Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 164

Elara’s POV

"They always do."

The smugness in his voice made my stomach clench. I swallowed the taste of bile and kept my tone flat.

"I have questions first."

"Of course you do." I could hear the smile in his words. A chair creaked on his end. He was settling in. Getting comfortable. "Ask away, sweetheart."

"Don’t call me that." The words came out sharper than I intended. I didn’t correct them. "How dangerous is it? The fighting. I want the truth."

A pause. When he spoke again, the playfulness had dimmed—just slightly. Like someone turning down a lamp.

"Broken bones happen. Concussions. Dislocated shoulders. Torn ligaments. Cracked ribs. Occasionally someone loses a tooth." He listed injuries the way a baker might list ingredients. Matter-of-fact. Routine. "But we’re not animals, Ela. There are rules. Three rounds. Timed. A referee who calls the fight if someone can’t defend themselves. We keep a physician on site—a real one, not some back-alley herbalist. And every fighter gets basic medical coverage through the house."

"Medical coverage."

"Potions, bandages, bone-setting. Covered. Comes out of the house’s cut, not yours."

I pressed the communication stone harder against my palm. "And the pay?"

"Depends on the fight. But the minimum purse for showing up and bleeding? Three thousand gold. Win? Five thousand. Climb the ranks, draw a crowd, and those numbers go up. Significantly."

Three thousand. Just for showing up. That was more than months of my usual wages.

"I want to see it," I said. "Before I agree to anything."

"Smart girl." The smile was back. "Tomorrow night at nine. Come to the industrial district—the old warehouse row past the canal bridge. Look for a blue door. My man Tommy will be outside. Give him your name and tell him you’re my guest."

I almost corrected him again. Almost said don’t call me girl. But I was too tired. The words dissolved before they reached my tongue.

"Fine."

"See you tomorrow, Ela."

The stone went dead. I set it down on the mattress and stared at the wall.

---

The message arrived just past dawn.

I was at a dispatch station in the slums, picking up a delivery notice I’d been expecting from the dry goods vendor. The clerk behind the counter—a thin man with ink-stained fingers—held up a sealed parchment along with my receipt.

"This came through the landlord’s registered imprint. Flagged urgent."

I took it. Broke the seal.

The handwriting was precise. Impersonal.

Eleven hours until eviction. I hope you’re already packed. — Mr. Petersen.

Eleven hours.

I read the words twice. Then I folded the parchment carefully along its creases, tucked it into my coat pocket, and walked out of the station without looking back.

The morning air was damp and cold. It smelled like rust and canal water and rotting wood. People moved past me in both directions—workers heading to the factories, women carrying baskets of bread, children darting between legs like small brown birds. None of them looked at me. None of them knew that in eleven hours, I would have no door to close behind me.

I walked.

The hours passed in a gray blur. I returned to the apartment once to gather my things. There wasn’t much. A change of clothes. My personal stone. A pouch with a few remaining gold coins. The card, tucked into my inner pocket like a talisman.

I left the key on the counter. Didn’t look back at the room.

---

The industrial district smelled different from the rest of the city. Heavier. Iron and smoke and something chemical that burned the back of my throat.

The canal bridge was slippery with moss. Beyond it, the warehouse row stretched into shadow—long, squat buildings with rusted metal doors and narrow windows set too high to see through. Most of them were dark. A few leaked thin strips of amber light from beneath their doors.

The blue door was impossible to miss.

It was painted the color of a winter sky—deep, vivid, almost luminous against the grime of the surrounding brick. A single enchantment lamp hung above it, casting a pale circle of light onto the wet cobblestones below.

And beneath that light stood the largest man I had ever seen.

He was a wall of flesh and muscle. Arms like tree trunks, crossed over a barrel chest. His head was shaved clean, and a jagged scar ran from his left ear to the corner of his jaw. His eyes tracked me the moment I stepped into the light.

I stopped. My heart was hammering against my ribs. Every instinct told me to turn around.

"I’m here to see Zane," I said. My voice didn’t waver. I was proud of that. "My name is Ela. He said I’d be on the list."

The giant stared at me for a long moment. Then he uncrossed his arms, and when he spoke, his voice was so soft it startled me. Like velvet draped over gravel.

"Yeah. He mentioned you." He stepped aside. One massive hand reached behind him and pushed the blue door open. "Go on in, miss. Straight down the stairs. Watch your step—it’s steep."

