He stares down at his friend with a mixture of exhaustion and sadness.
When he reaches the portcullis gate leading from the ramp to his cell, he finds it rattling open at a snail’s pace, which enrages him.
“Open this fucking gate!” He snarls at the guard on the other side.
When the gate is half open, he grips the iron and throws the rest of it open. He knocks over the guard, turning the mechanism.
“Wait, stop!” A second set of footsteps thuds behind him. “You must be chained and escorted back to your cell. Combatant!”
He continues stomping back to his room. “I am the fucking Arena Grand Champion, and I am returning to my cell. If you can fucking catch me, then you can fucking escort me.”
When the sentry finally catches up to him and attempts to lock shackles on his wrists, they are already standing outside his cell door.
“Fucking open my door.” He growls so low he’s not sure the man heard.
“You don’t command me!” The guard huffs.
Sigvid takes a deep breath, and he strangles the guard until he drops his keys. While holding him up against the wall, Sigvid plucks the keys from the ground, opens the cell door, and strides inside. He throws the keys at the sentry, still trying to catch his breath on the ground.
He slams shut his cell door and sits on his bed with his blackwood axes in his lap.
18
AVINA
October 29th, Year 100, 9th Era
Treland Arena
The roaring cheers from the Arena are deafening. Avina tries in vain to stifle the growing smile after watching Sigvid fight with his bare hands. His prowess as a warrior never ceases to amaze her.
Her heart had taken a barrage of emotions after discovering Sigvid Thordsson's true identity all those weeks ago. Ever since he nearly ravaged her in her father’s office, he has become her fantasy mystery man—the Salt warrior, whom she imagined would slay Rendel, then break down the doors of Scarwood Citadel and whisk her away to a happier place.
And then, against all odds, he does remove Rendel’s head from his shoulders. However, he left her alone in Timber to pick up the pieces.
She painted him as her mythical Salt warrior without knowing her fantasy man, and Sigvid are the same. His letters spoke to her soul, tugging at the part of her that wanted nothing more than to be loved.
To be desired.
To be seen.
Bertie’s dour opinion of her dark obsession with the Salt Prince will sober her from these thoughts. Even her father can’t help but notice her sick fixation with the Beast.
I cherished our shared moments of passion like a summer storm. Explosive, beautiful yet fleeting, leaving nothing but destruction. During those tumultuous flashes of lightning, I was the only woman alive to the only man who mattered.
What a foolish girl I was to think the Salt Prince was more than any other man, that perhaps he could see me as just Avina and not Queen Avina of Timber, Rendel’s wife.
Her childish notions of a happily ever after are long dead, buried with the marriage accord she uncovered as a child. The same document that fueled her fascination with him in the first place.
Now she knows it must have been a mistake. A draft of a life that will never be, with a man whose sole focus is on blood and pussy.
She slips from her box seat to escape to the inn before the madness of the crowd swamps the halls.
Not a soul wanders the outer corridors of the Arena as she treks to the main floor from the lower viewing seats. A glance through the arched open windows into the ring shows the other combatant’s body carefully removed.
She turns her gaze toward the front doors.
How fast would the inn staff draw a hot bath with extra lavender salts?
