“Stop getting in my head!” He snarls, kicking the cell door.
“There is a thin line between love and hate,” Champ responds calmly. “Besides, I heard her calling for you as they took you down. She may have been drunk but still came to see you.”
Sigvid stops pacing, “do you have a real name? I can call you Champ, but you must have something better.”
“I guess it is only fair. My name is Grim Woods.”
“That is an epic name, my friend. Too bad you cannot use that instead of Champ.”
“Nah, you understand how the place works. My Arena name was ‘Slayer’ before I made Champion.” He pauses. “You and I know we will soon fight against each other in the ring. For three winters, I’ve lost myself in vengeance over Samson. How much longer can I keep up this title? I want a good fight and a good death.”
“I am not looking forward to our fight.” Sigvid grunts. “If you have to go up against me, you will not be able to keep that title. “However, my friend, I can give you that good fight and a good death. But to be fair, I would rather have you fight with me.”
Sigvid sits on his bed. Already anguish washes over him, thinking about the Arena forcing him to kill one of the rare good men in this world. “You will have your vengeance for your wife, Grim. I will make damn sure of it.”
“Your violent optimism never ceases to amaze me. If you don’t mind, I have beauty sleep to maintain.”
“See you in the morning for training. You will need all the rest you can.”
Sigvid is a man of his word. He will do everything within his power to ensure his friend's survival. They will tackle this Samson fellow together. What is one more person to add to his hit list?
He laughs as he shifts his table to work his muscles.
14
AVINA
Two Winters Ago
Year 98, 9th Era
Scarwood Citadel, Timber Province
Avina loudly yawns, creaking into the high-backed chair of her oak desk. A goblet of red wine sits drained beside a half-empty Timber Province Silver Standard bottle.
Her wine of choice.
She scratches down her face, wishing she could uncoverseidrto rid Scarwood of these petty problems. Rendel and his father, King Urien, perpetuated so many issues over the last several decades.
“Your Royal Highness.”
Avina lifts her tired eyes to see Rendel’s butler. An older, refined man named Grayson, whom Rendel inherited from his father when he took the throne nearly a decade ago.
“Yes, Grayson?”
“His Highness requests your presence in his bed chambers, Your Majesty. Immediately.”
A sob escapes her lips, and she clamps a hand down over her mouth.
Not tonight. Goddess, not tonight.
Over the last year, her existence has been reduced to cleaning up after Rendel’s messes and the occasional summoning to fulfill her wifely duty—a duty that, after each incident, left her reeling with sickness.
The day has been exhausting, and the thought of ending it in Rendel’s bed already leaves her feeling debilitated.
“Grayson.” She leans forward with her hands flat on the smooth surface of her desk. “I cannot be with him tonight. Please-”
Grayson’s eyes do not hold a shred of emotion. “Ma’am, King Rendel has requested your presence.”
