Alayah's day had been a parade of small victories. First, seduction easy, warm, over in a blink. Then, settling into her new room, which was surprisingly cozy for a mortal dwelling.
No black stone, no shimmering runes, just wooden floors, a wide bed, and a mirror that made her hair look almost blue under the modern lights.
The Crystal Archive pulsed faintly on its pedestal in the living room, already tasting the magic she'd fed it. She had the feeling she'd be emptying that urn every night.
By the time the sun dipped low and the city's heat mellowed into something more forgiving, Alayah was restless.
She threw on a clean black shirt—tight but soft, sleeves rolled—and a pair of battered workout pants, then laced her boots and slipped out the door.
The street outside was lively, a river of music and laughter, bright with neon. She walked without aim, hands in pockets, letting her senses sweep the air for trouble, fun, or both.
She didn't expect to find either so soon.
Down a side street, tucked behind a row of food carts, she spotted it: Steel Fist Boxing Club.
The windows steamed with noise and light, and the smell of sweat, leather, and ambition drifted out every time the door swung open.
She grinned. Why not?
Inside, it was chaos: thumping music, the sound of fists on heavy bags, the rattle of skipping ropes. Young men and women sparred in a ring beneath flickering LEDs.
Some boxed for technique, some just for show. A row of girls in the far corner watched with eager eyes, their phones out, live-streaming every moment.
Alayah walked in, drawing eyes without effort. Her hair wild, black with a single streak of white made her hard to miss. The owner, a broad-shouldered man with a crooked nose, waved her over. "Here to sign up, or just watch?"
She gave him a lopsided grin. "I'll try a round."
He handed her a waiver, which she signed with a flourish. "Locker's in the back. You want gloves?"
She flexed her hands. "Sure. Size eight."
Within minutes, she was taped up and bouncing on the balls of her feet, feeling the familiar thrum of power in her bones.
She stretched, shadowboxed a little, ignoring the boys who stared and the girls who whispered. Then, as if the universe were bored, a man swaggered up to the ring.
He was tall though not quite as tall as she was lean with hard muscle and that special kind of smugness that comes from being the gym's reigning champion.
His black hair was slicked back, his jaw set in a cocky smirk.
He looked her up and down. "You sure you want to spar, sweetheart? Wouldn't want to ruin your pretty face."
Alayah's grin was bright and deadly. "I'll try not to break yours."
Laughter from the crowd. He scowled, irritated by her confidence but goaded by the audience. The owner shrugged, as if to say, your funeral, and rang the bell.
The man came out fast, fists high, dancing on his toes. He jabbed at her face quick, sharp. She dodged, slipped under, let him feel good for a moment.
"C'mon," he taunted, "show me what you've got."
Alayah waited, reading his rhythm, measuring the cocky tilt of his chin, the overcommitment on every right hand. She danced backward, let him chase.
The crowd especially the women began to cheer. Phones angled in her direction. She winked at one of them.
Then, as he came in again, she snapped. Left, right, left. Her fists moved in a blur, precise and brutal.
She ducked under his wild hook, came up inside, and caught him with an uppercut that rang the ropes. He staggered back, surprised.
Her opponent shook it off, he feinted left, tried to come around with a body shot.
She let him land one, just to see what he had, then pivoted, caught him with a jab, then a cross, then duck, weave, slip and a perfect right to the temple. He dropped to one knee, shaking his head, grinning in disbelief.
He rose. "Not bad for a girl."
She grinned back, taking off her shirt and tossing it over the ropes. The crowd of girls shrieked and whistled, some half-standing on the benches.
She flexed, sweat beading on her skin, tattoos gleaming along her arms and collarbones.
"Wanna go again?" she taunted.
He came at her, reckless now, and she took him apart piece by piece—never cruel, but precise, measured.
She let him flail, let the crowd see how easy it was, then dropped him with a hook to the jaw that left him flat on his back.
The bell rang. Match over.
Alayah raised her arms, victorious, basking in the applause and the frenzied, chaotic energy that swelled around her. The club owner grinned, shaking his head. "Girl, you're a menace."
She hopped out of the ring, grabbed a towel and a bottle of water, and flopped onto a bench. The man she'd fought soon joined her, rubbing his jaw, but smiling.
"Been a while since anyone put me down like that," he said, his tone good-natured. "You pro?"
"Just for fun," Alayah replied, tossing her damp hair back.
He looked at her, a strange glint in his eye admiration, but also something sharper. Jealousy. It hung around him like smoke, thick and obvious.
Alayah could almost see the emotion crystallizing, pulsing with envy and competitiveness.
She grinned and let a tiny pulse of black fire slither from her palm—subtle, invisible to mortal eyes.
The jealousy in him bloomed, fed by the crowd's adulation and his own wounded pride. In her mind's eye, she felt the crystal forming: green as acid, sharp-edged, humming with rivalry.
"Not bad, huh?" she said, letting the magic coil around her wrist.
He laughed ruefully. "Not bad at all. Rematch sometime?"
"Anytime," she agreed, then raised her bottle to toast him.
Behind them, chaos reigned. A knot of girls clustered by the bench, phones ready, eyes wide.
Some of them giggled, some whispered, a few were brave enough to shout encouragement. Alayah winked at one, then the other. It was almost too easy.
She let the crowd's adoration feed her—excitement, longing, infatuation. They were softer crystals, but numerous and easy. She imagined dropping a dozen into her archive tonight.
Just as she wiped her brow, a woman stepped forward—tall, athletic, with a wild mop of curly blonde hair. She wore leggings and a sports bra, and her confidence was magnetic.
"Hey," the woman said, offering a slow smile. "That was… seriously hot. You new here?"
Alayah grinned. "Just moved in."
"Got a name?"
"Alayah."
The woman glanced around, then bit her lip, a little shy. "You got a number?"
Alayah hesitated. For a split second, she felt a twinge of panic—number? Oh, phone number. Right.
She fished out the slim, glassy phone Maerith had given her, turning it over in her hands. It was still on the home screen, set in some language she didn't recognize.
"Yeah," she said, playing it cool, "give me a sec."
She tried to unlock it, swiping her thumb every which way. The phone vibrated angrily, then flashed a keyboard. Okay.
Not too hard. She pressed the green button, found the contacts app by accident, and hit the "+" sign. "So… what's yours?" she asked, winking, as if she totally knew what she was doing.
The woman took the phone, fingers moving quickly, entering her number with a flourish.
"Here. Text me later? Maybe you can show me some moves. In the ring, or…" Her gaze slid up and down Alayah's body. "Wherever."
Alayah gave her a wolfish smile. "Count on it."
The woman blew her a kiss, disappearing into the locker room, leaving Alayah holding the phone like it was a trophy.
"Well," Alayah said to herself, "maybe this modern world isn't so complicated after all."