Kaya was stupefied—by the stench or the sights, Dorian didn’t know. He grabbed her wrist. “Hold on,” he warned. “And don’t let go.”

“Eh?” was all Kaya got out before he dragged her into the disheveled swamp of a street.

Personal space was a foreign concept here. Bodies scraped and brushed and slithered by other bodies, all unkempt, all soaked in grime. In a minute Dorian had been jostled, shoved, pushed, and bumped into more times than he could count. Every step was a struggle of flesh. In five minutes so much foulness had rubbed off on him that he was halfway to being as dirty as the rest of them. The stink could’ve knocked out a drake. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead, kept planting one foot ahead of the next.

Heads swiveled to them as they passed. Their cleanliness marked them out, but the way they bore themselves drew eyes too. They stood upright. They strode with purpose in a sea of hunched backs. He felt like a cat among rats.

As they went, Dorian heard whistling trailing them. Jeers. Calls. Mostly they came from leering, dirtied men.

Kaya huddled into him. “The hells’ wrong with them?” she hissed, glaring at one offender. She was still dressed in travel garb, light and form-fitting with ample cuts for her skin to breathe. Back in Rust Tribe few had batted an eye, but here… he glanced around. Everyone was fully covered in full-body robes; some even wore masks which which hid all except their eyes. He could hardly tell a man’s body from a woman’s at first glance. Kaya was scandalous by comparison.

“Get us out of here,” she said, looking pale and a little sick. She hunched in, trying in vain to cover herself with her arms. “Fast. Please.”

They stumbled into a fork in the road. There seemed no difference between the two paths. Dorian chose one at random. Another fork and Dorian plunged on ahead. They forged down a street and cut behind two tents. Strange—the walls didn’t seem to be getting any closer as they went. These sorry excuses for streets had no order to them.

Out of the corner of his eye saw Kaya slap a hand away; its owner slinked into the crowd. “I’m sick of this place already,” she bit. They plowed on, emerging at a plaza teeming with slumped-over stands, rotted carts and the ever-present press of filthy bodies.

Then there was a slapping sound. Behind him, Kaya yelped. Dorian nearly lost hold of her as she whirled around.

“Bastard!” she snarled, glaring at a fat man with a scraggly bush of a beard. He faded into the crowd, jeering. Her face was bright-red; one hand clutched her rear. To the side, a huddle of men erupted in laughter. Dorian frowned. It prickled him that such miserable wretches had the nerve to touch what was his, but now was no time to pick a fight.

“That’s it!” cried Kaya. She sprang up. Dorian started.

“Wait!” he said.

But there was no stopping her. She ran after the man, muscling her way across the road, elbowing past passersby. Sighing, he followed.

They were most of the way across the street when she yelled out. “You!” a fuming, low bellow. The man jerked up in surprise. Then he saw her and grinned slickly.

“Yes?” He said in a thick, heady accent. A slug of a tongue squelched across his lips. Now that Dorian got a better look at him, he seemed different from all the rest—there was a bravado in the man’s face. His shoulders were set back, careless. On his cloak was the same symbol that Dorian had seen marking some of the tents: two long teeth, like a rat’s, criss-crossing.

“You know what you did,” she snarled.

“I don't know shit.” The man said. He gave her a slow once-over, lips curling. “What is it, whore? Come to ply your trade?”

Kaya lunged. He stepped out of the way, laughing, and grabbed her arm out of the air. For a moment they engaged in a contest of strength; then Dorian saw Kaya’s eyes widen, in her face as her arm started to fail her. The veins stood out on the man’s biceps as he bent her wrist; she cried out, forced to her knees. The man’s hand closed around her throat. Her face was a shock of horror as he leaned over her, grinning nastily.

Annoyance spiked through Dorian. The nerve!

The man leapt back as a Yama’s Chain lashed the air where he’d stood. He grunted, eyes narrowed, and fixed his gaze on Dorian. He hesitated for a second. Snarling, he faded into a narrow alley between two rows of tents.

“Are you alright?” said Dorian, frowning. Kaya shook. She blinked tears from her eyes as she stared at her reddening hand; her breaths came in fast and shuddering. She sniffed hard. “That—that fucking—AHH!”

She leapt up and pounced after the man before Dorian could get another word out. Drat. Dorian hurried after her yet again, a dull pulsing rising between his brows.

They poured into the alley; a beat later, Kaya ground to a halt in front of him.

The bearded man had come to a stop. Behind him, looking up in bewilderment, were a crew of bedraggled men sitting around on crates, half-finished bottles of ale sunk into the sand at their sides. All wore cloaks emblazoned with that cross-toothed mark. Coins lay scattered on the ground; each of them held a hand of cards. They’d been in the middle of a drinking game. A few hands slid to the ground as they took in the newcomers. Then, as one, their eyes fastened on Kaya.

“Come back here!” she yelled, fists clenched tight. She wiped furious tears from her eyes. “I’ll tear off your gods-damned hand!”

Fuck’s sake. Dorian rubbed his brow. Now his head throbbed in earnest.

“Who’s this?” hissed a thin, scarred man. Half his ear had been lopped off; the other ear bulged with tumors.

“Some slut I saw wandering the market,” sneered the bearded man. “Gave her a tap on the ass, as you do.” He croaked a laugh. “Seems she's come bounding for more.”

“A Tribes-girl? With tits like that?” A big oaf at the back laughed as he rose to his feet with slow menace. “Brother Longfoot, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’ve only just eaten, you sly wyrm!” leered a one-eyed dwarf. “How’d you know I was craving dessert?”

A chorus of gross laughter. The throbbing grew to a pounding.

Kaya gritted her teeth. Her face flamed bright-red. Then the auras flared out—nine of them, all solidly in the Vigor Realm.

