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"You think you're the first?" Rook's voice cut through the roar of the crowd. He stood three feet away, close enough that I could see the black veins spider-webbing from under his collar. "You think you're special because it picked you?"
I didn't answer. The sand under my boots was still wet from the last fight.
"They all thought that." Rook rolled his shoulder, and I heard something pop. "Every Voidbound who walked into this Pit thought the bond made them different. Stronger." He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "You know how many made it past three fights?"
"How many?"
"Zero."
The crowd screamed. Someone threw a bottle, and it shattered near the edge of the ring. Rook didn't flinch.
"The bond eats you," he said. "Slow at first. You feel it in your chest, right? Like something's pulling. Then it moves. Crawls up your ribs. Your throat." He tapped two fingers against his neck. "By fight three, you're coughing blood. By four, you can't summon without blacking out."
I kept my hands loose. "You survived."
"I learned." He stepped closer. "I learned what the Guild didn't want anyone to know."
"Which is?"
Rook's smile widened. "The Void talks back."
My heart kicked. I didn't let it show.
"You've heard it, haven't you?" Rook circled left, and I turned with him. "In your head. When you summon. It whispers. Tells you things you shouldn't know."
I said nothing.
"It told you how to win your last two fights." Rook stopped. "Told you where to move. When to dodge. You thought it was instinct."
The scar on my chest burned. I pressed my palm against it through my shirt.
"It's not instinct," Rook said. "It's the bond. And the more you listen, the more it takes."
"Then why are you still standing?"
"Because I made a deal." He reached up and pulled his collar down. The scar started at his collarbone—black, jagged, exactly like mine. But it didn't stop there. It crawled up his neck, split at his jaw, curled behind his ear. "I feed it what it wants. And it keeps me alive."
"What does it want?"
Rook's grin turned sharp. "Other Voidbound."
The bell rang.
I moved before I thought. Rook's fist came in fast, but I dropped under it and drove my elbow into his ribs. He grunted and twisted, caught my wrist, yanked me forward. His knee came up. I blocked with my forearm and felt the impact rattle through bone.
"Not bad," Rook said. He still had my wrist. "But you're slow."
He threw me. I hit the sand hard, rolled, came up in a crouch. My chest burned. The bond pulled, sharp and insistent.
Not yet.
"Summon it," Rook called. He wasn't even breathing hard. "Go on. Let's see what you've got."
The crowd chanted. I couldn't make out the words.
I circled right. Rook watched me, lazy, like he had all night. He probably did. I'd seen him fight before. He could go twenty minutes without breaking a sweat.
I had maybe five.
"You're thinking about it," Rook said. "I can see it. You want to summon. You want to prove you're different." He tilted his head. "But you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"Then do it."
I didn't move.
Rook laughed. "You know what happens if you don't, right? Garrick takes your cut. Mira finds out what you are. And that thing in your chest?" He tapped his own scar. "It starves. And when it starves, it takes what it needs."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" Rook lunged. I barely got my guard up before his fist cracked into my forearm. Pain shot up to my shoulder. He hit again, same spot, and my arm went numb. I staggered back. He followed, methodical, cutting off the ring.
"You're already dying," Rook said. "You just don't know it yet."
I threw a jab. He slipped it. I threw a hook. He ducked under and drove his fist into my stomach. The air left my lungs in a rush. I folded, gasping, and his knee came up again. I twisted just enough that it glanced off my shoulder instead of my face.
"Stop holding back," Rook said. He sounded bored. "Summon it. Fight me for real."
I spat blood into the sand. My vision blurred at the edges. The bond pulled harder now, a hook dragging through my ribs.
Summon. Summon. Summon.
"He's done!" someone screamed from the crowd. "Finish him!"
Rook looked up at the sound, and I saw my opening. I lunged, threw everything into a right cross aimed at his jaw. He turned back just in time—didn't dodge, didn't block. He caught my fist in his palm.
His grip tightened. I felt the bones in my hand shift.
"You don't get it," Rook said quietly. His face was inches from mine. "The bond isn't a weapon. It's a leash. And the Guild knew that when they wiped the Voidlings out."
"Let go."
"They didn't kill them because they were dangerous." Rook's voice dropped lower. "They killed them because they were talking. Telling their Pactmakers the truth."
"What truth?"
"That the Guild's been using us." He twisted my wrist. I dropped to one knee. "Every bond, every Pact, every creature we summon—it's all connected. And the Voidlings knew how to sever it."
The crowd was chanting again. I couldn't hear anything else.
"So they made them monsters," Rook said. "Put them on a kill list. Made sure no one would ever bond one again." He leaned in close. His breath smelled like copper. "But you did. And now you're going to die for it. Unless—"
"Unless what?"
"Unless you make the same deal I did."
I drove my knee up into his stomach. He exhaled hard, and his grip loosened just enough. I ripped my hand free, stumbled back, put distance between us.
Rook straightened slowly. He was smiling again.
"There it is," he said. "The fight."
My chest burned. The scar felt like it was splitting open.
"You're out of time," Rook said. "Summon, or I put you down."
I looked up at the crowd. Somewhere in the stands, Mira was watching. I couldn't see her, but I felt it. Her eyes on me. Her gun within reach.
If I summoned, she'd know.
If I didn't, Rook would kill me.
The bond pulled again, and this time I didn't fight it.
I pressed my palm to my chest. The scar flared hot under my skin. I felt the hatchling stir, felt its hunger, its eagerness. It wanted out. It always wanted out.
"Do it," Rook said. He spread his arms. "Show me what you've got."
I closed my eyes.
The bond opened.
Heat flooded through me, sharp and electric, crawling up from my chest. I gasped, and the air tasted like ash. My vision sharpened. The noise of the crowd faded to nothing.
I could feel it. The hatchling. Not just its presence, but its shape. Its teeth. Its claws. Its rage.
And I could feel something else.
The scar on my chest moved.
I opened my eyes. Looked down. Through my torn shirt, I could see the black lines spreading. They crawled up my ribs, slow and deliberate, like fingers reaching.
Rook was watching. He wasn't smiling anymore.
"How far are you willing to go?" he asked.
The scar reached my collarbone.
Then it touched my throat.