CHAPTER 3

Momentum

A Grievar shall not accumulate land, wealth, servants, or worldly possessions beyond what is necessary for survival. In the act of relinquishing all but dedication to martial prowess, a Grievar will become unburdened, free to attack and defend without hesitation.

Seventh Precept of the Combat Codes

Green luminescence shimmered on Cego’s skin as he swam through the water. He cut through the waves effortlessly, feeling them swell and pass beneath him, setting their course to whip up on some distant shore.

A swarm of leathery-skinned bats skimmed the water beside him, careening like dive-bombers from above to snatch at the plankton that foamed all around him. The glowing swath of plankton continued far out into the distance, providing Cego a shimmering path to swim along.

About ten yards ahead, another figure was traveling the same path, a dark silhouette thrashing through the waves. Cego tried to push his pace to catch up to the figure, but every time he swam faster, the silhouette also sped up to maintain the gap between them.

Cego attempted to find his rhythm—a steady pace of exertion that the old master stressed no matter what the physical exercise was. Whether fighting, running, climbing, or swimming, it needed to be efficient.

Cego’s feet, hands, and body twisted through the current in unison, each stroke feeding off the previous one’s energy, his breath timed to every movement.

Cego didn’t think about the murky depths around him. Beyond the glowing path of plankton, darkness was everywhere. Above him, the sky was as black and as unfathomable as the depths below. Cego followed his rhythm and swam.

Suddenly, he heard a scream. The figure ahead of him had disappeared from the surface of the water.

Cego dove beneath the waves and tried to swim toward the sinking body. He felt the water resisting him, though; it became viscous, pushing back against his efforts. Every stroke Cego took, the liquid became thicker, congealing around his limbs.

Cego gurgled as he was pulled down. He desperately tried to swim toward the sinking figure, but he wasn’t moving. The liquid wrapped around Cego’s body, slithering into his mouth and ears, choking him and blotting out his vision.

He sank into the darkness.

Cego awoke again in the cold, sterile bunk in the Underground.

He thought about the little wisp that used to visit him in his cell. He hadn’t seen the thing since he’d arrived at the Crew Nine bunks. He missed the one-sided conversations with the wisp—his new bunkmates were not nearly as good listeners.

The other boys roused as an old guard entered the room, rattling their bed frames as he went by. “Time to get at it, you snivelers.” He shook Weep’s post particularly violently.

The man tossed each boy a can stuffed with fighting greens. Cego popped the lid, turning his head to avoid the noxious smell.

The guard caught Cego’s reaction from the corner of his eye. “Don’t think you aren’t darkin’ lucky, with yer own cots and food in yer belly every morning. Go out to the dregs, see them cleaver addicts, their lightless spawn. You’ll see how lucky you are.”

The boys were hungry after another cold night and they dug into the greens with a determined but passionless vigor. Dozer finished first, throwing the can against the wall across from his bunk. The large boy pulled his drawstring pants up and let out a beefy burp. “Can’t wait to get outside today and show ’em what I’ve got.” He feigned a few punches at an imaginary opponent.

“You won’t be havin’ a patron pick you up with punches like those,” taunted Knees, the boy with the scar. He picked up Dozer’s empty can and tossed it back at him.

Dozer knocked the can to the ground. “Yeah, right, and you’re gonna get one by losing all your fights, huh, Venturian?”

“Just one fight and that kid be outweighin’ me by thirty. He be like you, all vat-beefed up, no skill. Just sittin’ on me,” Knees said.

“Who cares; you lost. Patrons gonna see that. While you’re still playing in that yard every day, I’ll be on my way to the Lyceum. I’m gonna be a Knight someday. And I’m gonna get a real darkin’ flux tattoo,” Dozer said.

Knees guffawed, nearly choking on his greens.

Dozer’s face reddened. “What? What makes you think I won’t make it into the Lyceum?”

“When I be thinkin’ Grievar Knight, you definitely don’t pop. Maybe some patron be pickin’ you up at a discount.” Knees smirked.

Dozer stiffened and was beginning to move toward Knees when the old guard came back into the room. “Save your fights for the Circle. Now get to the yard. I hear Tasker Ozark’s going to have you doing something special today.” The guard chuckled ominously.

Cego pulled his pants on and waited for his turn to shave his head with the razor the boys were passing around. Thaloo required all the boys to be fully shaved every morning to display the flux brand on each of their scalps.

