I let the handle of my axe slip through my fingers until I am gripping the very end. Like this, it is a weapon of inertia. A brutal object to be wielded with aggression.
Botar lunges and swings his sword again with a hopeful roar. This time, I move towards it, ducking at the last moment andusing my momentum to carry my axe into his chest. It lands with a wet crunch followed by a strange cracking sound as Botar crumples on top of me, burying me beneath his titanic weight.
My breath is short and shallow as I push him back and free myself. My vision is spotty. A chill rolls over my skin. I feel … strange.
The crowd bellows. Gaius’s voice thunders around me. And yet my focus does not waver from what I have done. Everything about this feels wrong. This was supposed to be a victorious moment, heroic even, but it feels hollow.
I grip the handle of my axe and wrench it free of Botar’s corpse as guilt tightens my chest. He should never have been here at all.
Everything around me clashes in discordant commotion. The turbulent jeering of the crowd; the slumped body of my opponent; the blood covering my hands, my face, everything. I was sent here to prove my worthiness to lead. To show my strength. But this … this was not strength.
Confused and uneasy, I do my best to appear stalwart, straightening up to my full height and keeping an unreadable mask on my face. My people are watching—not just my fellow Vhorathis watching the feed at home, but every face in these stands—I must not show weakness. Only strength. Only power.
Discipline and control.
I offer the crowd a subtle raise of my chin, grab my boots, and exit the arena.
The cool dark of the hypogeum is a welcome reprieve, but in the stillness, my confusion flourishes. That wasn’t a battle; it was a murder. An unnecessary slaying. Botar had no hope of surviving that. Of survivingme.
Exhaustion surfaces as the energy of the fight wanes. I move at a sluggish pace, peeling away armor until a painful sting stops me. Something wet coats my hand. Blood.Redblood. I removemy leather breast-plate and find a large gash, deep and ugly, that traces a line from the middle of my ribcage to the top of my groin. Streams of crimson run down my body to pool at the waistband of my pants.
How?
I was not struck during that fight. And the wound feels strange. The pain is different from the familiar burn of a blade. Too delayed. Too dull.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
My mind spins as I grab a towel and press it to my side, trying to slow the bleeding. I need a doctor … and I do not have access to one. The realization hits me, and I want to tear this room apart.
Marius was right.
Focus. I need to stop the bleeding. I need something better than a towel. I spin and take in the room around me. It is simple and sparse. There is a rack for weapons, two wooden benches, a shelf with towels, and torches for light.
Torches. Fire. I can cauterize the wound.
I reach for a torch on the wall, and nearly roar when I discover the flickering light is coming from a bulb. Imitation flame. Another one of Gaius’s many deceptions.
The Coliseum was built to appear ancient and operate in the ways of old—solid-state melee weapons, limited medical technology, and gambling with real chits—but of course, the illusion does not include real fire.
I push down my bubbling rage.
Emotion serves no purpose. Do not let it control you.
A shuffling sound has me spinning on the spot. The guards have come. I abandon the fake torch and turn to face my subjects, who are now my keepers. It is a strange dynamic.
One of them I recognize. He escorted me here but never gave me his name. Honestly, I am surprised he is working as a guardat all. His people, the Undurians, are not known for their courage. The other guard is new to me, but I know his kind well. He is from Palitus—the one planet in the empire I avoid visiting at all costs.
“Come with us,” the Palitian says, waving his fat, scaly hand. His home world is a swampy, desolate planet, devoid of all life beyond the species the Palitians keep as livestock. Their appetite for destruction is unparalleled, and their planet has suffered because of that. It is a shock that their species survived long enough to develop language, much less technology.
I move to follow the Palatian, but the pale-faced Undurian slaps a hand over his mouth and points at the bloodied towel in my hand.
“You are bleeding,” he says through his slim fingers, as if he has never seen a battle wound before. He is speaking Undurian, but the Palatian clearly understands him.Translators. I almost forgot.
“I am,” I reply in Undurian.
“We … uh. We don’t have anyone who can...” His fumbling words only add to my rising frustration, and I give him a stern look, waiting for him to finish. “We only have female healers.”
I wonder if this interaction is as uncomfortable for them as it is for me. They know who I am, and I doubt it feels natural to interact with me in this way. Perhaps that is why the Undurian is struggling with his words.
