"Dust rose in the air as punches flew from left to right."
A crowd that had been drawn to the scene out of sheer curiosity was now cheering on the two, bent on fighting to the death."
"I will cut off your cock and feed it to the birds!
The taller one spat out a spittle of saliva mixed with blood on the ground, wiped his mouth, then struck his opponent with a solid punch, enough to knock him off balance but not bring him down.
"You won't walk away from this," he muttered, trying to register another blow into the man's face.
His opponent, a short but masculine man, was quick to regain stability. He clenched his fist and brought it towards his opponent's face. He barely dodged it, his knuckles grazing the cheeks instead of breaking bones.
The miss caused the taller man to lose his balance, and his opponent took advantage, driving a fist into his ribs. Air rushed from his lungs in a sharp grunt as he staggered back.
He swung around blindly in response.
The punch landed, but not deeper, just enough to snap the other man's head towards another direction.
Sweat mixed with blood flowed, and for a moment they both paused, breathing heavily, eyes locked. Each daring the other to make another move.
The tall man lunged again, the shorter man ducked just in time, and the blow sailed over his shoulders.
The crowd went wild. Some spectators recoiled, faces scrunching in open disgust, hands flying to their mouths. Others surged forward, cheering with reckless enthusiasm.
Each exchange left its mark.
A knuckle split skin, drawing a thin line of blood along a cheek.
Dust clung to the wounds, making them sting with every movement.
One punch landed low from the shorter man, not strong enough to break anything, but hard enough to bruise. He hissed through his teeth, rolling his shoulder as pain spread beneath the skin.
The other man wasn't spared either—a cut lip swelling fast and a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth that he wiped away with the back of his hand.
They didn't stop for it. Small wounds didn't matter now. They fought through the scrapes and soreness, through the tightness in their muscles, each new hit adding another ache, another reminder that things were far from finished.
At that moment, Joya burst into the open, her eyes fierce and dark as a brewing storm.
Prator followed close behind, moving in hurried strides, his expression tightening as the reality of the scene struck him.
They had both been in the middle of an altercation in which Joya had barely recovered from the revelation that Prator's wife committed adultery.
Anger hardened Joya's features as she lurched towards them.
"Stop!
She screamed, her voice cutting through the loud chatter coming from the crowd.
Instantly the noise died down, as some of the spectators withdrew fearfully.
But the men fighting didn't listen. More punches flew, and the crowd roared louder, drowning her out as though she were never there.
Her jaws clenched, and without hesitation she marched towards them. A leg lashes out carelessly, and she halts just in time, missing a stray kick by a few inches, dust brushing her dress as it passes.
The taller man drew back his fist for another strike, but she seized his wrist mid-motion. Her arm throbbed with effort as she drove his hand downward, discarding it as if it held no weight at all.
Only then did they turn their attention to her, the taller man eyeing her without an open hint of respect.
"You will stop this nonsense right now and return to your cabins," she said, her gaze sliding from one man to the other.
"And who made you lord over us, huh?" The shorter man shot back, his rough features tight, dry skin slick with sweat.
She lifted her chin, brows furrowed, her stare unyielding.
"Get yourselves together," she said coldly.
"You are men, not a pack of animals."
She retorted without mincing the words. She didn't need to.
"This fool here touched my woman!" The taller man burst out, his voice thick with outrage.
"She's not yours for the taking," the other man snapped back. "She's a slave."
The words came out harsh and ugly, his neck vein standing out as he spoke, anger tightening every muscle in his jaw.
"You fucked her until she could no longer move her legs… I will kill you!
The taller man was about to lurch at his opponent but got a stern gaze from Joya that locked him in place.
The woman they were fighting over stood a short distance away. A fair, red-haired maiden.
Her eyes were clear and striking, a shade that matched her pale skin, and her features were finely set, almost delicate. There was something quietly enchanting about her, made sharper by the fear and confusion written across her face.
"This is about a woman?" Joya arched her brows, then placed her hand firmly on her waist.
"Did I just hear you call her… just a slave?"
Dismay flickered across her face, but she swallowed the urge to let her anger spill out. Restraint had its own power, and she wielded it now.
All this while, Prator stood some distance away, watching her handle the matter in ways he never would have dared.
"Get lost… both of you," she ordered, lowering her gaze. The sight of their faces made her stomach turn.
"You don't give orders around here," the shorter man snapped, still burning with rebellion, devastation coiled in every muscle, ready to explode.
But Joya had seen enough.
"If you know what's good for you…" she began, slowly raising her gaze until it locked on him. "You will watch your tone when speaking to me."
She stepped closer, measuring him up, her presence a silent warning. "And never…never call anyone's woman… just a slave."
"That's what they are," the officer spat, voice dripping with contempt, and Joya struggled to keep her hands at her sides.
"You heard me," she said, low and dangerous. "I won't repeat myself."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving them seething.
The crowd that had gathered began to disperse, murmurs fading as people melted back into their daily lives.
The two officers, still bristling with the urge to snap each other's bones, exchanged one last dangerous glare.
Then, with a tense stiffness in their shoulders, they turned away, each striding in opposite directions.
As Joya walked away, she ignored the look of quiet satisfaction on Prator's face. She brushed past him, teeth chattering from restrained relish.
"You handled that… very well," he said.
She didn't slow. Didn't look back.
"If we're going to work this out," he continued, watching the way she shut him out, "then silence isn't the way to go."
That made her stop.
"They don't even respect me," she said, the sarcasm sharp, her lips curling into a bitter smile as she turned to face him. "You made me your woman. A chieftess."
Her voice lowered. "But to them, I'm no different from the others. They see me the same way they see those women—just a slave."
"If this is about my wife, then—"
He was still speaking when she cut him off.
"No. This is not about her."
Her voice echoed in rebuff.
"If it were, I wouldn't be standing here looking at you."
She turned away slightly, drawing in a breath, steadying herself.
"This is about me. About these people."
Silence followed. Heavy and unyielding.
They stood facing each other for a long moment, chests rising and falling, words pressing to be spoken and held back.
Then she spoke again.
"You want redemption," she said quietly. "But I want freedom."
Her eyes stayed on his, unflinching, as she inched closer.
"If you want to prove you are humane, then let these people go."