Cego had discovered that each brand displayed a boy’s bit-price. Patrons watching the fights could easily determine if the kids were worth buying. If a boy won his fights handily, his price would increase and the flux brand would reflect that. Cego’s brand displayed zero currently; all his previous fights had only ensured he was hearty enough to be assigned to a Tasker.

The crew fell into formation behind the guard and began to walk toward the yard. Shiar gave Cego an impish stare as he pushed to the front of the formation. Currently, Shiar was on top of the crew’s rankings. Dozer wasn’t far behind him.

As he listened to Crew Nine talk during their breaks, Cego had attempted to understand the purpose of it all. Thaloo had acquired the boys through unscrupulous means. Dozer had been bought at a bargain price from some hawkers trying to unload their wares before going Upworld. Knees had come along with a shipment of Venturian Grunts sent Deep for mining work. Weep had been grabbed fresh from an orphanage right after both his parents had died of the Cimmerian Shade. Some of the boys, like Cego, were simply picked up off the streets.

Shiar, as he incessantly reminded everyone, had been the son of an Underground purelight family that had fallen on hard times. Cego gathered they’d been forced to sell their property along with some of their children, Shiar included.

After purchase, Thaloo put the boys through fight acclimation—a period of cost-efficient training to increase his product’s value. Men like Tasker Ozark were hired to facilitate the training and were promised a small cut of successful sales. Thaloo then showcased the young Grievar in his Circle, letting them fight while potential patrons watched and bid on them. Patrons liked to buy Grievar at a young age to instill loyalty.

Though Cego was starting to understand this strange Underground world, he knew he had much to learn.

The crew arrived at the yard, where Tasker Ozark waited for them, his face drawn into the same perpetual frown. “Well, let’s get you scumlings at it. Time to ramp it up. Few of you have got fights coming up and I want you winning. You winning means I win. Means Thaloo wins.”

Ozark directed his gaze at Cego. “You lose, though… and you’re not gonna last. Thaloo will have you chewed up and spat out, no time. Back on the streets where the Cimmerian Shade can take you.”

Here at Thaloo’s, the training was mostly drills made to harden the boys for their fights. They weren’t taught techniques or skills for any long-term development. Thaloo had short-term sales in mind for most of his assets.

Ozark shouted at the crew to do fifty push-ups, his metallic voice scraping against the yard’s stone walls. He had them do dog crawls, running on all fours around the perimeter of the room until their legs couldn’t hold out. Next, it was sloth carries again.

Every once in a while, Ozark would have them shadowbox or show him a round kick to measure progress. The gaunt man enjoyed watching the boys fall over as they tried to spin around on a misguided kick. He didn’t give them any advice; he laughed at them in a hyena-like wheeze.

Cego knew the old master had taught him real technique, the tiniest movements that made a world of difference. How power in either a punch or kick came from the hips. How to generate leverage. How to use his opponent’s momentum to his benefit.

Cego had been staying quiet for the past few days, cleaning out piss pots and doing whatever else was required of him. The crew had continued to make things difficult for him along the way, stealing his food, reporting his disobedience to Ozark, throwing sneaky elbows at him during their training in the yard.

He knew it was almost time to use that momentum. Cego needed to show strength when he entered the Circle.

Cego’s first fight on Circle Crew Nine came fast. Tasker Ozark wanted to test him as soon as possible to see how much he’d be worth.

He had rings under his eyes from the long hours training in the yard, and his body felt stiff from sleeping on the hard stone floor every night. The rest of Crew Nine stared Cego down as he walked out of the bunk.

Ozark led him toward the Circle den with the rest of the crew trailing behind. “Don’t start off on the wrong foot today, scumling. Losers stay losers,” the gaunt man warned him. They entered the large den at the center of Thaloo’s compound. Though Cego had already fought there several times, the place was different with his eyes open.

The room around him was a blur of chaos. People were sitting along the bar, shouting, looking up at dozens of flashing lightboards. Men and women stood around the perimeter of the Circle, clanking their glasses against each other, pounding their hands on the railing, barking in a variety of languages Cego did not understand.

The floor smelled like rotten ale. Foul smoke wafted to the ceiling from lit pipes. At the back of the room, strange meats were smoking on a heat pad, lending another acrid smell to the stifling air.

