The first time Little Wolf saw her, she was leaning against the shadowed frame of the pit’s east gate, pale silver eyes fixed on the sand like she could already see the blood that hadn’t yet been spilled. [[Volza Redhand]] didn’t cheer. She didn’t drink. She didn’t speak to anyone. She just watched. It was a fight night in the lower pits — no rules, no weapons beyond what you could hold or wear. The crowd roared for the bigger fighter, a barrel of an orc with scars down both arms, but Little Wolf had been through this before. She was smaller, quicker, sharper than the men she fought. And she had the gloves — heavy leather wrapped around her fists, each knuckle crowned with rusted iron spikes. Every swing came with the promise of blood. When the gong rang, she moved like she always did: in, out, weaving through the orc’s swings, climbing his guard like she was scaling an alley wall, bringing those spikes down again and again until he staggered and fell. The match ended in under a minute. When she climbed out, breathless and sweating, [[Volza Redhand|Volza]] was still in the same spot, watching her with an unreadable expression. No applause. No nod. Just those silver eyes. --- It happened again the next week. And the week after. Always in the shadows, always alone, always watching. It wasn’t until after Little Wolf put down a half-ogre in front of two hundred screaming drunks that [[Volza Redhand|Volza]] finally spoke. She stepped out from the wall like she’d been part of it, moving through the crowd without touching anyone. “You fight,” she said, voice low and calm, “like someone who knows there’s no second chance.” Little Wolf grinned. “You watch like someone who’s waiting to take my place.” That earned her the smallest hint of a smile. --- They crossed paths after that — in the pits, in the back rooms of gambling dens, even once on a rooftop where Little Wolf had just delivered a message for Brugar the Vile, the old orc who had raised her after she was found as a street scrap of a child. Brugar’s crew gave her muscle and purpose. The pits gave her coin and a name. And [[Volza Redhand|Volza]]… [[Volza Redhand|Volza]] gave her something harder to define. --- When Brugar was killed — throat opened in an ambush Little Wolf hadn’t been there to stop — the world tilted. The gang scattered, the coin dried up, and for the first time in years, she had nowhere to be. She sat in the rain that night, gloves still on, staring at the street where he’d fallen. [[Volza Redhand|Volza]] found her there. No silver eyes in the shadows this time — she walked right up, rain dripping off her hood, and crouched in front of her. “You don’t have to stay here,” she said. No orders, no pity. Just fact. Little Wolf didn’t answer, and [[Volza Redhand|Volza]] didn’t push. She just sat with her in the wet and the dark until the street emptied and the rain stopped. --- They were never drinking buddies, never the kind to laugh over old stories. But when [[Volza Redhand|Volza]] was in town, she found Little Wolf. And when Little Wolf was in trouble, she knew [[Volza Redhand|Volza]] would appear — not out of business, but because that was what they were to each other. Not friends in the way most people meant it. Something deeper. A quiet pact between two predators who had decided to care for one another without saying it out loud.