I leave Oliver with Veric and Rhayne at the little outdoor table beside the convenience shop.
Oliver is recovering. The leaves and the regeneration potion are doing their work, his color climbing back, his breathing slowing. Veric leans against the wall on one side, pretending to clean dirt out from under his fingernails while watching everyone within thirty feet. Rhayne sits next to Oliver, gloved fingers still resting on his pulse without making a show of it.
Good. Whoever moves on us next will move through Veric first.
"I’ll be back in ten minutes," I tell them.
"Where are you going, Sands?" Veric asks without looking up.
"Picking my opponent. You’re in charge while I’m away."
His eyes flick to . Then back to his fingernails.
"Try not to die before lunch."
"Try not to look noble while I’m gone."
I head back toward the central registration stand on the opposite side of the Oathring.
The bookmaker who registered Oliver, Veric and Rhayne is still working the sa post. Sa man—small, hunched, bone-pale beard. The lacquered boxes are stacked in a careful pyramid beside him, and the odds board is being reset by an apprentice with a damp cloth.
He sees coming. His face does that particular small shift that administrators do when their workday just got more complicated.
"Back again."
"Back again." I lean my forearms onto the wood of his stand. Not too close. Just close enough to suggest a conversation without an interrogation. "I’m next on the bracket. I figured I’d co negotiate while my friend recovers."
"Negotiate?" He says the word like it has a taste he isn’t sure of yet.
"Mister Sharma authorized a Rank C opponent. His choice."
"I’m aware. Word travels fast, and he is the boss."
I let a small silence settle. The bookmaker’s hand drifts toward the master ledger out of habit—he’s already ntally going through his roster, deciding who to slot against . I don’t ask him to stop, waiting for the best mont while I follow his finger rolling down the page.
"Tell sothing, friend." I pitch the voice lower and casual. The vocabulary of two professionals comparing notes. "You’ve been working this Oathring for how long?"
"Long enough."
He is hard...
"Long enough to know the fighters by reputation, not just by na."
A small grunt. Halfway between agreent and get to the point.
But I don’t get to the point.
"My team has been hitting hard this morning. Ballerina, Soline Bandit, Bone Crusher. You watched all three. What did you see?"
He blinks. Caught between his professional instinct to say nothing and the small vanity of being asked. The vanity wins, like it always does.
"I saw a dancer that wasn’t a dancer. I saw a noble that wasn’t a real fool. I saw a hamr guy that should have won and lost on purpose." He shrugs one shoulder. "I see a lot of things on this stand. Most of them I keep to myself."
’He is wrong about Oliver, but this is enough.’
"That’s why I’m here, then. I’d rather have a fight with a man who understands what he’s looking at than one with a thug who doesn’t."
I let the flattery breathe a second. Watch his shoulders settle a half-inch.
Now I drop the first hook.
"I’m a lee class. Sword work. Single weapon. Nothing dramatic. I do badly against fighters who can break the rhythm of an exchange... because it breaks the tempo and forces to reset."
He scratches his beard. Starts ntally cross-referencing the roster against what I just said.
"I do well against pure power. Brawlers. The bigger they swing, the more openings they give to step inside."
Two hooks dropped, pointing in opposite directions.
He grunts and starts flipping through the ledger. Pages of fighters under his thumb. I lean forward and tilt my head just enough to glance at the entries without reading them.
"Mister Sharma told your choice," I add, lightly. "But I’m guessing you have... two, three nas in mind?"
"Four."
"Four. Hm." I let the silence hold. I don’t ask him to na them. Asking would tighten his caution.
He nas them anyway. Vanity loosens what direct questions can’t.
"Halligan. The Coil. Master Brun." A small pause. "And Cassio Veil."
The fourth na lands inside like a stone hitting still water.
Cassio Veil.
I keep my face still. No flinch, no widened eye. The hand on the wood of the stand doesn’t tighten.
But I rember the na. A trench veteran I crossed paths with once, briefly, before he died on the front lines a few years from now. Rank B at the ti. A man who fought with absurd precision, who could break the synchrony of any swordsman who relied on rhythm.
The exact profile of the fighter I just told the bookmaker would beat .
The bookmaker is going to choose Veil. He’s looking at the four nas with calm, professional interest. The interest of soone picking dessert off a nu.
I look down at the ledger. Pretend to read. Then exhale, like I’m reluctant.
"That last one. Cassio Veil. Sounds like a problem."
"He’s a problem for most." A small, satisfied note in his voice now. "Decisive against blade work. Hard to read."
"That’s the kind of fight I’d rather not take, if I’m honest with you."
I drop the line flat. No theater, just like ’Don’t pick him. Please don’t pick him.’
The bookmaker’s eyes brighten one half-degree.
"Cassio Veil it is, then."
He closes the ledger.
"Mister Sharma will be pleased."
I let my shoulders fall a quiet half-inch—a small, graceful absorption of a bad outco. I nod once. I thank him for his ti. I push off the stand and start walking back toward Oliver and the others.
Cassio Veil is exactly who I wanted.
He’s the only rank C on this Oathring whose speed is strong enough to threaten .
And knowing him, I also know: He’s going to be the hardest fight of my life inside a Rank D body.
’Good. Easy fights teach nothing.’
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