KNEEL BEFORE THE HIDDEN HEIR

BloodMatch Contract

The armored convoy tore through the rain, crossing the provincial border into Valenreach at over a hundred miles per hour.

Inside the cabin, Caleb stared at the surveillance photograph on the tablet screen.

The woman in the black ballistic armor had the same jawline, the same narrow eyes, and the same slight tilt of the head as the little girl who used to tug on his sleeve fifteen years ago. But her stance was cold, predatory, and lethal.

"She has no recollection of her past," Marcus reported, his voice low against the hum of the engine. "Our intelligence indicates the Blackwood Syndicate subjected her to chemical neural wipes every six months. In their ranks, she is known only as Commander Viper—the undefeated enforcer of the northern underground."

Caleb closed the tablet. His fingers tightened until the plastic casing creaked.

"Lord Blackwood didn't take Helena Sterling to extort money," Caleb said, his voice flat. "He took her to force me into the arena against my own sister."

"It is a blood arena, Lord Vance," Marcus warned. "The rules of the Dragon Gate are absolute. Only one fighter walks out of the cage alive. If you refuse to kill her, she will execute you. If you kill her, you destroy the only blood relative you have left."

Caleb looked out the rain-streaked window as the jagged silhouette of Mount Valen emerged through the storm clouds. Built directly into the mountain's granite face was the Dragon Gate Arena—a brutal, windowless fortress that operated outside civil law.

"Prepare the medical unit with Dr. Chen," Caleb ordered. "Have the soul-soothing acupuncture kit on standby. Tonight, the Blackwood Syndicate dies, and my sister comes home."

Ten minutes later, the convoy pulled up to the reinforced steel gates of the arena.

Dozens of armed men in leather tactical vests and submachine guns blocked the driveway, their weapons raised. But before they could shout an order, Marcus rolled down his window and tossed an obsidian medallion onto the wet pavement.

The lead guard picked up the medallion. The moment his flashlight hit the coiled dragon crest, his face turned the color of chalk.

He didn't ask a single question. He shoved his men aside and hit the gate release.

The heavy iron portcullis screeched upward, swallowing the convoy into the dark belly of the mountain.

Inside, the roar of five thousand bloodthirsty spectators rattled the concrete rafters. High above the dirt pit sat the VIP skyboxes, shielded by thick bulletproof glass. Down below, surrounded by electrified steel cages, was the fighting pit—stained dark brown with decades of dried blood.

Caleb stepped out of the vehicle into the underground tunnel.

Waiting for him on the catwalk above was Trenton Hayes, dressed in a fresh suit, holding a crystal glass of whiskey. Beside him stood a broad-shouldered man in his fifties with a deep scar running from his eye to his chin—Lord Blackwood, the supreme boss of the provincial underworld.

Trenton leaned over the railing, his face contorting into a triumphant, psychotic grin.

"Caleb Vance!" Trenton yelled over the din of the crowd. "You really came! The fearless live-in beggar actually drove straight into his own grave!"

Caleb walked slowly down the concrete runway, stopping directly beneath the skybox. Marcus and four Apex operatives fell in step behind him, hands resting on concealed holsters.

"Where is Helena?" Caleb asked.

Lord Blackwood sneered, signaling to the guards behind him.

A heavy iron cage was hoisted up from the lower shaft by rusted chains. Inside huddled Helena Sterling, her designer dress torn, her hair a wild mess, shivering in terror.

When Helena saw Caleb standing in the pit, she didn't look grateful. She gripped the iron bars and shrieked in hysterical fury:

"Caleb! You useless piece of trash! This is your fault! You offended Young Master Hayes, and now they dragged me into this pigpen! Save me, you worthless stray, or I'll make Vivian divorce you tonight!"

Trenton laughed loudly, sipping his whiskey. "Hear that, Caleb? Even your own mother-in-law wants you dead! But don't worry, I'm a generous man. Sign the death contract on the pit gate. Enter the cage. If you win, the old hag goes free."

"And if he refuses?" Marcus growled, his hand inching toward his sidearm.

Lord Blackwood pulled a remote detonator from his coat pocket and tapped the red switch.

A high-pitched tone sounded from Helena’s cage. A row of green lights on the bottom of the iron floor switched to blinking red.

"Three kilograms of C4 plastic explosive wired beneath her feet," Blackwood said, his voice gravelly and merciless. "If anyone draws a gun, if anyone breaches this room, or if you refuse to fight... the old woman gets painted across the ceiling."

Caleb didn't look at Helena. He didn't look at Trenton.

He walked over to the entry gate where a blood-stained parchment contract lay pinned to an oak table. Beside it sat a heavy iron dagger.

Without a second of hesitation, Caleb picked up the dagger, sliced the tip of his thumb, and pressed his bloody print onto the paper.

Clang!

The heavy steel bars of the pit entrance lifted.

Caleb stepped through into the sand of the arena floor. The gate slammed shut behind him with the sickening sound of three heavy deadbolts locking into place.

The crowd of five thousand went wild, pounding their fists against the railings.

Above the pit, an automated buzzer sounded, echoing through the cavern like a funeral bell.

On the far side of the dirt pit, a heavy pneumatic door slid open with a hiss of steam.

A figure emerged from the dark tunnel.

She walked with silent, predatory grace, twin silver karambit blades gleaming in her leather-gloved hands. The silver half-mask concealed her face, but her eyes—cold, empty, and dead to the world—locked onto Caleb like laser sights.

On her tactical vest, the silver viper medallion swayed with each step.

Caleb stood completely still in the center of the ring, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

"Liviana," Caleb whispered into the roar of the arena.

The masked woman didn't hesitate. Her boots kicked off the blood-soaked dirt in a sonic blur, her curved blade arcing straight toward Caleb’s throat.