Page 62 of Black Sea

I dug my nails into his arm out of spite. Then we entered the hall.

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“Ah! There they are!” Roxior exclaimed, his voice booming, cutting through the surrounding chatter and the music coming from the small group of musicians in the center of the room.

Everyone turned to us, their faces lit up, and a unified applause echoed through the hall.

Roxior navigated through the myriad of guests and acrobats, their half-naked bodies adorned with gold paint, until he arrived at the high threshold where we stood. His cheeks were flushed from the wine that spilled from the glass he held, leaving a mark on the hem of his white and blue toga as he stumbled to a halt.

“Your Highness,” he greeted me with a bow so deep that he almost spilled his drink completely. “Your beauty is beyond words.” He nodded to Amlach, twisting his lips at the sight of Amlach’s sewn wound. “That was close, Commander.”

Amlach half-smiled. “I’ll live.”

But Roxior was right. Had the blade penetrated slightly more, it would have severed the main artery. The very thought made my blood run cold and my stomach knot up. In the next fight, I vowed to pay closer attention and ensure he didn’t get even a scratch.

“You’d better hope you do.” Roxior took a sip of his wine. “Are you ready to party?”

“Can’t wait to show the elf how much fun we mortals can have,” Amlach said with a grin.

The elderly man burst into a short laugh, giving him a pat on the arm. “Well said, lad!”

Amlach winked at me. I shot him a glare before swiftly putting on a fake smile for Master Roxior.

Encouraged by wine, he boldly took my free hand and pressed a sticky kiss on my knuckles. Yet, when I caught a subtle warning in his gaze not to stir trouble, I realized that his cheerful demeanor was just a facade.

He was more than vigilant.

And he was up to something.

I extended my pinkie to brush Amlach’s and gain his attention, but before I could even glance at him, Roxior rapped the ring on his index finger against his chalice to quiet the crowd.

When the musicians raised bows and fingers from the instruments, Roxior began with his deep voice, “Dear friends and guests, I am pleased to introduce Princess Nauriel, daughter and heir of Erech, King of the Elves, and Amlach Pýrós, commander of King Amlach III’s army in the Kingdom of Men.”

Numerous glasses were lifted in our honor, as the attendees’ gazes lingered on us with such desire that I instinctively moved a bit closer to Amlach.

“Let the fun begin!” Roxior declared, spilling more wine as he dramatically lifted his glass. He gulped down the last of his drink in an unrefined manner, staining his white mustache and prompting a servant to swiftly arrive with a tray that held a freshly filled glass.

From that moment, Masters and Mistresses approached us with their gladiators in tow to pay their respects.

I doled out smiles that didn’t touch my eyes, trying to discern which individuals had plotted against Roxior and his lover. Yet, they all appeared so at ease and friendly, even the gladiators, who relished the abundant food, drinks, and company, as if they were not slaves but equals to their owners.

The celebration continued with streams of red and white wine, alongside various liqueurs flowing from the fountains on the lengthy refreshment tables. As the laughter grew louder, the dancing became increasingly bold, leaving me both embarrassed and captivated by those movements, which were so different from the ones of elven dances. So obscene.

So carnal.

As the evening went on, surrounded by the drooling gazes of men boring me with questions about my own people and the alluring looks of women striving to capture Amlach’s attention, I observed that some gladiators had drifted away from their owners and were entertaining themselves with other Masters or Mistresses.

And they looked pretty . . . intimate.

So, once we concluded our conversation with a distinguished red-haired Master clad in amaranth robes and accompanied by his gladiators—who appeared to be siblings, given their resemblance and identical black almond-shaped eyes—I turned to Roxior with a decisive look.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

The man took a bite of a tart from a passing servant’s tray, washed it down with a sip of wine, and then leaned in to speak to me in a low voice. “What you see here, Your Highness, are the gladiators earning the favor of the great Houses of Rubra.”

“Earning?” I echoed him with a skeptical frown.

“With their bodies, Elf,” Amlach whispered in my ear.