The Ironsmith's Mandate
“All right, Southern Cross, eyes up. Remember: they’re here to learn, not to gloat. Show respect, show control.”
Easy enough to say. But as the Alba team lined up, I caught the subtle posture—chin tilted a bit too high, eyes flicking over our wooden gym as though it were a ruin they’d read about in books.
Then I saw her.
She was standing in the middle of the group—Victoria Quinze. Everyone called her Vicky, I’d heard, the youngest fighter in the regional women’s circuit. She was tall, built like a whip: narrow shoulders, long reach, the kind of frame that promised speed before you saw it proven. Her eyes were the color of polished iron—calm, unblinking, and impossible to misread.
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