“I’m going to need the panicborn to keep everyone quiet,” you said as the rumble of the crowd increased in fervor. Nothing like a deathmatch to activate their bloodlust. At the issuance of your command, everyone fell silent, and even the sounds of shuffling ceased, but if they wanted a fair fight, this was far from it.
“Proceed,” Aretha announced, and the warborn advanced, back hunched slightly, sword raised in an attacking position.
You moved in a diagonal direction, silent on your bare feet. The warborn tested your mettle with a half-hearted strike, which you deftly dodged. A few people in the crowd drew a sharp intake of breath, while I could only curse you mightily and pray that you’d not be wounded beyond repair.
And then the fight began in earnest with the warborn swinging his blade in one smooth upward arc. I thought for certain it was going to vivisect your torso, and I’d witness your guts spilling onto the floor, but in a flash of movement, you brought down your sword. It collided with the warborn’s bulky steel in a deafening ring. You lifted your blade then for an overhead strike, but instead of following through, you lifted your leg and kicked your opponent square in the solar plexus. The warborn gasped, the wind knocked out of him. The crowd yelled and surged forward. The panicborn managed to quell them before the next blow landed, a strike aimed at your temple that you countered with your sword at a perpendicular angle. The warborn’s blade came within inches of slicing off your ear, and I hoped the ringing of metal wouldn’t damage your sensitive hearing.
And then you swiveled and spun, so light on your feet as you climbed the low steps of the dais. The warborn followed in pursuit, but instead of striking at his head, you dropped down into a low squat and swept his legs from under him. The man went sprawling backwards down the stairs, almost comical in his clumsiness. His expression, when he rose, was one of rage. He leapt up, sword pointed straight out, and attempted a horizontal lunge, which you cast away like swatting a fly. You backed up on the platform, enticing him to chase you around the throne, before jumping down onto the floor again. There you paused, listening for him to follow. The warborn, wise to your tricks, let his sword fly in an attempt to spear you from above. You feinted at the last moment, turning slightly so that the edge of his blade glanced off your breast plate but caught your upper arm. A long, deep gash bloomed on your skin. I struggled against Lucian’s hold, my eyes shooting him fiery daggers of death. He only positioned his hands in a halting gesture, not giving me even an inch to maneuver.
The warborn seemed puzzled as to why you wouldn’t capture his discarded weapon, but your powers of perception were limited to creatures with a pulse or machines that buzzed and whirred. So, while you may have had an idea as to where the sword had landed, there was no way you could retrieve it safely and without being overtaken. And if it came to a grappling match, you’d surely lose. The warborn took up a defensive stance, eyeing his piece just a few meters away. A seasoned warrior would have finished him then while he was defenseless, but you backed away, allowing him a wide berth to collect his blade, giving him yet another chance to best you.
Stupid, reckless boy.
Facing off again, you presented the warborn with your bloody arm, sword resting lightly on your shoulder. The warborn seemed out-of-sorts, audibly panting, and judging from the fury on his face, humiliated as well, which made him even more dangerous. This time he attacked with a diagonal downward cut. You jumped back and swiftly dropped your sword to parry, then swung upward so that your opponent’s arm lifted into the air. The force of it caused his blade to go flying. Seizing your opportunity, you placed your blade against his neck and said, “surrender.”
“Warborn fight to the death,” Hyas announced from where he’d been pacing along the perimeter of your battle zone.
You tore off your blindfold and glared at him. “Why train a warrior for decades only to sacrifice them in a stupid pissing contest? That’s an enormous waste of resources, time, and talent.”
“We don’t take orders from the bloodborn,” he said, “and we don’t take orders from you.”
“I’m not going to kill him.” You lowered your sword, making the gravest of mistakes. Assuming the warborn had honor, you turned your back on the wounded man. Lucian’s concentration wavered for the briefest moment, and I grabbed a dart from my wrist and flung it at him. It struck Lucian in the chest, and I didn’t wait to see him fall. The warborn had already retrieved his blade, and not one of your spectators had warned you.
I closed the distance in just a few strides, gathering my sword as I swept across the floor. Before the warborn could land his weapon in what would surely be a death blow, my metal was already lodged in his lower intestine. I drove my blade upward, through his digestive track, severing his ribcage and splitting him open like a flayed fowl. The aroma of blood, feces, and digestive acids filled the hall as his innards spilled onto the floor. When you turned, your expression was one of shock and betrayal, that a man would cut you down from behind after you’d argued for his life. Because you hadn’t been raised to be vicious. It was one of the things I loved about you—your capacity for mercy—but in situations like these, it was your downfall.
Your eyes met mine in momentary relief before your face settled into a scowl.
“Looks like bloodborn aren’t the only ones who fight dirty,” you said and shot an accusing glare at Aretha, who only pursed her lips in consternation.
“Like I said,” she said icily. “We fight to the death.”
“Are we done here?” I asked gruffly, aiming my inquiry at Lena, no doubt the mistress of this spectacle. Lucian had collapsed on the floor, but other than a throbbing headache, he’d be all right.
“Your rooms have all been prepared,” Lena said, her smile a little too jovial for my liking. “I invite you all to join us this evening for our First Feast to witness entertainments unlike any you’ve ever seen before.”
I wanted to grab you by both arms and shake you. Or throw you over my shoulder and haul you off. But I only shouted tersely above the din. “Our rooms. Now.”
Alone in ourbedroom with the door locked, I unleashed my fury at what you’d done—putting yourself in danger, caging me inside my own body, blindfolding yourself, and foolishly turning your back on a bloodthirsty warborn.
“You could have been killed,” I roared.
“But I wasn’t.”
“You prevented me from doing my duty. And forced me to watch.”
You met my gaze but didn’t apologize. “You have to let me lead.”
You sat down on your cat’s preferred chair with utter calm. The animal jumped onto your lap, and you stroked its back, both of you staring at me with inscrutable expressions that reminded me too much of Lena. Angered by your impassivity, I wanted to smack you, hard.
“Stay right there. I’ll be out in the hallway.”
“You can’t even be in the same room as me?” you asked haughtily, but there was a tremor in your voice.
“Not right now.” I’d never been so furious at you before, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. The solution, it seemed, was to pace the hallway outside our rooms until my vision cleared, and I no longer wanted to throttle you. By the time I returned, you’d fallen asleep on top of the made bed, wearing only your underwear and clutching a pillow to your abdomen. The gash on your arm from the warborn’s blade had begun healing itself, though the area was still bruised with flakes of dried blood clinging to your skin. At the foot of the bed, your cat guarded you, tail flicking back and forth as if to taunt me.
You looked so young while you slept, and I could see the boy you’d once been—precocious and carefree with an insatiable curiosity. Safe in my arms. I didn’t want any of them to hurt you. And they would hurt you. I’d be forced to stand by and let it happen. Powerless to stop it.
