I look down and she's right. The carpeted floor is marked with drops of blood, a breadcrumb path leading directly to Red's torture chamber.
Blaire moves to step around us, then pauses.
"You'll want to clean that up as well," she continues.
Red looks like he's been struck over the head.
"Use cold water." Her tone takes on the same instructive quality I imagine she uses when teaching temple acolytes. "There's a cleaning solution in the temple stores that will remove the staining. I'll have someone leave it outside the knights' quarters."
She continues down the corridor and her footsteps fade into the distance.
Red and I remain frozen. We're both staring at the space where Blaire had been standing.
After she's gone, Red exhales. "Did that just happen? The maiden told us to throw the body in a well."
"Come on," I grunt, shifting my grip on the corpse.
"She gave us detailed cleaning advice with temperature specifications," he whispers. "Fuck, she's scarier than you."
A strange bewilderment settles over me as we make our way toward the south tower. It seems that my little fawn has more than one monster at her side.
11
Chapter 10 Svenn
The elves are not ready.
Their armies have improved from the scattered forces Rhianelle inherited. But against Eirik Bloodhound infantry? Against orc berserkers who feel no pain? They would die in droves, and their queen will blame herself for every fallen soldier.
And yet they still have time for this.
For spectacle and outrage to punish a single dwarf, while the borders bleed.
The colosseum opens before us, vast and loud. Thousands of elves fill the tiered seats, their voices creating a thunderous hum that reverberates through the circular arena. A raised dais of black marble sits at the center. I stand beside Rhianelle in the viewing box reserved for the queen and her consort. Her fingers rest lightly on the marble balustrade.
"They've already decided," she murmurs.
"I know."
Guards escort a figure onto the platform below. Hrolf stands with his eyes covered and his ears sealed by Mhlaryan elven enchantment. He cannot see the crowd or hear their fury.
The moment the dwarven prisoner appears, the colosseum erupts.
"Kill the dwarf!"
"Make him pay for Dunrovin!"
Their voices crash over us like a violent tide. Thousands of fists pump in the air, demanding blood for blood. Fathers hold children on their shoulders so they can see the terrorist who murdered their kin. They scream themselves hoarse chanting for the dwarven warrior's death.
I watch Rhianelle's jaw tighten. Her lilac eyes fix on Hrolf's helpless form. She knows as I do that this trial was orchestrated long before we arrived.
From the shadows of the arena's eastern archway, four hooded figures emerge with measured steps.
The Aeonian elders. Ancient beings who claim to be the guardians of elven purity and tradition. Their robes are deep purple, embroidered with gold thread in elven runes. The first elder raises a gnarled staff. Silence falls over the colosseum.
When they speak, their voices carry to every corner of the arena. "People of Aelfheim. We gather today to witness justice for the crimes committed against our realm."
A second elder steps forward. Their hood conceals everything except a glimpse of pale chin. "The prisoner before you is Hròlfr Dravorin, architect of death. He is the creator of the weapon that has spilled rivers of elven blood across Dunrovin."
