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The broken blade was still warm in Alto's hand when Shana's voice cut through the crowd noise.
"Fighter Eight. Kael Ironhand."
Alto's fingers went numb.
The name hit him before the man even stepped into the sand. Kael. Ironhand wasn't a real surname—it was what the unit gave him after he held a bridge for two hours with a busted sword arm. Good soldier. Better tactician. Arlen had recommended him for captain three days before the ambush.
The gate opposite Alto's rattled open.
Kael walked out like he'd done this a hundred times. Probably had. His hair was longer, tied back in a greasy knot, and his shoulders were leaner than Arlen remembered, but the way he moved—weight forward, guard loose until it wasn't—that was pure military.
Alto should've dropped the broken blade. Should've let it fall back into the sand with the rest of the dead things. Instead he squeezed it and felt the imperial mark dig into his palm.
"You good, sand rat?" One of Shana's crew leaned over the barrier. "You're up."
Alto tossed the blade into the dirt and stepped forward.
Kael didn't look at him yet. He was testing the sand under his boots, checking his footing the way scouts did before a night march. His weapon was a short spear, the kind you could throw or thrust, and his off hand stayed empty. No shield.
That was a choice.
Arlen knew what it meant. Kael wanted speed. Wanted to move. He wasn't here to block and grind—he was here to end it fast.
The crowd was still buzzing from Alto's last fight. Someone threw a bottle. It shattered near the edge of the pit and the glass caught the light like the shine lizards back in—
No. Focus.
Shana's voice again. "Steady fight. No biting, no sand in the eyes, and if you go down you stay down. Ironhand, you know the rules. Sand rat, don't make me regret buying you."
Kael looked up.
Their eyes met across twenty feet of blood-dark sand, and Alto felt the bottom drop out of his chest.
Kael's expression didn't change. Didn't flinch, didn't freeze. But something in his gaze sharpened, and Alto knew—he fucking knew—the man had seen something.
Not Alto. Arlen.
The horn blew.
Kael moved first. He came in low and fast, spear angled for Alto's ribs, and Alto twisted left on instinct. The point hissed past his side and Kael was already pivoting, dragging the spear back in a tight arc that would've hooked Alto's knee.
Alto jumped it. Barely.
The crowd loved that. They screamed like it was the finale.
Kael didn't give him time to think. He pressed, stepping inside Alto's guard and snapping the spear butt toward his jaw. Alto ducked and shoved forward, trying to jam Kael's reach, but Kael slid back like water and reset.
Military footwork. You didn't learn that in a pit.
"You're quick," Kael said. His voice was rough, like he'd been shouting for days. "Where'd you train?"
Alto didn't answer. Couldn't. If he opened his mouth the wrong name might come out.
He lunged instead, going for Kael's lead leg, but Kael checked him with the spear shaft and shoved him back. The wood cracked against Alto's forearm and pain shot up to his elbow.
"Didn't train," Alto said. His voice came out tight. "Just don't like dying."
Kael's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something else.
"Yeah," Kael said quietly. "I get that."
He came in again, faster this time, and the spear tip scored a line across Alto's shoulder. Blood welled up hot and sticky, and the crowd noise doubled.
Alto felt the sand under his feet start to hum.
Not now. Not here.
The voices were waking up. He could feel them clawing at the edge of his skull, eager and hungry, and the sand wanted to pull him down, pull him under, pull him into the place where the dead things sang.
Kael saw him stumble. Saw the way Alto's eyes unfocused for half a second.
He should've struck. Should've ended it.
He didn't.
Instead he stepped back, spear raised, and tilted his head just slightly. A question.
Alto sucked in air and shoved the voices down. His shoulder was bleeding steady now and his arm felt sluggish, but his head was clearing. The sand stopped humming.
"You done?" Kael asked. Loud enough for the crowd. But his eyes were saying something different.
Alto wiped blood off his shoulder and flicked it into the sand. "Not even close."
This time he moved the way Arlen would've. No hesitation. He closed the distance in two steps, angled right to pull Kael's spear wide, and drove his elbow toward Kael's ribs.
Kael blocked it but Alto was already hooking his leg behind Kael's knee, the same trip Arlen used to drill into every new recruit. Kael went down hard and Alto followed him, knee aimed at his chest.
Kael rolled. The spear came up between them like a bar and Alto caught it with both hands. They froze there, locked together, faces a foot apart.
Kael's breathing was steady. His pupils were huge.
"I know that move," Kael said. His voice was barely a whisper. The crowd couldn't hear. "I know that move because I taught it to fifty men."
Alto's pulse hammered in his ears.
"And the only person who taught me," Kael said, "died seven years ago."
Alto should've shoved him off. Should've finished the fight. Should've done anything except stare back into the eyes of a man who'd followed him through six campaigns and never once questioned an order.
Kael's jaw tightened. Then he twisted the spear, hard, and slammed the butt into Alto's ribs.
Alto gasped and his grip broke. Kael surged up, flipped the spear, and brought the point down fast.
It stopped an inch from Alto's throat.
The crowd went silent.
Kael was breathing hard now. Sweat dripped off his chin onto Alto's chest. The spear tip didn't waver.
"Stay down," Kael said. Still quiet. "Stay down, sand rat."
Alto didn't move.
Kael leaned in. The spear point pressed against Alto's skin, just enough to sting, and Kael's lips barely moved.
"Commander," he breathed. "I found you seven years after they buried you."
Then he pulled the spear back, stood, and raised it high.
Shana's horn blew. The crowd exploded.
Kael didn't look down again. He turned and walked toward the gate, and Alto lay there in the blood-warm sand with his heart trying to crack his ribs open.
Someone grabbed his arm and hauled him up. One of Shana's crew. "Move it. Boss wants you cleaned up."
Alto's legs were shaking. He let them drag him toward the side gate, but his eyes stayed on Kael's back until the opposite door slammed shut.
The dead blade was still lying in the sand where he'd dropped it.
And Kael Ironhand knew who he was.