I punched a man a full head taller than me. I'm tall for ten, but this man? Massive. A mountain of muscle and rage, the reigning champion of the Red District. Far beyond the slums of the Yellow.
I've been fighting for two years now. Started small, weaker opponents. Climbed my way up, one broken nose at a time. Now? I'm a fan favorite. Everyone in the circuit knows the Black-Touched Child. They just call me Black-Touched. No name. Just fear.
I don't make much silver from these fights, but the real prize is the magic. I get to take everything my opponent has stored. I haven't lost a match yet.
The brute charges. I laugh as I raise an ice shield, jagged and laced with frost-spikes. His fist smashes into it with a wet crunch. Spikes pierce flesh. His hand, once a weapon, is now a mangled pile of meat and shattered bone. He screams. I don't feel like listening, so I suck the air from his lungs, just enough to silence him. He stumbles, gasping, reaching. I dodge. Fluid. Fast. He drops to his knees.
I coat my fist in iron and drive it into his jaw, snapping his head sideways. He collapses. Ten seconds pass. The match is called. I kneel beside him, pressing my hand to his exposed arm. The transfer is instant. Magic floods into me, warm, wild, and alive. He'd been storing this for years. Maybe decades. And now it's mine. The rush is dizzying. Addictive. The owner finds me near the exit and tosses a few silver coins. I wait. I know the worth of this fight. I hold out my hand. He grunts but tosses me three more. Smart man. If he short-changed me, I'd take my fists, and my magic, elsewhere. The streets are dark when I walk home. But I see just fine. My night vision's strong, my presence stronger. No one dares rob me, not in this part of the city. They all know who I am. And what I can do.
The tavern is alive with noise when I get back. Raucous laughter. Slurred voices. Laps filled with women and the stench of cheap ale. But not my mother. She hasn't been able to work for two years. Not since she got sick. That's why I started fighting. To pay for food. To keep a roof over our heads. Sometimes, when I win big, I bring an orange healer. They can ease her pain. But they can't fix what's wrong. Each visit ends the same: "She has a month left." That was last week. Every day, she grows weaker. If only I could find a yellow healer. But they're reserved for nobles. The rich. They cost more than I can imagine. Or… if I knew how to cast the spell myself… If I had that magic... I could save her.
I climb to the attic. The smell of smoke and perfume fades into quiet. She's in the corner, where I left her, bundled in thin blankets on an old pallet. She isn't coughing tonight. That's worse. She's all skin and bones now. Her cheeks hollow. Her breath shallow. A shadow of the woman who used to sing me to sleep. I kneel beside her, my heart heavy. I'm going to help you, I think, clenching my fists. I don't care what it costs. I will make you better.
I fed my mother. Cleaned her up. Gently, I lay her back down on the pallet in the attic corner where she sleeps. Where she fades. The other children up here, my siblings, even if not by blood, will make sure she's cared for. They owe me too much not to. Not to help her. Not to try. So I leave her. Again. I didn't sleep. All night, I turned over the same question in my mind:
How do I get yellow magic?
I know it's in me. I feel it. That's why my tattoos are black. Because I carry every color. But I can't reach it. The rage inside me is suffocating. I've clawed my way toward the well of power inside me so many times. Tried to crack it open. Tried to twist it toward her. Toward healing. But nothing.
I can mimic orange spells now, Pain relief. Sterilization. Even birth control. There've been a lot fewer bastard babies in this place since I learned those. The women started coming to me, not the orange healers. I never asked for payment. But it's not enough. I tried to use the same magic to burn out whatever is killing my mother. To sterilize the disease. To undo it. But I can't. I don't know how. And it's eating her alive.
Every city is built in rings, layered like a rotten onion. At the center? The Duke. Here, that's Duke Solomar, wealthy, cruel, untouchable. Surrounding him: the lesser nobility. The merchants rich enough to pretend they belong. Outside that: a wall. Another wall. Then the slums. The poor. The forgotten. Even the slums have layers. Some areas aren't as hopeless as others. But I live in the worst one, the Pink Light District. Taverns. Brothels. Smoke and sin.
People call it shameful. But I'm not ashamed. My mother was a Pink Lady. She did what she had to do to feed me. And me? I proudly bear the name she gave me. Drenriel Pinklight. Every bastard born in a brothel carries that name, no matter their district. Doesn't matter if you were born in the Red, the Orange, the Yellow. If your mother was a Pink Lady, you're a Pinkie. That's just the way it is.
I walk toward the wall separating our slum from the Merchant Ring. The gate looms ahead, heavy and rust-stained. But I recognize the guard. He's one of the gamblers. I saw him last night, making a fortune off my fight. Maybe he'll let me through. It's illegal to travel between the walls without paperwork. But I don't have time for red tape. Not today. I square my shoulders, steady my breathing, and walk right up to him.
"I'll be back by evening," I say. "I swear."
For my mother's sake, I hope he believes me.