Finn’s jaw clenched. He wanted to fight, to demand answers, but looking at the healer, he knew it would be futile. She wasn’t here to tell him anything. She was here to keep him alive. And if she was under Darius’s employ, that meant…
His stomach twisted. He let himself sink back onto the cot, muscles still wound tight with frustration. The healer resumed her work, moving methodically as she changed his bandages.
Finn’s brow furrowed. He had been injured badly, but now…healing this quickly? His gaze flicked to the healer. “What are you using?” His voice was quieter this time, edged with suspicion. “I’ve never felt anything work so fast.”
The woman hesitated. Just for a breath. Then she met his eyes, something unreadable in her expression. “A special blend,” she said finally, voice softer than before. “Created for…unique circumstances.”
A chill crept up Finn’s spine. Why would Darius want him healed so quickly? The worst of the pain had fled, and now only hunger and weakness dogged him. Before he could press further, the door creaked open.
Two guards entered, their boots thudding against the stone floor. They moved with the professionalism of trained soldiers, their expressions blank. Finn’s pulse kicked up.
“It’s time,” one of them said.
The healer didn’t look up. She began gathering her supplies, never looking at Finn. But as she turned to leave, she paused. Her lips parted. “May Rynvath’s ferocity be with you,” she murmured. So quiet, Finn almost missed it. Then she was gone.
“Rynvath?” he whispered. The Untamed Spirit, the god of the hunt? Why invoke his name?
The guards hauled him to his feet. Finn gritted his teeth as they wrenched him upright, but to his shock, he didn’t collapse. His legs held steady, his body moving with only a dull ache instead of searing pain. Whatever the healer had used, it had worked too well.
His stomach churned. “Time for what?” he demanded, but neither guard answered.
Their grip on his arms was tight—not quite brutal, but firm enough to leave bruises. He didn’t struggle. Not yet. Not until he knew where they were taking him.
The halls blurred past as they dragged him forward. The twists and turns of the castle corridors were disorienting, unfamiliar. He tried to memorize the route, but his head was still fogged, his thoughts slipping like water through his fingers.
Then light. Bright sunlight. Finn winced, squinting against the sudden glare. His eyes adjusted slowly, revealing a small courtyard enclosed by high stone walls. And at its center, a wagon. This wasn’t just another interrogation. This wasn’t another session with the torturer.
He was being moved. His Majesty, the Royal Prick, had plans for him. And given the king’s flair for the dramatic, nothing about them would be good.
As the guards shoved him into the wagon, Finn barely caught himself before he hit the rough wooden planks. Still-healing bruises throbbed, but it could have been far worse, if not for the healing. The wagon lurched forward, the wheels clattering against the cobblestone streets, and through the gaps in the covering, Finn caught snippets of conversation from the crowd outside.
“…biggest event in years…”
“…never seen the arena so full…”
“…wonder if the knight stands a chance…”
Arena? Finn’s stomach twisted. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the rhythmic clatter of the wagon wheels. What was Darius planning?
Through the slats, the city blurred past—banners hanging from balconies, vendors calling out, the streets lined with people craning their necks, eager for whatever spectacle they had been promised. Finn saw flashes of painted signs with crude illustrations, though he couldn’t quite make them out. Whatever it was, the citizens of Mirathen were expecting blood.
His mouth was dry as he stared at their eager, animated faces. There was no fear here, no solemnity. Only anticipation. A festival atmosphere, a celebration of violence.
When the wagon finally rolled to a stop, Finn’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. The guards yanked him out, dragging him forward. And then they reached the destination. The arena.
Its towering stone walls loomed over him. The very air seemed charged, vibrating with the distant roar of a restless crowd.
A hard shove sent him stumbling forward.
“This way,” one of the guards grunted.
Finn had no choice but to comply. They led him down a passageway, deeper into the underbelly of the coliseum. The further they descended, the louder the roar of the spectators became. It rattled through the stone like an approaching storm.
At last, they emerged into a small armory, and Finn’s breath hitched.
Racks of weapons lined the walls, swords and spears gleaming in the torchlight. A table bore pieces of armor—not the finest quality, but sturdy enough. Finn’s gaze skimmed over them, his unease growing.
And then he saw it.
