Keya paced about agitatedly as patrons collectively moved their tables into the rapidly forming ring. The dwarf who oversaw the terms of the fight approached. His foul mouth and the wily look in his eyes explained why he and Jon had become such fast friends.

“We’ve yet to be introduced m’lady. The name is Bron Smith, just Bron if you please.” He gave a short bow.

“Good evening Bron, I am Kay Luren.”

“Let me be the first to thank you an your servant for the generous patronage you’ve bestowed upon us this eve. An might I share a word of advice for the upcoming bout?”

“Please do so, Bron. I am young in years as Brown-Hair has already mentioned. I realise there is much I do not know.”

“Brown-Hair? I s’pose his hair is brown.” Bron conceded.

“He, as of yet, has not shared his name with me. Had you not called him ‘Faelyn’ neither Jon nor I would know better. Until such a time as he deigns to give it, he is Brown-Hair.”

“The lout didn’t even manage his name, and yet he pursues you so. Forgive me, lass, Faelyn is usually far better behaved than that. There is perhaps more afoot than we realise. Nought to do ’bout it now though.” He glanced to where Faelyn was loosening his limbs in preparation. “You’re wise to admit your ignorance young lass, so let me share that Faelyn is a regular, both in the bar and in the ring. Your safest course is to concede quickly. He may go easy on ya, being a maiden n’all, but it’ll be no less painful.”

“He seems quite reticent, why would he not just concede himself.”

“The ring demands folk to provide at least a forthright attempt before bowing out. Honour and reputation are at stake an all that. Furthermore, Faelyn’s goals may not be as apparent as they initially seem.”

“Many thanks, Bron, I will bear your counsel in mind.” She nodded, Bron reciprocating, and he moved over to Faelyn. However, she valued Master’s counsel more. Keya also had no intention of throwing the fight. Master would not always be there to fight for her as he had with the direwolves, Gillian, and the goblins. Heavens it is that many already! No, it was time she attempted fending for herself. Few opportunities would be as safe as this, and Jon always encouraged testing.

She ran through the sequence of merging her body with her mind through breathing and slow muscular flexion as she stood in place. The bar was no place for Master’s posing series, so this would have to do. They had not yet ventured into means of removing her magic outright, and she feared not controlling it would only lead to using all of it.

Even now she felt her magic inextricably suffused with her aura. Relinquishing control had never been a problem with harnessing items outside her body. There, her essence did not continually abide, so only retreat was required. Suffusing something and yet not using magic was an alien concept.

She undertook to use but a twentieth of her potency. Restraint was a foreign notion as well, yet more achievable than outright annulment. To this end, she reached out with her soul to what she imagined to be a shallow lake of mana pervading all the world. Like sucking from a river reed, her vessel could only draw so much so fast. This time she made to choke that reed further, from a stream to a smooth trickle.

Next, she prepared her hands as Master had taught. There were umpteen laws and principles she had yet to understand fully. Master was consummate in this regard so Keya could only follow as rote what he had instructed. In time she would extract every trickle of that knowledge from him so that she too could be depended upon.

Starting with the skin on her knuckles, warding them from the ‘contact forces’ that would cut and tear at her fingers with each pound. Below she felt the myriad muscles, tendons and ligament of her hands. There were far more than she realised when first sensing her body. For now, the hands, wrist, and to a lesser degree arm were imbued. The wrists were emphasised in training; slackened when hitting would snap the blow off course and risk substantial injury. She had felt lesser mistakes against bags in the bunker and paled at what a failed magic strike could do.

Last were the bones. When initially instructed by Master, she began with them, thinking the process trivial. Master had a fit at the very thought. ‘Bones are strong if well aligned; everything else is the weak part. Frontload your power. The atoms on your skin if well controlled can be one hell of a bulwark. Think stone skin, iron muscles, and bone bones. Oh, and wear gloves,’ he advised.