“Here’s a lesson, girl, free of charge,” drawled the bearded man. “You’re not on the Outside anymore. You dress like that around here, no mark, walking around all proud-like—why, you’re begging for it. I’ve seen harlots in looser fits!”

He ran that slug-tongue over his lips a second time, his dull eyes narrowing. “You’re not on the Outside,” he repeated. “Here, no one cares to save you.”

Behind them, two more cloaks sealed the exit.

“What about the boy?” piped a voice.

“The boy?” the bearded man looked up and took in Dorian again. He cocked his head, his eyes intense and gloating; the look made Dorian’s skin crawl. “He’s a right pretty one too, isn’t he? Brother Threetails can have him first.” His eyes trailed down, resting on Dorian’s neck, his chest, his stomach, then dipping lower. “Fiesty, though. Leave him with all his parts when you’re done. I want him for a round. I never tasted Tribes-boy before…”

This was a breed of daring Dorian seldom encountered. Here, in broad daylight, just a turn off the main street? There really weren’t any laws out here, were they? If he had to guess, gangs ruled these parts. They all bore the same mark. They were the law, and there was no-one there to check them. They all seemed drunk on it.

It was high time he put an end to this charade. There was no room for diplomacy here. This would end only one way.

“I’m flattered!” sighed Dorian. He treated them to a gaze laced with contempt. “But I’ll have to decline. Unwashed mutts don’t do it for me.”

A pause.

“Strike that,” snarled the bearded man. “Leave him all his parts, save for that tongue. Cut it out for me good, will you, Threetails?”

“Aye,” grunted the dwarf. As one, the men shuffled toward them.

It seemed it was time for this run’s first chain-problem. Dorian hoped he wouldn’t run into one for at least another year. He rolled his eyes. He’d need to make this quick and convincing.

The trouble with killing grunts was never, of course, the grunts themselves. It was the higher-ups. And their higher-ups, and the higher-ups past them. Kill a son and his father comes running.

The difficulty was in covering his tracks. Removing eyewitnesses. Hiding the bodies. How many had seen the bearded man slap Kaya out there? How many saw her bounding after him? They’d caused quite a commotion. It was impossible to single out who’d seen them in all that roiling mass. His head throbbed mightily. Next time he went anywhere, he decided, he’d stuff Kaya in a sack and carry her around.

To hells with it. It was too late for regrets now. There was blood to spill. As the men closed in from all sides in a ring of lusty smiles, Dorian let loose his aura. Savage fervor smoldered in his chest.

The dwarf was first; he ran up with a throaty battle-cry. A Yama’s chain ripped through the air like a whip. It caught him hard across the chest. For a moment Dorian saw the man’s eyes bulge from the impact. Then he was flung into the air, smashed against the wall with a loud thud, and flopped to the floor. He didn’t get up. Funny thing—his headache had eased up. In its place was an old friend: a quiet, visceral bloodlust.

A short, tense silence. “You’ll rue that blow, boy,” growled the bearded man. He advanced, hands lighting with ruby qi.

Then the Chains unfurled in all their glory. One by one, each extruding from his hands, his chest, his back in smoke-shadow tendrils, a forest of snaking ink-black vines. As he neared the peak of Vigor, his qi grew ever-more potent. The shadows spread out, widening, lengthening, until they blotted out the sky above. In the same instant the full force of Dorian’s bloodline flexed out, flattening every other aura there. Oh, this’ll feel good.

Blood drained from the bearded man’s face; he staggered back, gaping. Dorian saw fear in those beady eyes. “What in the nine hells is that?!” The smiles were wiped off the rest of their faces in an instant. A few leapt back to a battle-crouch, blinking fast. Dorian smiled viciously, his blood singing in his veins.

He stepped in front of Kaya, shielding her with his body. “How dare you touch what's mine?” he breathed. The Chains rose.

“Wait!”

The voice flew high over their heads, shrill and strong. A greasy-haired teen barged in from behind Dorian, shoving aside the grunts blockading the exit.

“Wait!” he cried. “Don’t hurt them!” It took Dorian a beat to realize the words were meant for the gang. He blinked, still hopped up on fighting spirit.

“Tch!” The bearded man stilled, gulping. “What, Pebble? Can’t you see the men are busy?”

“You’re not to touch them,” gasped Pebble. He held up a stone; on it was an emblem—the same crossed teeth which adorned all their clothes, but this was gold, not black. “On orders of the Rat-King!”

The bearded man squinted up at it; the ones behind them rustled nervously. That caught all their attentions. “What’s the King want with these dolls?” stammered one of them.

“They’re Tournament competitors. The King’s promised them sanctuary,” said the Pebble, head held high. An awkward pause as they looked to one another, unsure of themselves.

Pebble squinted at the Longfoot and his lackeys, tapping his foot. “Well? We’re done here, yea? Get on, then!”

A few grumbles floated over from the gang. But they did as told; one by one they stalked slowly away. Longfoot glared, spat at the ground, and stomped after his men.

Beaming, Pebble marched toward them and bowed so deep his hair nearly brushed the floor. He did it awkwardly, as though it was the first time he’d bowed in all his life. “Pebble of the Mischief, at your service, good sirs! I’m to guide you to the competitors’ living quarters.”

“I… see.” Dorian’s heart-rate was slowly settling back down. He dissolved a few Chains into shadow. It was over, just like that? A part of him was almost disappointed.

Pebble shot them a big smile, turned, and started to stride purposefully away. “This way!”

Dorian glanced around, bemused, then shrugged. What else was there to do? He followed. A step later he noticed Kaya wasn’t with him; she was rooted to the ground, still breathing in hitched and fast. “Sis?”

“Huh?” She yelped, swerving around. Her face was still deeply flushed. She looked out of it. “Ah!” she cried, and stumbled after him.