Victor shoved the crate of poisoned bottles toward the door, letting the wood scrape against the stone floor. The sound echoed too loud in the silence, and Anya flinched.
"Easy," he muttered. "You want them to hear?"
Her fingers twitched toward the dagger strapped to her thigh. "Plan still hinges on Grisha's men being stupid enough to grab this crate first."
Victor smirked. "They're not exactly scholars." He jerked his chin toward her pouch of poison remnants. "That's your part, make sure the ones who don't drink from barrels still get theirs."
Anya rolled her shoulders. "So let me recap, you waltz in, play pit fighter, hope they crack open the cursed ale, and meanwhile I sneak around poisoning randoms like some tavern wench with a grudge."
"That's the gist."
She scoffed. "And if they check the seals? If someone notices me? If Grisha decides to knife you mid-fight?"
Victor gripped her shoulder, fingers tightening just enough to make her stiffen. "Then you improvise."
Anya tore free, rubbing her arm. "This plan's got more holes than Grisha's last whore."
"When did you get that vulgar?" Victor tapped his temple. "And beside it will be fine, trust your instinct. Right now, mine says Grisha's men are thirsty, arrogant, and lazy." He tossed her the remaining poison pouch. "All you have to do is drop this in a few cups while they're distracted watching me bleed."
Anya caught it midair, her nose wrinkling at the rancid stench. "And when people start puking?"
"That's our cue." Victor unsheathed his dagger, tested the edge against his thumb. "Chaos is a better weapon than steel."
She chewed her lip, gaze flicking to the unconscious guards strewn across the floor. "And if Marta's there?"
Victor's grin was all teeth. "Even better."
Anya exhaled sharply but shoved the poison into her sleeve, adjusting her jerkin to hide the bulge. "Fine. But if this goes to shit, I'm not dying for you."
"Wouldn't expect you to." Victor cracked his neck. "Ready?"
She gave a stiff nod.
The corridor stank of sweat and spilled ale, torches flickering in iron sconces as Anya led Victor toward the underground entrance. Two hulking guards barred the way, one fresh-faced, the other with a nose twisted like a broken dagger. His glare locked onto Victor, fingers twitching toward his sword hilt.
Anya tilted her head toward the scarred guard. "That your handiwork?"
Victor smirked without answering, brushing past them. The broken-nosed guard spat at his boots, but didn't dare stop him.
Inside, the main chamber pulsed with raucous cheers and the metallic tang of blood. A sunken pit dominated the center, barred off by rusted iron grates. Somewhere in the shadows, a lute screeched off-key, probably the closest thing to a nightclub these alley rats could manage. Victor scanned the room. Grisha's men clustered near barrels of ale, already deep in their cups.
He turned to Anya, voice low. "Grisha's office first. You wait until they crack a barrel, then start dosing the stragglers."
She wrinkled her nose. "And when they start clutching their guts?"
"Count to three hundred," Victor said. "Slower if they're halfway sober."
Anya scoffed. "You're betting a lot on them being drunks."
Victor shot her a vicious grin. "And you're betting on me winning my bet. So keep up."
Without waiting for her retort, he strode toward the back, where a reinforced door marked Grisha's domain.
Victor shoved the door open without knocking. The oak panel slammed against the wall hard enough to make the lanterns sway, casting erratic shadows across Grisha's pinched face. The gang boss sat hunched over a scarred counting table, thick fingers flicking silver coins into stacks. He didn't look up.
"Hoped you wouldn't show," Grisha muttered, nudging a crooked stack with his pinky. "Would've saved me the trouble." His knuckles bulged around the next coin.
Victor leaned against the doorframe, tracking the number of blades within the gangster's reach. "Disappointing people's a bad habit of mine."
Grisha finally lifted his head. His left eyelid drooped from an old scar, giving him the look of a man permanently unimpressed. "You screwed up big. That noble bitch Selene? She ain't paying. Now my wife's nagging me about lost contracts." He spat toward the spittoon, missing by inches. "A year in the pit. Then we're square."
Victor's fingers twitched. He could vault the table now, drive the old man's skull into the coin piles. But the two hulking brutes outside would put three crossbow bolts in his back before he reached the stairs.
"A year seems steep for one failed job."
"Should've died cleaner." Grisha flicked another coin. "No witnesses, no debts. You look like a ghost anyway, might as well earn your keep haunting my pits."
Victor exhaled through his nose. The rage simmered, but not stupidly. He forced his shoulders to slump, just a beaten man accepting his dues. "When do I start?"
Grisha's chuckle sounded like gravel rattling in a tin cup. "Now's good. Though..." He swept a hand toward the door, grinning yellow. "Don't expect a funeral if you die."
Victor turned before the old man could see his smile. The moment the door shut behind him, he rolled his neck and stretched his arms. Overhead, the muffled roar of the pits shook dust from the ceiling beams. Sooner the ale hits their guts, the better.
The guards outside sneered as he passed. The bigger one, some slab of muscle with a nose flattened like bad dough, stepped into his path.
"No weapons in the pit, pretty boy." He held out a meaty palm.
Victor pulled the dagger from his belt and slapped it into his hand. "Hope your boss pays you extra for licking his boots."
A fist grabbed his collar, hauled him close enough to smell stale beer and garlic. "You're gonna scream before…"
"Get him in the fucking cage!" someone bellowed from the pit entrance. The guard shoved Victor forward hard enough to stumble, but he caught himself on the iron railing overlooking the arena. Below, a broad-shouldered brute stood over a twitching body, blood dripping from his knuckles. The crowd screamed for more.
Anya was already moving along the edges, a clay cup in each hand as she wove between Grisha's distracted crew. Victor caught her eye, jerked his chin, hurry the fuck up, before the barker behind him shoved a fistful of straw into his hands.
"Press it to the bleeding," the man barked. "Makes cleanup easier."
Victor tossed it over his shoulder and jumped down into the pit.
Victor's boots thudded against the packed dirt of the pit as he landed. The arena sprawled out around him, grime-streaked stone walls, rusted iron grates blocking off unseen tunnels, and the stink of old blood soaked deep into the ground. Second time here, yet he'd never bothered to learn its layout before. Should've paid attention. Not that it mattered now.
Opposite him, some hulk with arms thick as oak trunks spat a glob of red into the dirt. The crowd above roared, voices blending into a wordless snarl of anticipation. Victor rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a twist. The air here was thick, sweat, piss, burnt oil from the torches in their iron brackets.
He shrugged off Harroway's fine coat, letting it drop to the ground. The once-noble fabric was too stained now to matter. Shirtless, arms wrapped in ragged strips of cloth, he flexed his fingers. "Looking at the company, I hope you'll keep me entertained, I have time to kill."