“You’re full of it, Bravnak,” Daavyn rumbled.
“I’m telling you, I heard them,” Bravnak insisted. “The boss was furious. Veins popping, the whole show. But Prince Isan didn’t back down. He told the Commander that we needed to be in the Summer League.”
Raaze froze.
Summer League. There was only one Summer League. It was the celebrity warball competition broadcast across the entire Empire every midsummer. Every major clan, every celebrity team, every scout looking for the next big contract would be in it.
“Summer League?” Sorrath scoffed. “They’d never let us play. We’re monsters, remember? The Empire would have a stroke if they saw an Izaean on a pitch. They pretty much piss themselves every time they’re forced to rub shoulders with us on the battlefield.”
“That’s what Raalt said,” Bravnak shot back. “Said it was too risky. Said if the Empire sees us, like really sees us, then we’re in a shitload of trouble. They’ll do for us like they did for the Vorrtan.”
Straightening, Raaze walked toward the group. He kept the sphere in one hand, passing it from hand to hand with a casual looseness.
“You’re hearing things, Bravnak,” he said, hurling the sphere at the crate in the middle of the chattering group. It hit dead centre with a sharp ‘crack’. “I reckon the heat’s cooked your brain. What’s left of it, anyway.”
Bravnak bristled. Predictable as a sunrise. “I heard it clearly. I was patching the comms unit. Raalt said we’re a liability. But Prince Isan… he said we shouldn’t be prisoners for a mutation we were born with. He said it’s time we took our place in the Empire and made them respect us.”
Raaze crossed his arms. “The prince said that?”
“Word for word. Said we could field a team. Show them we’re not just animals.”
Well. Trall.
He’d written Isan off as a pampered royal. Raalt’s silver-haired son who’d probably never had to fight for anything harder than a better table at a restaurant. A pretty face for the garrison’s PR. But standing up to Raalt… who no one would argue was the scariest mother-draanther on the planet… Arguing for respect for a group of exiles the Empire had already flushed down the drain? He hadn’t expected that.
Oh… so pretty boy does have a spine. Well, trall. That’s annoying.
It was so much easier to despise the whole system if everyone in charge was an asshole.
“So when’s the tryout?” Daavyn asked, looking at his claws. “If the Prince is setting it up…”
“He’s not.” Bravnak deflated. “He left. Middle of the night, last night. Took his ship and vanished. Raalt was shouting about that, too.”
“He left?” Raaze kept his voice flat, but his fingers dug into his own bicep until the muscle ached.
“Yeah.” Bravnak nodded. “Gone. Probably halfway to Lathar Prime by now.”
Gone.
Plan A. That had been Plan A. Since his second day here, he’d been tracking the docking schedules. Planning exactly how he was going to charm, barter, or stow away on the Prince’s personal transport. The only ship with diplomatic clearance. The only clean way off this rock.
And he’d slept through it.
“Draanth,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He pushed off the crate. “Just marveling at the incompetence of our leadership. Losing a prince seems somewhat careless.”
Turning, he walked to the edge of the pitch. He needed space. Needed to not punch Bravnak in his loose-lipped mouth.
The Summer League.
For four seconds, okay, maybe five… he let himself go there.
The lights. The roar of the crowd that sounded like static in your bones. The smell of the turf and the electric tang of the energy barriers. He could lead this team, he knew he could. Whip these idiots into shape. He knew the plays, knew the politics, knew how to work a referee until he gave you the call just to shut you up. He could be Raaze again. The celebrity. The legend.
Then the reality crashed down.