"Thank you."

He nodded. Almost gently.

I walked through.

---

The staircase plunged into heat and noise.

It hit me like a physical force—the roar of voices, the pounding of drums, the bass thrum of some enchanted instrument that I felt in my teeth before I heard it with my ears. The air was thick with sweat and smoke and the sharp, metallic scent of blood.

The stairs opened into a cavernous underground space. The ceiling was low and vaulted, held up by iron pillars wrapped in stained cloth. Hundreds of people packed the perimeter—standing on benches, leaning over railings, pressing against a rope barrier that separated the crowd from a raised stone platform in the center.

The pit.

It was maybe twenty paces across, circular, lit from above by harsh white enchantment lamps that bleached everything beneath them. The stone floor was stained dark. Not evenly. In patches. In streaks.

Two women stood in the pit.

The first was enormous. Broad-shouldered, thick-armed, with a mane of tangled golden hair pulled back from a face already swelling with bruises. She moved with the heavy, deliberate grace of someone accustomed to absorbing punishment.

The second was smaller. Leaner. Faster. She circled the blonde like water circling a stone—fluid, patient, waiting. Blood ran from a cut above her eyebrow and dripped steadily off her chin. She didn’t wipe it away.

A bell clanged. The crowd surged forward with a collective roar.

The blonde lunged. The smaller woman slipped sideways, drove a fist into exposed ribs, and danced back before the counterstrike could land. The blonde staggered. Recovered. Charged again.

"Impressive, isn’t it?"

Zane materialized beside me like smoke. I hadn’t heard him approach. He was dressed in dark clothing, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His expression was relaxed. Entertained. Like a man watching horses race.

"The blonde," he said, leaning close enough that I could hear him over the crowd. "She’s been fighting for a year. Solid. Dependable. But slow." He nodded toward the smaller woman. "That one’s been here four months. Faster hands. Better instincts."

The bell clanged again. End of a round. Both women retreated to their corners. Handlers rushed in—one pressing a cloth to the blonde’s swollen eye, the other pouring water over the smaller woman’s head.

"Three minutes a round," Zane said. "One minute rest between. Three rounds total, unless someone goes down early."

The rest period ended. The bell rang.

They collided in the center of the pit. The blonde threw a wild hook. The smaller woman ducked under it, came up inside her guard, and drove two rapid punches into her midsection. The blonde doubled over.

I flinched. The crack of fist against flesh was audible even over the crowd.

"The one losing right now," Zane continued, his voice utterly casual, "she walks out of here tonight with three thousand gold. Just for showing up and bleeding."

Three thousand gold. For bleeding.

"And the winner?"

"Five thousand."

The final round was vicious. Brief. The smaller woman feinted left, planted her back foot, and launched herself into a spinning kick that connected with the blonde’s temple. The sound was sharp and wet—like a hammer striking ripe fruit. The blonde’s eyes went blank. Her legs folded. She hit the stone floor and didn’t move.

The crowd erupted.

The referee rushed in. Checked the fallen woman’s pulse. Held up the smaller fighter’s arm. The victor stood there, swaying slightly, blood still running down her face, and raised one fist toward the ceiling. The noise was deafening.

"See her?" Zane said. He wasn’t looking at the pit anymore. He was looking at me. "Half a year ago, she was sleeping in a carriage. No roof. No food. No prospects." He let that settle. "Now she’s got an apartment. Savings. Enough put away to cover academy tuition when she’s ready to stop."

I watched the smaller woman climb out of the pit. Someone draped a blanket over her shoulders. The physician was already there, pressing a glowing salve to the cut above her eye.

My hands were trembling. I clenched them at my sides.

The pit was being cleaned. Someone was mopping blood from the stone. The blonde was sitting up now, dazed, being helped to her feet by two handlers. She was alive. Battered. But alive.

Eleven hours. No—less now. The clock had been running since dawn.

I had a few gold coins in my pocket. No apartment. No job lined up. No one to call who wouldn’t be burdened by my presence.

Pushing past the bone-deep exhaustion of my constant running and swallowing down my lingering terror of the brutal violence, I looked at Zane. His dark eyes were steady. Patient. He already knew what I was going to say. He’d known since the moment I walked through that blue door.

"I’m in," I said, my voice not trembling at all. "I’ll do it."