Cego could hardly breathe and he hadn’t even started moving yet. He attempted to calm himself as he walked to the edge of the Circle, expelling the air from his lungs as the old master had taught him. But he kept breathing in, his chest tightening.

Ozark shoved him forward into the steel Circle, which was pulsing an azure blue now.

He saw his opponent across from him. The boy was about Cego’s size, maybe a few inches taller, with a scrunched-up nose and narrow eyes. Cego could see the brand on his head, his bit-price reflecting the several fights he’d already won in this Circle. The boy’s Tasker was at his side, whispering in his ear.

A large lightboard flashed to life above the Circle. There was an image of Cego and his opponent up there along with a series of fluctuating numbers he couldn’t focus on. Cego could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Could his opponent see that? He tried to take another deep breath, unsuccessfully.

Cego didn’t know why he was fighting here. Had the old master trained him so diligently to fight in a den for a bunch of drunken Deep folk? To get bought by some patron and spend the rest of his days in their servitude? It didn’t make any sense; his head was spinning.

Suddenly, a swarm of glowing blue wisps rose in the air and clustered above the Circle. Cego had heard them called spectrals. They were similar to the little glowing wisp in his cell, but somehow, these spectrals were very different.

Cego felt their light immediately. It streamed into his eyes and grew warm on the surface of his skin. It was like nothing he’d experienced before. The chaos around him dissipated into silence, as if a soundproof bubble had enveloped the Circle.

He could breathe. The trapped air flowed from his lungs. Cego drank the air, brought it in through his nose, let it settle in every inch of his body—running up his spine, relaxing in his shoulders, tingling in his fingertips and toes.

As Cego’s breath and heartbeat calmed, the world around him slowed. He saw his opponent clearly on the other side of the Circle. No one else was in the room, just two boys standing across from one another. Everything felt right. His past, his stiff body, the troubles with his crew, Tasker Ozark—they all seemed unimportant now.

The other boy was lumbering toward him. Why was he moving so slowly? Cego stood perfectly still.

Finally, the boy was in front of Cego, swinging at his head with a clublike right hand. Cego easily slipped the punch.

He saw the unsure expression on the boy’s face, the sweat droplets on his brow, the wildness in his citrine-tinged eyes as he moved forward.

The boy threw another looping punch. This time, Cego caught the arm at the elbow and moved in with a quick step, wrapping his arms around his opponent and hugging him tightly. He circled his leg behind the boy’s knee and took him to the floor.

Cego was on top of the boy, rearing up to punch him. “Put ’is head through the dirt!” someone nearby shouted.

The crowd was screaming for blood, slamming their hands against the metal railing. They wanted to see him beat the life out of the boy. Cego knew that the bloodier and more vicious a finish, the louder their approval would be.

Cego felt Tasker Ozark’s eyes on him, urging him to put on a show of dominance. Winning in a spectacular fashion would result in pushing his bit-price higher and selling to a patron faster.

He sensed Crew Nine watching from the sidelines. Cego could make an example of his opponent and show jackals like Shiar what would happen if they messed with him. He could make Dozer and Knees respect him.

Cego wanted to please the crowd. He wanted to teach the boy beneath him a lesson for being weak. He felt the crowd’s energy within him, tendrils of anger urging him to pummel his opponent until he was a lifeless husk.

True fear is often masked by strength and true strength is often mistaken for fear. The old master’s voice rang above the crowd’s clamor.

Cego saw the fear in the eyes of the boy beneath him. They reminded him of Weep as he shivered on the rope in the dusklight. He felt the fear in the crowd around him. They yelled for blood because they were also scared, unsure of the path they followed.

Cego realized he was afraid too—that’s why he wanted to please the crowd, his crew, his Tasker.

He snapped out of the trance.

Instead of raining punches down on his opponent, Cego clapped his hands against both sides of the boy’s head.

The boy panicked, trying to turn away from the openhanded strikes. Cego loosened his hips slightly and let the boy beneath him turn. He pinned the boy facedown. He’d want a quick finish, without humiliation.

Cego thrust his hips down, pushing the boy into the dirt. He snaked one of his arms under the boy’s chin, grasping around his neck. Mata Leon—the Lion Killer. This boy was hardly a lion, but Cego squeezed until he felt the boy stop struggling. He’d be awake in less than a minute, without a scratch on his face.

Cego stood, the boy’s limp body prone on the floor. He could feel the light shining down on him, even brighter now. He wondered if the little spectral from his cell was up there in the mass of pulsing light.