She retrieved the matte brown leathers at her recollection. They fit snug as if made for her, with a furred securing strap at the wrist termed ‘Velcro’. She had yet to pick Jon’s mind as to how they made everything so damned well. They cobbled, perfectly mirrored, shoes for each foot gods be damned.

‘Atoms’ too were one of the innumerable perplexing figments Jon believed in. What was the point in convictions of things so small as to never be seen, beyond that what minuscule power could such things conceivably impart? She could not argue with results, however. Arcane as his science may be, results consistently marked Master’s means.

She readied her fists with the fighting ring fully formed, leaving only Brown-Hair and Bron inside with her. Bron riled up the crowd.

“Right, lads and lassies gather round! On my left, we have the fleet of foot and fast of fist Faelyn Perrel!”

The crowd jeered and cheered as make-shift betting pools spontaneously coalesced in groups about the tavern, coins tossed in hats or sacks were passed around.

“And on me right is the mysterious and mercurial newcomer: Kay Luren, wishin te teach Faelyn some manners. And in her servant’s stead no less.”

The crowd certainly gave more cheers, but she had no doubt how the betting pools were slanting. Still, she caught Master handing a sizable amount of silver into a hat. That best have been in her favour, or she would show fists to more than one man tonight.

“Terms are as agreed upon, no magic, no weapons and no blows above the shoulders.” He moved in close between the two lowering his voice. “Let’s have a good clean fight, if’n you don’t mind. Faelyn, that goes doubly for you. Once a party concedes, or I call it, the fight is over, you hear?”

“Understood.” They replied in unison.

“Readyyyy! Begin!” Bron backed away, and the bout was joined.

True to Bron’s praise Brown shifted in quickly with a few choice jabs before backing from range.

Keya failed even to register before it was too late. Aches on her side ribs and stomach bloomed as she flinched back. Fortunately, her midsection was already tensed and prepared otherwise Keya would be winded and collapsed already. She abhorred Master’s toughening regime: forcing her to take blow after blow until her body learnt how to tense and deflect the strikes. Master had gone easy on her; she now realised. Keya would request harder punches when next they trained. The pain fuelled her rising rage, and she felt the energy of the hunt flood her body.

Brown tested her attentions again with a lunge at her midsection she blocked with her forearm fending off the blow. His right came from her blind spot, but she had learned that much from Master’s mock fights. She ducked under his swing and prepared to jab at his side. Just then, Master’s restrictions came to mind: the torso was forbidden to her.

Keya’s flow temporarily halted, Faelyn delivered two sharp jabs to her right ribs and waist before leaping out again. Those strikes had not been child’s play; a few more of them would leave her gasping on the floor. She had to end this soon, or he would. She dodged, wove, and blocked for a minute more learning the patterns of the man, if any.

Despite his committal to the fight, he did not appear very engaged with her. A placid if not bored expression painted his features. Keya was no threat, having not even thrown a single strike. He kept a sequence of moves on repeat as if tutoring, or more likely baiting her: left lunge, right hook, and dodge back. A ruse for sure, but he also had little need of showing her more. His guard dropped outside engagements, arms hanging loose, and shifting at ill tempos on his toes. I am outclassed.

All she could bet on was that he had no idea she actually wanted to hit an arm. Arms were naturally quite small targets, so conditions dictated she must force a block.

The sequence came once more, and instead of dodging the hook, she blocked to get inside his swing. Here a strike at his chest was an attack he could not evade or retreat from. Predictably his left forearm came up to intercept her fist, and she delayed the hit, just so, to land on his arm instead of deflecting it. The results were… dramatic.

In the flow of combat, she was not precisely sure how much mana she drew upon. It was more than enough; Brown flew back and crashed into the tables behind him. The tavern went silent. The crowd was hushed, aside from Brown’s pained groans, and Master who swiftly entered the ring to check on the poor elf. Prescient as always; it seemed he anticipated her failure and leapt in to clean her mess.

She stared at her fists in shock, before slowly releasing her fingers along with her power. What am I? She gazed back at the widened stare of Brown-Hair sprawled against an upturned table. I cannot even beat a man properly it seems.