kane's siblings — Elara, hiding behind the table, and Leo, standing stiff as a board beside her.

"We don't have it yet," his mother said softly from behind him, her voice trembling with desperation. "Please, just give us another week. Things have been slow."

The collector took a long step forward, tilting his head. "Slow? That's unfortunate." His lips curved into a cruel smile as his gaze shifted to Leo. "Maybe you've got something else to offer."

Leo stood his ground, chest puffed out in defiance, but Kane saw the flicker of fear in his brother's eyes.

The collector gestured lazily. "The boy looks strong enough to work off the debt. Or maybe the girl—"

"No."

The word left Kane's mouth before he could think. Low. Dangerous.

The collector's gaze snapped to him, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. "No? I don't think you're in any position to say no, boy."

"Kane... don't." His mother's hand pressed lightly on his shoulder, trembling. But Kane didn't move. His gaze never left the man.

"Touch them, and I'll kill you."

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the steady patter of rain on the roof.

The man's smirk faltered, brows raising in mock surprise. "Big words for a boy barely grown. You don't scare me."

The tension snapped.

It happened fast. Too fast for thought.

The man lunged.

Kane was faster.

His fist connected with the man's jaw, a sickening crack cutting through the rain. The collector stumbled backward, but Kane didn't stop.

Another punch.

Then another.

The dull thud of fists on flesh. The crunch of bone. The copper tang of blood in the air.

Leo's voice, distant and panicked, shouting his name. "Kane! Stop!"

But he didn't hear it. His fists kept moving, driven by the fire inside him.

When the man hit the ground, groaning through bloodied lips, Kane stood over him, chest heaving. His knuckles throbbed, raw and bloodied, but he barely noticed the pain as the man scrambled to his feet and left with mumbled curses.

"Kane?"

Elara's voice was small, hesitant. He turned, finding her peeking out from behind the table, her wide eyes locked on his hands — the blood, the fury still burning in his gaze.

"You're okay," his voice was strained. "He's gone."

But she didn't move.

It wasn't the man she was afraid of.

The gym swam back into view, blurry at first as Kane blinked away the memory. His heart pounded in his chest, refusing to settle.

Warren's voice broke through the haze. "You alright, kid?"

Kane glanced down at his hands- the ring. The weight of it felt heavier now.

"I'm fine," he said quietly, though he wasn't sure he believed it. "Thanks."

The coach gave him a long, measured look before stepping away, his footsteps fading into the background.

Kane flexed his fingers, the ring pressing snugly against his skin. The ache in his knuckles hadn't faded — a dull, familiar throb that lingered like a bruise.

Like he was still standing over that man.

Fists trembling and bloodied.

The memory had resurfaced with brutal clarity, too sharp to be distant. He could still hear the crack of bone beneath his fists, the hiss of rain against the pavement. It shouldn't have been that clear — that real.

Kane shook his head, blinking away the recollection.

It's just nerves.

That's all it was. Nerves about the fight. About the ring.

But deep down, he knew better.

The temple had marked him. He'd known it the moment he stepped inside — the way the air had shifted, thick with the weight of something unseen.

Then he heard it again.

A whisper.

Soft at first — like a faint creak of the floorboards.

Then louder.

Curling around his mind like flames through unseen cracks.

"Look at your hands."

Kane's breath caught in his throat.

"Look at what you are."

His chest tightened. He spun around, eyes darting across the empty gym, panic etched across his face.

There was nothing.

No one.

The only sound was the steady creak of the punching bag swinging lazily on its chain.

Kane's gaze dropped to the ring on his finger.

The jewel gleamed faintly in the dim light, catching a sliver of something unnatural — something it shouldn't have.

It couldn't be the ring.

That was ridiculous.

It was just that. A ring. A symbol of what he was working toward.

Of what he wanted to be.

And yet...

It had all started the moment he'd slipped it on.

A wave of exhaustion hit him. His hands trembled, unsteady, and his legs threatened to give way beneath him. His body felt like it was surrendering to something his mind hadn't yet processed.

Kane's head lolled forward — just for a moment — before he snapped straighter with a sharp inhale.

But the whispers didn't fade.

