“From this point forward, you will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Battlemaster.’ Your royal titles are removed. You are no longer a son of the Salt Province, only a combatant of the Arena.”
Sigvid scowls. “I want to speak with my brother, King Thrain.”
“Cute. But the Arena is neutral territory. Queen Avina has relinquished her control over you, and your brother has no authority to saveyou. Take him to the carriage, boys.” The Battlemaster stands aside while the guards drag a shackled Sigvid into the moonlight, where a thickly crafted carriage awaits.
Metal bars obscure the view from the windows, and a padlock the size of a plate hangs from the handle, ensuring escape would be impossible.
Sigvid can gaze up at the citadel through the bars as the carriage rattles away. Would the little Queen venture to the Arena and witness the Abyss-like situation she forces him into?
Briny God willing, he will have another chance to return the favor.
August 13th, Year 100, 9th Era
Treland Arena
Sigvid’s carriage rattles south toward the raging South Sea. As a lad, he swam in the frigid salt water until he grew numb from the cold. Now, the waves appear more sinister away from the comfort of his Salt Province.
When the carriage door opens, two mountainous guards bearing the Arena insignia thrust him into a torrential downpour. Cold rain falls sideways into his eyes, blinding him.
Ah, this almost feels like home.
Rising above the ragged countryside sits the imposing Treland Arena. Wrapping upward is an enormous elliptical amphitheater crafted in black marble. Lightning illuminates the stone, casting an ominous gleam against the side.
“Who do we have here?” An older, thin man in a long cloak assesses him with interest.
“Sigvid Thordsson.” One of his guards hollers through the rain before he even has a chance.
The man immediately lights up at the mention of his name. “We have been expecting this one. Take him straight to Assessment.” The robed man steps away, and Sigvid is nearly carried through a side door and down staircase after staircase.
He glances around, noticing the grime increasing as they delve into the Arena's bowels. Once they reach the darkest level, the guards thrust him into a small room split in half.
On the right is a drain with a rusted shower head surrounded by hard points in the ground and walls. On the left is an enormous black cauldron, large enough to fit a body. Finally, a rickety desk where the Battlemaster he met in Timber sits with his boots propped up on the worn surface.
“Well, this may be an Arena first! A Prince comes to test his mettle.” His feet connect with the floor with a thud that shakes the ground. “The Arena is the only true neutral location in Treland. Abandon all faith in your gods. You will find no mercy here.”
“I am not the one who will need mercy.” Sigvid will escape from this Abyss or take all these fucks with him.
The Battlemaster smirks. “Undress him.”
Sigvid is shoved against the wall as rough hands slice his clothes and boots from his body. A glance over his shoulder shows the guards disposing of everything in the black cauldron.
“Wash him.” The Battlemaster orders with a bored expression as he peruses his belongings.
“Oh? Are you going to make me squeaky clean? Make sure you scrub well.” Sigvid’s remark oozes in sarcasm.
He is forced against the back wall of the shower and secured directly beneath the showerhead. When the icy water unleashes above him, he laughs through the pain of the water.
“Who do you think I am? The sea raised me.”
The Battlemaster hardly glances at Sigvid as the guards finish scrubbing him with steel brushes. He breathes through his teeth at the assault on his skin. Once he is raw and bloody, the guards unchain him from the wall.
“Whose hair is this?” The Battlemaster twirls the lock of golden hair Sigvid keeps in his breast pocket.
“Mine,” Sigvid growls deeply.
Avina’s fate at his hands may still be undecided, but that did not permit this foul fuck to touch a single strand of hair from her body.
Attached or not.
