Dawn came unevenly over London. The sun clawed through high clouds in thin shafts, gilding rooftops, puddles, and the slick streets below. Smoke rose from chimneys, twisted, then disappeared into the pale gold light. The city exhaled, waking with a soft murmur that felt fragile, but alive.
Prince ran. Barely a shadow against the streets, hood pulled low. His boots struck pavement in a dry, hollow rhythm, splashing puddles into tiny bursts of light. Every corner he turned, every alleyway he passed, carried memory: the first time he had stumbled on these streets, bleeding from a scrape on his knee, fists raw, heart wild; the first time he had imagined being more than a boy with broken gloves; the first time he had dared to fight a man bigger than himself and survived.
The streets smelled of wet asphalt, diesel, and something rotten. Trash floated in streams of water along the gutters. Neon from the shops lingering overnight reflected, fractured, broken. In each puddle, Prince glimpsed himself: small, powerful, unbroken.
He paused at a narrow underpass. A train groaned above, metal screeching against metal. Shadows moved along the brick walls. Rats darted from corners. He slowed, letting every sense stretch, listening to the rhythm of the city: the drip of water, the hiss of tires, the faint hum of human life that pulsed in every building.
Somewhere in the distance, the river gurgled under bridges, carrying secrets downstream. Prince's chest rose and fell in sync with its pulse. Memories surfaced: his first defeat, his first triumph, the hands of his mother pressing against his cheeks, the silent weight of his father's gaze. The past was always there, a shadow lingering just beneath his ribs.
Footsteps. Too soft for an ordinary pedestrian, deliberate. He froze, muscles taut, eyes scanning. A figure detached from the shadows, moving with the confidence of someone who knew these streets intimately.
Musa.
Prince didn't need words. He felt the tension, the past years compressed into the space between them. The brother he hadn't seen since leaving home, the one who had stayed behind, the one who carried resentment like a weapon. Musa's eyes glimmered in the morning light: sharp, calculating, wild.
No greeting. No acknowledgment. Only presence. And with presence came unspoken challenge, a reminder of everything Prince had left behind and everything he had fought to become.
They moved together in silence for blocks. The city around them hummed and breathed. Steam curled from manholes, drifting across the street like specters. Rain from the night before still pooled in every low spot, creating mirrors in which the two brothers' reflections swam and fractured.
They stopped on a bridge overlooking the Thames. The water churned below, steel-gray and alive. Prince rested his forearms on the railing, breathing hard, not from exertion but from anticipation. Musa leaned against the opposite railing, shoulders relaxed, but eyes like twin blades.
The river carried stories. Prince imagined them every drop a memory, every current a decision. He thought of home, distant and unchangeable. The silence between them spoke more than words ever could.
Then Musa spoke, voice low, deliberate.
"Ruiz is coming."
Not as a question. Not as a warning. But as fact. A predator stepping into the same world, ready to hunt.
Prince felt it, too. Ruiz was no longer a distant challenge. He was approaching, real and inevitable, and with him came the weight of expectation, the press, the crowd, the belts, the promise, the pain. Every eye would be on Prince, measuring him, dissecting him, trying to break him before the bell even rang.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of the river, wet stone, and exhaust. Prince clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under his fingers. He imagined the ring: bright lights, the roar of the crowd, sweat and blood mixing on the canvas, his body moving with precision, instinct, and fury.
Musa didn't flinch. He had never flinched. Never begged for forgiveness. Never asked for permission. He was history incarnate, a shadow Prince couldn't outrun.
Prince stepped back from the railing. The river's reflection fractured under him, and he saw not one, but two images of himself: the boy he had been, and the man he had become. Both necessary. Both dangerous. Both alive.
They moved again, silent, down the street. Shops opened slowly. The hum of early business rose. The city was waking, indifferent to the dramas of two brothers, two fighters, two shadows intersecting on wet pavement.
A flash of movement ahead three men loitering near a corner. Too casual. Too deliberate. Eyes glinting. One lifted a phone, probably recording, probably scouting. Prince slowed, gut tightening.
They were Ruiz's scouts.
Not a threat yet. But a reminder. A test.
Prince didn't hesitate. He kept his path, weaving slightly, blending into the morning crowd. Musa fell in beside him, steps silent, breathing even.
The city felt like a living organism around them: glass windows catching light, steam rising from drains, the distant wail of a siren, the faint smell of burnt toast from a café just opening. Every sense was alive. Every shadow a potential story. Every sound a possible warning.
They reached a narrow stairwell leading underground. Subway access. Dark, unlit, smelling of damp and decades-old grime. Prince descended, boots echoing on concrete, Musa beside him, silent, the gap between them filled with unspoken words.
Below, the tunnel stretched, curving into darkness. Train tracks glinted faintly, carrying their own rhythm of anticipation. The smell of oil and wet stone was thick, almost tangible.
Prince stopped. Musa stopped. They faced each other in the half-light.
No words came. Only the city above, oblivious, alive.
Prince's chest heaved. Not from fear, but from readiness. Adrenaline pulsed like fire through his veins. He imagined the fight ahead: Ruiz's hook, his own counter, the bell, the canvas, the crowd, the blood, the sweat, the glory. He imagined Musa watching, always watching, evaluating, waiting to see if his brother was still the boy who had left home too early, or if he had truly become the Sovereign.
A distant rumble reverberated through the tunnel. Not a train. Not yet. Just the city reminding him that time moved, unstoppable, relentless.
Prince raised his gloves, slowly, testing the air, the weight of his body, the mechanics in his arms. Musa mirrored him. Not exactly, but close enough to remind him of the bond they shared, strained and stretched across continents and years.
For a moment, the tunnel seemed like a ring. Concrete walls for ropes. Flickering fluorescent lights for spotlights. Every sound amplified: water dripping, boots scraping, breath exhaling, fists flexing.
Prince felt it. The world contracted. Everything extraneous fell away. The rain, the neon, the city, the ghosts, the pressure they existed, but only as context.
In the tunnel, there was only him, only Musa, only readiness.
Then a train came, distant, lights blinking far ahead. Its roar rolled through the tunnel, shaking the walls. Prince's fists flexed. His chest rose and fell.
The storm outside had passed, but inside him, a storm brewed.
This was the night before the fight, the calm before chaos. The day before destiny. The moment before fire met fire.
And he was ready.
Because the Sovereign did not wait for the storm to end. He became the storm.
Prince raised his gaze to the flickering lights ahead. The city waited. The river moved. Shadows shifted. And somewhere, beyond the fog and wet streets, Ruiz was coming.
Prince tightened his gloves.
Musa gave a subtle nod. No words. No promises. Only acknowledgment.
And together, the two brothers moved forward into the heart of the city, into the hunt, into the fight that would decide everything.
The canvas, the ring, the crowd, the belts they were waiting. But first, the streets had to witness the making of a king.
And London, silent, cold, and unrelenting, watched them both