The true Queen of Eekatia.
Now I understand. Those who watch, who connect with the games on a deeper level, I can never understand. I’ve been gone for too long. They believe the games, the bloody death of our people, is the only way for their protection. If they stop, end the games for good, the curses will walk our lands forever.
They believe this is their only hope.
But that’s not true. I can feel it in the embers inside me that I am meant to destroy the games. I am meant to show them all that bloodshed is not the answer. The games are not the key to our peace.
My lips part. “I can do this, Father, watch over me.”
I inhale, the distinct smell of burnt rubber filling my nose and tickling the hairs inside. Hot steam singes my face, most likely from the person who was burnt here just minutes ago. Tristain. Rule number one since being here in Azure: don’t piss offthe Queen.
Poor guy never stood a chance out here.
My eyes lock onto the Queen high above the crowd, her golden seats protected with twelve guards around her and her daughter. She isn’t in the mountains this time, I suppose whatever crawls out of the arena today shouldn’t bethat deadly. She gives me a stern and deliberate raised eyebrow, as if she is waiting for me to try and climb the damn wall that's in front of me. But I know better. I know there are guards posted at every passage in this arena, waiting for anyone that tries to escape.
I suppose either the first or second man tried climbing. His body hangs over the stone wall, ten arrows shot in his back. I’m curious as to what horse he was escaping from.
My shoulders roll, time to figure out what my fate is.
I either die here.
Somehow pass this test.The game. And the Queen can continue to use me for whatever is up her sleeve.
Or die trying to escape.
My hands shakily brush over the onyx suit they have hand-chosen for me this morning, knowing it’ll protect me from whatever beast is behind the caged door. For a certain amount of time, at least. It’s just as my old one, however, both arms now show my skin, revealing not only my stones, but the scarsand fresh wounds. However, my leather gloves reach my elbows, which will protect anyone who touches me.
My fingers glide over the wristband the guard gave me before leaving. Damn it, I hope it isn’t the Fireninze that is chosen for me. I don’t think I’m ready, I was too distracted by what unfolded this morning during training.
There are too many steps to remember when it comes to the horse of fire. Too many risks. I fear the Queen shall pair me with the one that matches me, the one that burns.
The clattering of metal jugs brings my focus back, snapping my attention to the rocks that tremble off the ledges of the arena. However, the people yelling my last name feel like a distant rumble, as if I am underwater in a deep cavern. Drowning deeper and faster as their voices fade away into the darkness, but I am not underwater.
I am above ground in thescorchingheat.
They are yelling, “Deskyiara.”
The rumors have spread, which will divide the Realms. Bring chaos. I know it.I feel it.
Most of them don’t, but some cheer for me. Flags whip in the air as they jump up and down, ready to watch me.
Rumors spread fast in the Realms. I remember that when the King announced my marriage to Florian, everyone knew once the sun set.
Once Florian remembers that I chose Koen centuries ago, I fear he will have his heart broken all over again.
I exhale, the heels of my midnight boots digging deeper in the ash beneath my feet, shattering the small gravel underneath. I pray to the Gods I am not standing where the person before me burned to death.
Let’s hope I am not next.
But the Queen needs me.
I know she does.
But do I believe that? Or am I just convincing myself she isn’t trying to kill me?
My heart beats out of my chest, and adrenaline pumps through my veins as I stand in the center of the arena. The wind whips around me, carrying flecks of ash and debris that bite at my exposed skin. I can barely make out the rocky ground beneath me as a strong gust circles around me, coating the ground with a layer of gray dust. Even my once black boots are now transformed into a lighter, ashen color from the constant brushing of fire remnants against them. The loose strands of my slicked-back bun begin to sway in my eyes. But I don’t even move, not for the slightest distraction that is making me tick with every view of the strands.
I must stay focused.