Cego’s eyes were wide and alive as he felt a strange tingling from the flux brand on his scalp. The light was communicating with his body, taking in every detail of the fight: how many heartbeats had passed, how many breaths he’d taken, the exact saturation of the oxygen running through his blood vessels.

At its apex, the light suddenly dimmed as the spectrals dispersed, some floating toward the crowd and others sinking onto the Circle’s cool surface. Cego was again standing in the noisy room. The drunken spectators were still yelling, the air still tinged with smoke and stifling body odors. His opponent’s crew entered the Circle, dragging the unconscious boy across the floor and out of the room. Cego felt a pit in his stomach.

Ozark still had that deep-cut frown on his face.

The Tasker grabbed his arm, dragging him out of the den. “Don’t ever play with my chances of getting you sold off as fast as possible, boy, or I’ll make your life more miserable than it already is.”

Cego’s bit-price rose with every fight, his flux brand constantly shifting.

He looked at his reflection in the dirty mirror of their bunk. The strange brand on his head was alive. The ink was in constant movement, the pixels never staying in one place, swirling and waiting for the next command from the light.

Cego had most recently beaten a boy from Circle Crew Two who had been previously undefeated. The boy had come at him with a series of thudding leg kicks. He rubbed his thigh where a huge welt in the shape of the boy’s shin had swelled. Walking, let alone training, would be tough today.

As Cego won more fights, the rest of the crew began to tone down their tormenting. Although they ignored him for the most part, they removed the tin cans from his cot and no longer touched his food.

Weep and another boy from Crew Nine had lost their last fights, so Ozark was especially vindictive with the day’s training. With the damage his leg had sustained, Cego could barely make it through the drills.

“Think you’re going to lose on my watch? Think I’m going to just let that go?” Ozark screamed at the boys as they crawled on all fours in the red dirt.

Weep fell to his belly in exhaustion. Ozark marched over to the little boy and placed his boot on his back, holding him to the ground. “Want to take a rest, you little sniveler, do you? All right, how about I take a rest too and stand right here for a while?” Ozark had his weight pressed on Weep’s back, crushing his boot down on him.

As he watched Weep struggle, Cego felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. His jaw clenched and his fingers curled into fists. He forgot about his sore body and the task at hand. He was crouched on all fours in the dirt, his golden eyes locked on Ozark.

Anger is like a boiling pot of water. Useful if you can keep the boil steady, but if turned too hot, it will overflow and become useless.

The old master was right, as usual. Attacking Ozark would be disastrous for the whole crew, Weep included. Cego breathed out deeply.

Ozark removed his boot and yanked Weep back to his feet. “Keep moving,” he yelled as he prodded the little boy forward. A long rope run was to be the final drill for the day—the crew was barely standing at this point. The boys wearily attached the gnarled rope to their harnesses, pulling the line taut between them.

Ozark was taking them past the limit this time. The Tasker wanted to make them stronger so they could win, so he could win. But this was beyond training. This was torture.

The run began as it usually did: chaotically. Dozer surged forward, pulling the rest of the boys, some staggering and tripping over one another’s feet, others stumbling to the ground. They would never make it through the entire drill like this.

Cego was the middle link. He needed to do something now. He placed his hands on Knees’s shoulders in front of him. The scar-faced boy was startled at first, turning back to look at Cego suspiciously. Cego didn’t say anything; he just looked at Knees and kept steady.

For every step Cego took, he put slight pressure with his hand on Knees’s same-side shoulder, also using his outstretched arms for support.

After a circle around the perimeter, Knees turned back at him and nodded—he understood. Knees placed his hands on Shiar’s shoulders and did the same thing.

Cego looked back at a boy named Yusef and got his attention to the front of the line, where Shiar now had his hands on Dozer’s broad shoulders. Yusef was staggering with fatigue, but he grabbed hold of Cego’s shoulders.

Soon, the entire rope line was running in sync. No boys crashed into one another. Their legs moved in rhythm. They were using the entire group’s momentum to slither forward like a sea eel.

Cego saw Ozark watching the crew, his calculating eyes darting back and forth.

“Halt!”

The rope crew came to a stop, the boys panting. “Weakness! You scumlings aren’t fit for my task, so you’ve decided you need to cheat, to hold each other’s hands. Will you have each other to hold on to in the Circle? When a Grievar is on top of you, smashing your face into a pulp, where will your friends be then?” Ozark spat into the dirt. “I will not tolerate such weakness. Sloth carries. Now!” Ozark screamed.