They lingered, faint and cloying, winding through the edges of his mind.

Kane groaned, frustration bubbling up in his chest. It burned, molten and suffocating, mixing with the confusion he couldn't shake.

Without another thought, he turned on his heel and strode toward the locker room.

He didn't bother unwrapping his hands. The rough material dug into his knuckles as he snatched up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

As Kane stepped into the night, the ring glinted again, catching the light of the streetlamps through the rain. A silent reminder.

The rain had softened to a mist, the cool air brushing against his flushed skin. He tugged the gym bag higher on his shoulder, the rough canvas digging into his skin.

He hadn't noticed her at first.

The figure leaning against the lamppost, arms crossed, a notebook tucked beneath one elbow.

"You're late."

Kane's head snapped up. Saija straightened slightly, her gaze flicking from him to the gym door behind him, then back. Her posture was casual — too casual — but her eyes were sharp and calculating.

"I was starting to think you changed your mind," she added, pushing off the post and stepping into the circle of light cast by the lamppost.

Kane frowned. "Why are you here?"

Saija pulled the notebook from her bag, flipping through its pages as she walked toward him. "Just checking if we're still good for the fight." She stopped on a page, scanning it briefly before lifting her gaze. "Septentrion's coming up fast. If you want to make an impression, we need to get this fight locked in."

Kane rolled his shoulders, the tension from the gym still lingering in his muscles.

"I'm still in."

"You sure?" Saija snapped the notebook shut, her gaze steady. "Because you've been real quiet since we got back from the temple. And-"

"I said I'm in." The words came out sharper than he intended, cutting through the soft patter of rain.

Saija flinched at his tone. It was brief — a flicker of caution across her face — before she masked it with a shrug. "Alright." Her fingers tightened around the edge of the notebook. "Then let's talk strategy."

Kane huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Strategy?"

"You've got the skills," Saija said, unfazed. "But we need to frame the fight right if it's going to send the message you want."

"And what message is that?"

"Redemption." Saija's voice softened, though her gaze remained sharp. "That's the angle. Show them you're more than a fighter. That you're willing to use what you've got to help others."

Kane shifted, his hand drifting to the ring on his finger. The whispers stirred faintly at the edges of his mind — a soft hum he couldn't shake.

"Sounds simple enough."

"It will be, as long as you stick to the plan." Saija said, sliding the notebook back into her bag. She stepped closer, crossing her arms. "You don't get distracted. You don't lose control. We keep it clean and professional."

Kane raised an eyebrow. "Clean and professional, huh?"

Saija mirrored his expression, raising a brow of her own. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No." Kane glanced away, exhaling through his nose. "Just not sure I've ever done anything clean or professional."

"Then it's about time you start." Saija's gaze didn't waver. "This isn't just about winning, Kane. It's about your future — staying in the Arcanum. Keeping your name out of the mud. You're too close to throw it all away now."

Her words hung between them, heavier than the humidity clinging to the air.

Kane's gaze flicked back to Saija, studying the calm, expectant expression on her face.

"What's the real reason you're pushing this so hard?"

Saija tilted her head, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful. "I like a good story," she replied with a shrug. "And yours? It's not finished yet."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rain continued to fall softly, the lamplight casting faint shadows across the cobblestones. Kane could hear the distant murmur of Alecton's streets — the low hum of a city that never quite slept.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

"Alright," he said finally, his voice steady. "Let's do it."

Saija nodded, satisfied. "Good."

She turned to leave, her boots tapping lightly against the wet pavement. But after a few steps, she glanced over her shoulder, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

"Try not to break anything else before the fight, yeah?"

Kane watched her go, breathing another quiet laugh as his hand toyed once more with the ring on his finger.

And the whispers lingered.

Persistent.

Unyielding.

And Kane wasn't sure they'd ever stop.

-

GREETINGS IM SORRY. I know I'm behind, but I wanted to get the tone of this chapter right. Shifting between multiple characters is actually super difficult when you have to mirror their vibes in your writing lol. Anyways, I hope you're enjoying the read so far. I've been putting a playlist together, too. Would you guys be interested in the link? LMK!! & thank you as always for reading and supporting:)