A heartbeat passes, and then another as the two Drengr stare at seemingly nothing. She releases her hold on the handle, letting the door slam shut.
No one has ever escaped in Treland Arena's history, and no fight outside of the ring is ever political. She is safe in the holding cells.
No one can escape Treland Arena.
Right?
Avina runs the length of the corridors filled with hundreds of cells until she dead ends into a stone wall, signaling the end of her search for a hiding spot.
Diving to the left, she finds the final sets of cells. Each is much nicer than the others and includes four solid walls instead of exposure to adjacent cells. The only window is a group of bars higher up on the door. Looking through, she sees each furnished with a cot, blanket, pillow, and rug.
These must be the cells for sponsored fighters.
Why is all this familiar?
Oh yeah, I stumbled down here while I was drunk to tell Sigvid off, and he devoured me like a god.
Good going, Avina.
Which meanshiscell is nearby.
Somehow, that knowledge calms her more than anything else. Hiding outside his cell still seems the safest location. At least, for her, it will be.
Now, her footsteps are more intentional. She will hide at the end of Sigvid’s corridor until the battle ends. Along her way out, she will knick clothes and then sneak out through the backdoor.
When she reaches the end of the row, she approaches two sealed doors. The first looks lived in, with no one inside. A shiver runs up her spine as she realizes this is the cell of the previous Champion.
The one Sigvid just defeated.
Which means the final cell belongs to the Salt Prince.
Her heart now beats as if it is determined to leave her chest. Each step closer brings excitement between her legs despite her near-crippling fear of being discovered.
She slaps her cheeks in an attempt to gather her senses.
He is a dangerous war criminal, no matter how warm his gaze felt on mine. I must tread carefully here.
Standing on her tiptoes, she peers through the bars to find Prince Sigvid Thordsson.
The broad-shouldered warrior hunches on his cot while he sharpens the axes she designed for him. His armor still clings to his chiseled muscles like a second skin. His russet braid and beard are both frizzed and coated in dirt. She gasps, drinking in his rugged features, coated red with blood.
He looks like a god.
Either hearing or sensing her presence, his head snaps up.
She hunkers down, pressing her back against the stone wall.
Everything from that erotic night came flooding back in a fury of shame and arousal. The tightness of the cold chains against her body. How drunk she was on that damn wine. His touch was like lightning across her skin. Even more than the sexual connection they ignited was the sensual caress of his words. No matter how dirty or degrading they were.
Resigning to pass the time quietly, she slides to the ground and stretches her legs out in front of her. She can hear the satisfying strike of metal on metal from inside his cell as he sharpens his blades. Laying the back of her head against the wall, she lets her eyes flutter to a close.
This is my life now. I am running from my father,Samson, and the entire bloody country. Perhaps if the warriors unlock Sigvid’s door, he will end my miserable existence with the axes I had crafted for his hands.
The thought feels terrifying, yet a rare peace washes through her mind at the notion of joining her Goddess rather than living a life everyone wishes would be swapped for someone better.
Her father always wanted a son. Rendel wanted a beautiful, fertile woman. Samson wants someone pliant. Sigvid wants her to die.
Perhaps it was the comfort she felt at distancing herself from Samson or the far-off breathing of Sigvid, but a cooling sensation slid over her skin.