The crew was on the brink. Dozer staggered forward, his legs shivering from the constant strain that came from leading the pack. Cego could even see desperation in Shiar’s eyes as he turned back, panting. They were nearly broken.

With a malicious glint in his eye, Ozark paired Weep with Dozer for the sloth carry. The frail boy clearly could not support Dozer’s weight, not even for one second. He tried futilely to get under Dozer, heaving with his shoulders until he fell to the ground.

Cego had Knees as a partner again—he lowered his center of gravity and was able to hoist Knees up, though moving with him on his shoulders was nearly unbearable.

Ozark walked to Weep’s side, looking down at him. “Stop crying, boy. Your mammy isn’t here to patch you up.” The Tasker prodded the boy with his boot. Weep rolled over onto his back, the side of his face wet with tears.

The anger swelled in Cego again at seeing the man standing over Weep, a boot against his rib cage. He dropped Knees to the ground and moved across the yard toward Ozark. Don’t let the pot boil over.

“Let me show him how to pick Dozer up.”

Ozark looked down at Cego, at first surprised to see him out of position and then seething at the challenge to his command. “Oh, if it isn’t the champion himself. Just because you’ve won a few fights, you think you’re a Grievar Knight. You think you can do my job for me?” The Tasker’s eyes narrowed. “Get back in line and do your task, you little larva. Run, fight, and shut your mouth.”

“If Weep can’t pick up Dozer after I show him how to properly do it, I’ll take Dozer on my back every day from now on,” Cego said steadily. He had to make the feint for his opponent’s hands to come down.

Tasker Ozark eyed Cego suspiciously, clearly thinking he was trying to outsmart him. Ozark then looked down at Weep, still heaving, barely able to get himself off the ground, let alone lift a boy more than twice his size. Ozark shook his head in agreement. “Okay, little champion, you’ve got it.”

Cego knelt at Weep’s side. “You all right?”

Weep wiped the snot from his nose, looking up at Cego with watery eyes. “I’m okay.”

“I’m going to show you how to do this,” Cego whispered. “It’s as easy as standing up.” Cego heard the old master’s voice again as he said the words.

Weep nodded obediently. Ozark watched from the corner of his eye as he yelled gratingly at the other boys to keep moving. “First, breathe out. You’re trying to take in too much air but you’re not letting enough out. Breathe out first; get rid of it all.”

Weep sat up, closing his eyes, and blew out of his mouth, more snot coming out of his nose as he did so.

“Okay, keep breathing like that. Dozer, come stand here; don’t do anything. This will be good for you too.” Dozer surprisingly did as he was told.

“I want you to think about it like this,” Cego said. “You aren’t picking up Dozer. You aren’t picking anyone up. You’re getting under him and then standing up.”

Weep was confused; he shook his head. “But I am trying to pick him up. There’s no way I can carry Dozer; he’s way bigger than I am. And I’m not strong. I couldn’t even pick you up, Cego.”

“Watch me,” Cego said.

Cego moved toward Dozer. The bulky boy outweighed him by at least seventy pounds. He bent his knees, crouching directly under Dozer, with one arm circling through his legs, grasping his back. He kept his posture straight. Cego then lifted from his knees, causing the front half of Dozer’s body to fall forward onto his shoulder. He wrapped Dozer’s arm around his neck and stood up effortlessly. He took a few steps around the yard with the huge boy on his back before letting him down.

He looked at Weep. “See how easy it is? You can do this.” Weep nodded, wiping his nose and standing. “Just remember, you aren’t trying to lift Dozer. Don’t use your back or your arms. You are standing up under him.”

Cego showed Weep where to crouch and place his arms again.

“Now give it a try.” Cego clasped Weep’s shoulder. “It’s just standing up, like you do every morning.”

Everyone in the yard stopped to view the spectacle, even Tasker Ozark.

Weep mimicked Cego’s movements. He crouched under Dozer, his knees bent. He tried to stand up.

Cego held his breath as Weep’s knees buckled for a moment, but suddenly, the large boy was on top of the tiny boy’s shoulders. It was an unnatural sight, as if a grass mouse were lifting a prize pig. Weep appeared the most surprised of everyone in the yard, his eyes bulging. He took a cautious step forward.

