It had been a bloody afternoon in the pits beneath the hive-spires. Horana sat on a broken slab of ceramite high above the makeshift arena, her wolfspelt cloak draped over one shoulder, boots muddy with the dust of Cthonia. Around her, the gang roared and wagered, fists raised as two combatants circled below with shivs drawn and breath steaming in the chill.

"A bite to the throat," she muttered, a lho-stick hanging from her lip.

One of the fighters did as she predicted, whether by instinct or fate, and the crowd exploded in violent approval. She exhaled slowly, watching the loser twitch in the dirt.

“He dies well,” she said flatly, as the door behind her creaked and one of her lieutenants stepped in. She didn’t look back. Just flicked the ash from her stick and kept her eyes on the blood below.