A Tale of Rats & Felons

The arena of the Kobold League finals was deafening, a wall of roaring crowd noise and bass-heavy caster commentary filtering through the heavy glass of the soundproof booths. But inside the post-match hallway, the air was dead silent and smelled faintly of ozone and stale energy drinks.

Amethyst leaned against the concrete wall, slowly unwrapping the tape from his wrists. At thirty-two, his joints ached a little more after a grueling eighty-minute decider match, but the sting of the loss hurt worse.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor—heavy, deliberate, and instantly recognizable.

"You drafted like an amateur in game three, William."

Amethyst didn’t look up, though a sharp thrill spiked through his chest at the sound of that rasping, mocking voice. "And you played like a coward for the first forty minutes, Rat Lord. Some things never change."

Rat Lord stepped into the dim light of the hallway. He was thirty-four now, a few silver strands catching the fluorescent light in his dark, messy hair, but he still carried that same infuriating, razor-sharp confidence that had defined his decade-long career. He didn't stop until he was standing entirely too close, invading Amethyst’s personal space just like he used to back when they shared a team house—and a bed.

"It’s called playing the map," Rat Lord murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in, trapping Amethyst against the wall with a hand planted right next to his shoulder. "Though I suppose you always did get impatient when I made you wait."

The implication hung thick and heavy in the cramped space between them. Amethyst’s breath hitched, his eyes finally snapping up to meet Rat Lord’s. There was an intense, familiar heat burning in that gaze, a reminder of late-night theory-crafting sessions that inevitably degenerated into breathless, whispered arguments against hotel room headboards.

"We aren't twenty-two anymore," Amethyst whispered, his eyes darting down to Rat Lord’s mouth before snapping back up. "You don't get to just walk back into my lane and demand space."

"No?" Rat Lord tilted his head, his thumb brushing, seemingly by accident, against the bare skin of Amethyst's wrist where the tape had just been unraveled. The touch was electric, a deliberate friction that made Amethyst’s fingers twitch. "Because your heart rate says you're already giving up first blood."

Amethyst reached up, grabbing Rat Lord by the collar of his team jersey, bunching the fabric in his fist. He pulled him down just an inch closer, until their chests were flaring with every breath, the scent of Rat Lord’s familiar cologne mixing with the adrenaline of the match.

"You won the series," Amethyst growled, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Don't push your luck, or I'll show you exactly how hard I can counter-initiate."

Rat Lord let out a low, rough chuckle, his eyes darkening as he leaned even closer, his lips brushing the shell of Amethyst’s ear. "I’ll hold you to that. My room. Midnight."

Before Amethyst could reply, Rat Lord pulled away with a smirk, turning on his heel and walking toward the press room, leaving the younger man flushed, breathless, and thoroughly defeated all over again.