Weep walked steadily around the yard with Dozer awkwardly draped on top of his shoulders. Knees stamped his feet in the dirt and laughed, watching the strange sight. “The tiny one be all jacked up!”

The rest of the boys in the yard hooted as Weep slowly made it back to the starting point before collapsing to the ground.

Ozark narrowed his eyes and glared at Cego, as if he’d somehow cheated.

Cego knew he’d pay for his intervention, but it was worth it. A smile crept across his face as he returned Ozark’s glare. The gaunt Tasker screamed, “All right, that’s enough of this. Shut it and let’s get on to the next!”

After that day in the yard, the other boys began to act differently around Cego.

Dozer was the first to break the standoff. It was the middle of the night when Cego awoke to the large boy standing over him. Cego stared at him for a moment with bleary eyes before Dozer extended his hand. Cego grasped it and was promptly yanked into the air, dangling like a newborn ferrcat. The large boy deposited him on the floor and put his finger to his lips. The other boys were still sleeping.

He followed Dozer across the room to the wall next to his bunk, where the bulky boy knelt on the floor and shifted a small piece of concrete. He reached his arm about halfway into the opening, grasping and pulling out about a dozen cans of greens. Some were half-eaten, and there were even a few unopened ones.

Dozer smiled at him, nodding and passing him one of the unopened cans. He whispered, “Sometimes, I get hungry.”

Cego returned the smile and padded back to his bed with his early breakfast.

Knees didn’t protest anymore when getting partnered with Cego in the yard. Cego actually caught the scar-faced Venturian carefully watching him explain another technique to Weep. Later, he saw Knees slowly attempting to replicate the technique with another crew member.

Eventually, the other boys began to come directly to Cego for advice on techniques for their upcoming fights.

In the corner of their bunkroom, beyond the view of the old guard, Cego showed Knees and Dozer a simple back take. Grab behind the elbow, drag the arm across the body, and use the momentum to expose the opponent’s back.

To Cego, these things were second nature. He felt it in his muscles—he’d drilled that back take thousands of times. To these boys, though, even the simplest techniques were marvels. They were awed at the efficiency of good movement. The boys had Grievar blood in them, but they certainly weren’t fighters yet.

Ozark eventually caught wind of Cego helping out the crew. Though he made Cego pay for the stand-down in the yard every chance he got, Ozark didn’t intervene with the off-hours training.

Since Cego had arrived, the crew’s overall winning percentage had increased and they’d been moving ahead in the crew rankings, which comprised the wins of all members. Cego could nearly see the bits flashing in Ozark’s eyes as he watched his product appreciate in value.

Weep had even stopped crying at night. Before bed, Cego watched the little boy sitting against the wall, breathing steadily as he’d been taught in the yard. Though he hadn’t won any fights, Weep had won some confidence.

Shiar was the only one who did not accept Cego. The jackal got even worse.

After one of Shiar’s fights, he returned to the bunk and stared Cego down. Shiar had blood on his hands, having just mercilessly pounded his opponent into the ground with glee. He licked the blood from his knuckles while keeping his burning eyes on Cego.

Shiar’s insults toward Weep became more stinging, and he even turned his vehemence toward Dozer. Shiar treated Dozer like an unwanted pet, shooing him away and calling him a mound of useless muscle and a blockheaded dolt, and yet Dozer still followed his lead.

And then Shiar called Dozer lightless.

Before that day, Dozer had brashly repeated he would graduate from the Lyceum and become a Knight. That was his goal, his destiny, his lightpath.

The scales of destiny weren’t balanced for all, though. For some like Dozer, who wasn’t born of pure Grievar blood, who didn’t have the best trainers and equipment at his disposal, that destiny was nearly impossible to reach.

Shiar had made it perfectly clear to the rest of the crew on numerous occasions that he was the only purelight in the bunk, perhaps even at Thaloo’s. Both his mother and father were from a long line of Grievar. They “hadn’t strayed from the light,” as Shiar arrogantly said. Though he’d had the misfortune of getting tossed in this slave Circle, Shiar said it wouldn’t be long before he ended up at his rightful place at the Lyceum.

By contrast, most of the other boys at Thaloo’s were lacklights; they were some impure mixture of breeds. They didn’t have the supposed pure Grievar line that gave them an edge to place at the Lyceum.

