Zari in Gollan
The air in the Gollan fighting pits was a chaotic mix of sweat, blood, and coin. Zari leaned against the splintered railing overlooking the arena, her practiced smirk drawing the attention of passersby as easily as a flame draws moths. She had been a fixture here for months now, always in her signature dress that flowed with elegance but hid far more than met the eye. Beneath its fabric were layers of lightweight armor and hidden pouches for her daggers, lockpicks, and other tools of her trade.
Tonight, the crowd buzzed with excitement. Drak, the surly warrior who’d been clawing his way up the ranks, was set to face a veteran brawler. Zari had watched his transformation from a raw, reckless fighter to a calculating, efficient contender. He still bore scars from those early days, some of which Zari had seen patched up by that cleric—what was his name again? Magnus? No, that was the other guy who looked like him. No matter.
Zari had studied Drak the way she studied all the regulars. He was powerful, yes, but he had his tells. The way his jaw tightened when someone struck a nerve. The subtle shift in his stance before a risky move. She admired his grit, though she wouldn’t bet on him tonight. The other fighter had a mean hook and a temper Zari could already see being baited by the crowd.
“Zari!” a voice barked from behind. It was Grint, the pit’s self-appointed enforcer. He towered over most patrons and had arms like tree trunks. But even Grint, with his no-nonsense demeanor, had a begrudging fondness for Zari.
“Grint,” she purred without looking his way, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Just making sure you’re behaving. Word is you’ve got sticky fingers elsewhere.”
Zari turned, her smile sharp. “If I had sticky fingers, your purse would be lighter by now.”
Grint snorted but didn’t press the matter. She was clean here, and they both knew it. The pits weren’t a place to make enemies lightly, and Zari respected that—at least outwardly.
As the match began, Zari’s eyes flicked between the fighters and the crowd. She knew who bet big and who could be coaxed into betting bigger. She knew who would notice if a coin purse went missing and who wouldn’t. Not that she’d risk it tonight. The pits had been good to her—better than other places where her charm and sleight of hand had earned her quick exits.
The fight played out as she expected. Drak’s opponent swung wildly, fueled by the crowd’s jeers. Drak, patient and methodical, waited for an opening. When it came, it was brutal—a series of blows that left the veteran crumpled on the dirt floor.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, but Zari barely heard it. Her eyes were on Drak, watching as he raised his fists in triumph. He had improved. Enough to be dangerous. Enough to be useful.
She turned away, slipping into the shadows as the betting tables paid out winnings. Zari had been patient, blending into the background, gaining trust, and learning everything she could about this place. Soon, it would be time to act.
For now, she disappeared into the night.
