Alexei Vetrov was furious.
It showed in the way his fists cracked against the other man's face, again and again, until bone gave under knuckles and skin split.
The underground arena was lit with shouts and betting yells.
His opponent was already down, but Alexei wasn't done. Not until his jaw ached from clenching, not until his shoulders screamed from the force he poured into every punch.
When he finally shoved off the bloody mess at his feet, his breath came harsh, uneven.
The vein in his jaw was still tight, pulsing like it wanted to break out.
He carelessly donned the winner's robe over his shoulders.
The crowd roared approval, but he didn't care. The only thing echoing in his head was him.
That damn priestling.
Waving at the congratulations thrown his way, he moved to his personal room above the battleground.
