The Beast Ring kiosk looked like a war crime wrapped in chrome. Felicity led the way—shoulders loose, hips swaying like a predator on home turf.
Me?
I followed, pulse thudding steady but high, nerves buried under a layer of Herja's kill-calm. The sign-up area was a glowing obelisk half-fused with the wall—jagged steel, obsidian, and what looked suspiciously like vertebrae spiraling up its spine. A screen pulsed with red-orange glyphs and beast-tag slots. "Place your palm," Felicity said, already pressing hers to the panel. It hissed—scanned—bit her for a blood sample. "Team name?" the glyph AI growled. She smirked and glanced at me. "Any ideas, Coach?" My mouth opened before I thought. "Vein born."
Felicity raised a brow—then nodded, satisfied. "Vein born it is." She entered it. The glyphs shimmered.
TEAM VEINBORN
STATUS: NEWBLOOD
DIVISION: WARMBLOODS
TIER: EXHIBITION MATCH ELIGIBLE
NEXT SLOT: TODAY, 30 MINUTES. PAIR MATCH. OBSERVED.
A second screen lit up with stats and scan overlays. My face. Herja's. Felicity's beast-mode profile. The whole damn file opened up like we were specimens on display. I didn't let it bother me; I was past shame. "Come on," Felicity said. "Warm-up ring's this way." She led me down a corridor that smelled like sweat, oil, and old adrenaline. The walls pulsed faintly, like they were alive. I passed fighters shadowboxing—some in beast-mode, some baseline. A three-eyed centaur slammed its hooves into a shock dummy until sparks flew. A feather-scaled pugilist adjusted her armored knuckles.
We found our warm-up quadrant: Ring 12A.
Not a real arena just a reinforced pit with rubber bones embedded in the walls and floor. drains I tried not to think too hard about. I stretched. Felicity rolled her neck. Limbered up with slow, serpentine grace. Then her voice dropped, low and serious: "The Warmblood exhibition isn't just for show. The clans watch. You don't just win. You impress. Style matters. Control matters. Blood definitely helps."
"Good to know," I said, tightening my jacket, my heartbeat syncing with the Vein's low thrum.
A dissonant bell rang overhead. A gate opened across the pit. Our opponents stepped through—tagged as Team Shatter bite. One was a blunt beast—horned, armored, built like a charging rhino with a low center of gravity and fists like wrecking balls. The other? A sleek insectoid woman—thin blades for forearms and compound eyes that never blinked. Felicity grinned. "Just remember," she whispered as we stepped into the ring. "We're not here to play fair." The bell slammed like a bomb.
All four of us moved. Shatter bite's brute came at me—fast for his size, a living freight train of horn and plated shoulder. I didn't dodge. I angled. His punch whistled past my jaw. I slipped in, crushed a hammer elbow into his ribs. Heard a 'thunk'—like hitting a car door.
Nothing.
He grinned.
Felicity danced with the bug-girl—fast footwork, misdirects, little kicks to the shin and hip. She was testing. Drawing her out. But the insectoid was patient. Deadly. She lunged—arms flashing—those forearm blades sang. Felicity ducked—one blade missed her by a breath; the other clipped a strand of hair. She grinned like a devil. "Oooh. You are sharp." The brute got tired of trading. He roared and tackled me. I sprawled low—let him hit—but rolled with the impact and jammed my tail up under his chin. He staggered.
Herja stirred.
"You could end him now." Not yet, I thought. I spun and drove a knee into his thigh and felt something give.
The brute came for me again. I ducked his hook, swept his leg, and jammed my heel down on his throat. He choked. I twisted his arm until it cracked—then threw him into the wall hard enough to leave a dent. No cheers. Just gasps. The crowd was watching now. I turned. Bug-girl danced away from Felicity—but too slow.
I was already there. She spun—blades flashing in an X. I caught one. With my bare hand. Blood ran down my wrist—but I didn't feel it. I stepped in, shoulder checked her off balance—then kicked her leg out from under her. She fell and I followed her to the ground for a mounted position.
I put her in a triangular arm bar, wrapped it and twisted. She shrieked. Not human. I pressed down—just a little. "Tap," I growled. She didn't. So, I bit. Not hard. Just enough. Pheromones spiked. Her blood ran sweet and chemical on my tongue. She tapped. The bell rang. Felicity helped me up. Her eyes wide. Proud. Hungry.
The crowd didn't cheer. They watched. We weren't crowd favorites. We were problems. The screen flared on the far wall.
EXHIBITION WINNER: TEAM VEIN BORN
STATUS: FLAGGED FOR POTENTIAL CLAN INTEREST
NOTES: OBSERVE FURTHER—HIGH RISK, HIGH POTENTIAL
Felicity licked her split lip. "That'll get their attention." I flexed my bleeding hand. My tail still twitched. Herja purred. "Let's give them something to fear next time." The locker room wasn't for comfort. No towels. No music. Just steel benches, steam vents, and a scent that lived somewhere between adrenaline and antiseptic. I sat with my elbows on my knees, hands still shaking. The cut on my tail hadn't stopped twitching. Felicity leaned against the wall across from me, bandaging a graze across her ribs. She was humming. Happy. Like a wolf after a good kill. "You did good," she said without looking up.
The door hissed open. Two fighters strolled in—Team Krail-Jin, I remembered from the board. Ranked. Not clan-backed, but regulars. Dangerous.
One of them, tall and rail-thin, had stitched-on bone rings around his wrists. His partner? Compact. Muscled. Horns shaved down to the scalp. Both were watching us with amusement. "You new bloods went pretty hard out there," said Bone-Rings, "Not bad." Horn-Head tossed a water flask our way. I caught it. Warily. "You looked more beast than warm blood in there," he said. "A little messy. But fun."
"Fun's not the goal," I said.
"Sure it is," Bone-Rings replied. "To them." He jerked his chin toward a blinking glyph camera embedded in the wall. "Vein's watching. Always is." Felicity didn't flinch. "You here to size us up?" she asked, stretching like a cat. "Or to offer a spar?" Horn-Head grinned. "Just scouting. Matchmakers drop a name after a good debut. Yours is circulating."
I felt it again—that weight in the air. Like something ancient just leaned a little closer. They left without another word. Felicity cracked her neck. "Told you. We made a splash."
I stood. My muscles ached. "We're not just a team," I said quietly. "We're bait." She looked at me then—really looked. No games. No smirk. "We're disruption," she said. "The clans don't want to recruit us."
I frowned. "Then what do they want?" Her smile returned. Dark. Certain. "To stop us."