“If I can best you tomorrow, give your wife my regards. Do not worry about Samson. If I win, I will ensure he dies.”
“I suggest you get some sleep. Till tomorrow.”
“Till tomorrow.” He hides the small gray box from Godwyn and collapses in his bed for a restless night.
October 29th, Year 100, 9th Era
Treland Arena
Fuck this morning is the end.
Already, the hallways are alight with flickering torches, and he can hear Champ shuffling around his cell.
Sigvid dons himself in combatant armor, carefully tightening his belt and adjusting the gauntlets over his wrists. He focuses on the floor before tying his leather boots.
“Grim?”
“Are you ready for this fucking horse and pony show?” Champ answers.
He bursts out laughing. “You have never said it better, my friend.”
Heavy footfalls echo outside in the corridor. Sigvid does not lift his eyes this time to see who has come to mock them. He already knows which asshole found the impending death of one or both of them to be amusing.
“Ready to make me richer?” The Battlemaster’s voice booms.
Sigvid exhales loudly, wondering how difficult it would be to strangle him through the bars on his door.
If I must listen to that man anymore, he will force me to carve out his voice box.
“Fuck off, shit for brains.” Sigvid snarls.
The Battlemaster presses his nasty face against the bars on the door. His voice lowers so only Sigvid can hear. “You forget this is neutralground, Beast. I wonder how you would feel watching me fuck your Queen while you’re chained and helpless? Oh yes, Salt Prince, that’s your fate if you are victorious. Watching me fuck your girl. Get out there and die like a good boy.” His thick boots clop away, leaving them alone.
Sigvid can no longer hear the faint crackling of the torches or Grim shuffling into his armor. All the Salt Prince can hear is a roaring in his ears that drowns out everything, including his thoughts.
He adjusts his bracers so feverishly that he snaps the ties, breaking the one for his left arm. “How are you doing over there, Champ? Are you ready to die to make this shithead money?”
“Cannot wait.”
He shakes with fury as he adjusts his belt. The Battlemaster does not have the guts to touch Avina.
He wants to get under my skin, and why is it fucking working? And why the fuck do I care about the Timber Queen? I don’t fucking care.
Crimson tinges his sight at the thought of anyone touching her. His berserker power shivers up his spine, threatening to unleash in his cell.
He settles enough to finish dressing and stands in full armor—a leather chest piece with studs that match his bracers and grieves. Not as well-designed or consecrated with runes as his Salt armor that the Battlemaster burned.
Luckily, he has more pieces at home.
Just not a soft lock of gold that smells of lavender and roses. He would need to abduct the source to rectify that atrocity.
Godwyn and another guard arrive to take them to their respective combatants’ gates.
Sigvid focuses on controlling his furious breathing over the Battlemaster’s comments. Instead, he concentrates on this twisting sensation in his stomach that makes him uneasy. Rarely does he experience uncertainty about anything.
My plan will work.He reassures himself before sliding his blackwood axes to Godwyn while the other guard shackles his wrists, leading him to where Grim waits.
The four men move along the main hallway, with the clank of the combatant’s chains echoing in the corridor. Grim and his handler bearto the right to ascend to the first combatant gate while Godwyn tugs Sigvid toward the portcullis at the opposite end of the Arena.
