bread timer

“You should be,” the thug said through gritted teeth. He tossed his sack of extorted bread aside, but before it hit the ground, Kytheon shoved himself off the chunk of stone and drove his foot into the other man’s shin.

There was a roar of agony as the thug reeled back. In an instant, Kytheon was on his feet, launching a flurry of jabs at the other man’s face. He danced out of range of the counterattack, forcing the thug to overextend and expose himself to another barrage of fists.

Kytheon smiled. A surge of energy welled in him, and he forgot about his sore muscles and grumbling belly. This was his element—the fight.

Ristos’s thug was a seasoned brawler, Kytheon could tell from his experience scrapping with Drasus. This guy was sack of meat who could take a hit, but he was predictable and, like all of the thugs Kytheon had fought in the alleyways of Akros, this one was a talker.

“I’m going to drink wine outta your skull!” he threatened.

Another haymaker, followed by another of Kytheon’s dodges, and another sequence of his punches that connected with ribs and jaw.

Keep babbling, Kytheon thought as he circled around his opponent. For Kytheon, fighting was reflexive—intuitive, instinctive. As a child, he discovered that it was also the source of his magic.

***

GIDEON’S ORIGIN: KYTHEON IORA OF AKROS