Over the next few minutes, I learn there are hundreds of star systems in this empire, there are no other royal families nearby, and he has never been to the Coliseum before.
“How do you not know any of this? Youlivehere,” he asks.
A part of me wants to tell him, but the other part isn’t interested in what will happen once he knows about my situation. The last thing I want is pity … or to learn that he really is a monster and I read him all wrong. So instead of answering, I deflect.
“I guess this explains why you were so pissed when I wouldn’t help you find the thread. Let me guess, you’re used to people doing whatever you tell them to, right?”
He scoffs. “I wasaskingfor your help.”
“Your version of ‘asking’ kinda sucks.”
His lips pinch, no longer amused by my snark. “You could have just said my title bothers you.”
Shit. I went too far. I shake my head. “Sorry. It’s not that. Really. I’m just … surprised.”
He eyes me suspiciously before grunting a sound of acceptance and brushing a hand over his chest again.
10
INCONGRUITIES
AMARA
“SO WHY DID you comehereto complete your Obligation?” I ask, as I pass Vexar a cup of water and lean my hip against the table. As much as I would’ve preferred to keep suturing, my hands were tired and needed a rest.
Outside, the afternoon winds have begun to churn, kicking up sand and casting an eerie orange glow over Vexar’s face. He’s even more stunning right now, and that just seems to irritate me further.
“That is the purpose of the Coliseum,” he says before draining the cup and handing it back. “It was originally built as a temple for the rulers of the empire to test their worthiness. Obviously, its use has expanded, but it still serves its original purpose.”
I refill the cup for myself and take a sip, watching Vexar carefully. I still can’t decide if I trust him or not. My gut says I should, but logic tells me something completely different. Almost every person I’ve come in contact with on this planet—who wasn’t a nurse—was aware of, and in support of, the slave trade. It’s hard to believe any future ruler of this place would be unaware of what’shappening.
“Just to clarify, you’re expected to prove your worthiness by killing gladiators? Here?” I ask. Seems a bit … barbaric for a society capable of traversing star systems. Then again, it’s not like I’ve seen much in the way of empathy out here.
“No ruler of Vhorath has ever led without being tested in battle first. It is important for us to uphold our traditions, and the Coliseum allows us to do that without risking real conflict. It is an honor to fight here.”
I swallow a mouthful of dirt-flavored water and try to keep my voice steady. “So you practice manufactured war to prove you’re worthy of a crown? And that’s honorable?” Vexar’s expression tightens, and I suddenly feel guilty for my lack of a filter. “I didn’t mean to—” To what? Insinuate that his ‘ancient obligation’ is essentially just manufactured war? Obligated murder? Because it is.
“You are not wrong.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “The reality of the Coliseum was not what I expected.” He pauses and grimaces. “It is pointlessly cruel and archaic.”
My brows shoot up. I was expecting him to defend his ‘obligation’, not agree with me. And he looks … pained. No, that’s not it. He doesn’tlookpained; it’s like he’s radiating sadness or something. Like his ache is infecting me. I feel it tightening my chest.
Trying to shrug off the strange sensation, I ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”
He’s silent for a long moment. “The more I think about it, the more certain I am that this”—he gestures to the room around us—“does not fulfill the original intention of the law. It is a misalignment of values that I am shocked my predecessors allowed to continue.
“Before my people were a unified tribe, battles were a fact of daily survival. There was no need for a formal rite of passage; it just happened naturally. Once the tribes unified beneath asingle leader and the constant battles stopped, we needed a way to keep our traditions alive. Butthis?Thisis what they chose?”
He runs a hand over his braided hair, and his expression darkens. “I was told fighting here would be heroic. I was toldthisis how we avoid unnecessary bloodshed while upholding our traditions. But that”—he points at the door—“did not align with tradition. It was a farce. A deadly, horrible farce.”
I have to work to keep my expression neutral as the shock of his words rolls through me.
“My fight today did not feel like an act of valor. My opponent was not a normal gladiator. He looked … gods, I think he was a hybrid. Like he was made rather than born.” He pauses and looks away. “He had no chance of surviving that. Of survivingme.”
His clear distress over what he did in the arena has turned my world on its head. How is this guy the next in line for the throne? It just doesn’t make sense. His morals clearly don’t align with the brutality of this place, and yet, he’s supposed to rule over the millions of people who come here weekly to cheer for blood?
“Does anyone else in your family feel this way?” I ask.
“No.”