After Shiar called him lightless, Dozer fell silent, no longer posturing before his fights and boasting in victory. In fact, the entire bunk was far quieter without the large boy’s constant bravado and thumping around. Though Cego appreciated the newfound silence, he also saw the toll the insult had taken on Dozer.

The large boy sat on his cot with his shoulders slumped. He barely ate, and during training, Dozer went through the grueling tasks with a lifeless monotony.

Dozer’s bit-price began to fall along with his confidence—he’d lost two of his last three fights, one against a top specimen called N’jal. Cego had watched that fight from the sidelines.

N’jal had taken Dozer down from the outset and unleashed a flurry of ground-and-pound for nearly ten minutes as Dozer tried helplessly to cover up. Cego cringed, thinking about how the crew had dragged Dozer out of the Circle, his big body looking like a slab of raw meat.

Afterward, Ozark had given Dozer the bare minimum in meds from stock. Dozer was lying inert in his cot, wrapped head to toe in bandages, when Cego went to his side.

“You did good covering up, but you could’ve gone out the back door.” Cego spoke softly, taking a seat at the edge of Dozer’s cot.

Dozer looked at the light overhead without expression. His face was a craterous landscape, with welts and hematomas covering the surface.

Cego continued, though Dozer stayed silent. “When N’jal postured up to throw down those heavy shots, your hips were under his. You needed to buck, put his head in the dirt, and escape out the back side. You’d risk taking a direct hit in the process, but it was the only way. N’jal was hoping you’d concentrate on defense—he’s made to smash through your forearms, grind you down slowly. You needed to take the risk to escape. You needed to commit,” Cego said.

Dozer’s straw-colored eyes finally met Cego’s. “What’s the point in all this? Learning this stuff? Getting better? I’m not going anywhere. You heard Shiar. I’m a… I’m…” The big boy looked down at his chest as his body shuddered. “It’s not fair. Lacklights like us… It’s not fair that we weren’t born purelights when we want the same thing as them.”

Cego nodded silently, agreeing. He didn’t think any of this was fair. Thaloo imprisoning them, throwing them in the Circle, and having them fight for his own profit.

But Cego did know one thing now. He understood what Thaloo had said to him when he’d first arrived.

You don’t realize that Pappy Thaloo here is helping you.

In some twisted way, Thaloo was helping these kids. Though his motivations were self-serving, Cego knew that there was some truth to them.

He’d felt the spectral light in the Circle, the thrill of the fight. He knew that all Grievar had that connection, that same universal pulse of combat. They all wanted the same thing but would arrive on different paths.

“Taking the back,” Cego suddenly said. Dozer looked at him quizzically.

“Remember the technique I showed you the other day? Taking your opponent’s back.”

Dozer nodded slowly, clearly puzzled at the line of questioning.

“Well. I’ve probably learned about thirty ways to take the back so far. Drag an arm across, spin around from north–south, lure them into a throw. I could keep going and I know there are far more techniques with the same goal of taking the back that I haven’t learned yet,” Cego explained. “Dozer. It’s like us. Every technique is different. Some are better than others, depending on the situation. But each one has the same goal—taking the back. They all end up in the same place, with the same finish.”

Dozer was still nodding slowly, though he didn’t appear to understand where Cego was going.

Cego continued. “We’re all different, Dozer. Lacklights, purelights, bit-rich or poor, Deep folk, Upworlders, Islanders. We’re all coming from different places but are trying to get to the same spot, find the same path, take the back. You just need to find the right technique. You need to find your own path. It doesn’t need to be same path as Shiar’s or mine or anyone else’s. You need to find Dozer’s path.”

“Dozer’s path,” the large boy repeated slowly.

Knees also stepped to Dozer’s side. “All that Cego said be true, plus, we know Shiar be lying through his teeth when he talks of his blood. We pretty much all got Grunt flowing in our veins. You want to know the real difference between purelight and lacklight?”

“What?” Dozer asked.

“Purelights think they know it all, that it be their blood-given right to be on top,” Knees said. “Lacklights like us? We know we got to work for our wins. We be training and learning and bleeding for it, and we won’t stop till we’re under the dry earth.”

A slight smile and then a huge, toothy grin broke across Dozer’s face. He bellowed and slapped Cego on the back, surprising him and nearly knocking him off the cot.

“Hey, Shiar!” Dozer burst out of his bed, bandages and all. “Hear that? I’ll see you at the Lyceum!”