Chapter 42

The palace guard's definition of 'prepare' is to have all of us purebloods rounded up like a horde of slaves, and packed into a bullock wagon, pulled by oxen. We could not even travel by our own carousine, instead, we travel like we are a pen of dirty animals. An imperial carriage from the palace follows behind us. And the full Avangard squadron tails them.

I stifle a groan.

Descending from the palace down to the city, the wagon rocks destructively from side to side. The road is gravelly, rock-strewn, but it seems that everything might fall off its hinges at any given moment, stirring an acquainted nausea in my stomach.

Is it possible to be lightheaded but still feel like your head weighs a ton?

"So, my fellow candidates," Brennon exclaims over the clangour of hooves and rolling stones. "While we despise each other's existence. Does anyone have any last words they wish to share as we are being shuttled to our deaths?"

"Yes," Treyton says, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. "If they do not slay you in the games, I will slit you myself."

Deep chuckles rumble all around.

"Watch yourself, Treyton," Zekei warns playfully. His short-cropped hair is a leaden grey. Vivid against his bronze skin. "If you wish to slay him, get in the back of the line," he says from his flank. Seated on the opposite bench from me, clasping his hand on his shoulder to give it a vigorous shake.

"This cannot be, can it?" Tamani asks, agitated. He fretfully pushes back a few wisps of his lank hair, aligned with his narrow jaw. "The Blood Games are famed for hosting matches that are to the death, never has they not been. What if one of us perishes?"

"Then my father will call to arms," Markiveus says smugly. "To avenge me, and as a reward to restore Sorcia into what it once was and what it always will be. All this glamourous architecture does not conceal the savages that they truly are. The Blood Games is proof of that."

Vince frees an interrupting, insincere laugh.

All in the wagon look at him.

"The only thing your father will do is hold a party in your name," he says, and he lifts his hand, holding up an invisible chalice, feigning a salute. "To celebrate the loss of one less problem."

The ride to the colosseum is an arduous one. It seems the whole of Sorcia has been summoned to the Capital, jamming the pathways. The call of the Blood Games, trafficking in the masses of every Sorcian that dwell both within and without the city.

Eventually, we arrive.

They direct us to the colosseum from a side threshold that leads to a tunnel of dusty and dark passages. The cold stone walls are weather-worn. Duce Merian, our Avangard squadron with Zulan accompanies us. And she has an escort of a handful of palace guards that pioneer ahead. After a series of turns, we exit the warren passages to the underground dungeons. Which are surprisingly more spacious than I thought, but exactly as petrifying to look upon as expected. Everything inside, if not dark brown, mushroomed stone. Its decomposed black coat drips off like dead skin.

The putrid stench is unbearable and more frighteningly too potent to identify. It invades my senses so much I can taste the foul air, every speck of grimy filth. Already some cells brim with prisoners, fighters, victims of others' blood lust. What is more nerve-racking is that not a single sound echoes from their horrid faces. They only glare, glowering at us as if searching for weaknesses.

From there we all split up. The Herems, Duce Merian, a few palace guards, and all the other Avangard soldiers leave in one direction. Zulan and I, along with the rest of the guards, go in the other direction. Zulan leads me through the crumbling scene of deteriorating walls and decrepit cells.

"Did the High King sanction our Sororder?"

Zulan glances at me, giving me a scathing once-over. "He's the one that proposed it. The instructions given to His Holiness about the new mandate of the Shalem protocols, were brief and vague. He claimed that the one worthy will learn and comprehend when it matters most as to the reason why."

I free a bitter scoff. "Killing? Senseless killing will never merit reason."

She glares back at me, cutting me with a sharp look. From the succession of cells on our one flank, demeaning shouts and degrading whistles emanate from them all in a sickening raucous.

"Is it so difficult to believe that he sanctioned your Sororder?" Zulan asks, her tone dull from exasperation.

I look ahead as we approach the armoury. "Is it difficult to believe that he sanctioned for us to be a part of this barbarism? Then yes."

Zulan's glare cuts deeper. "Mind your ignorance," she cautions. "The Blood Games signifies the rise of this blest domain. Sorcia was imprisoned as a colony, its people enslaved, riches plundered. When the scourge battles occurred, the Pavelia wars...."

She halts us both at the entrance of the armoury.

"Sorcia had to not only fight for victory. But it also had to fight for liberation, twice as hard as any other. The Blood Games symbolises the bloodshed to raise Sorcia's standing to the glory it is today. Do not let your ignorance speak for you."

My anger boils, heating my skin from within.

"And do not give rise to your emotions—," my volume increasing, my tone imperious, "—and forget to whom you speak with, Hische." I allow my calm to diffuse my anger. "I am a descendant of Regnum Valwa. I know the history of every domain under the Crown's banner, your people's past suffering is not lost on me."

She turns her gaze to the ground in forced deference.

"I am aware, but that does not justify enslaving others, those fighters, for a morbid spectacle to commemorate your fallen by just spilling more blood. Knowing how that was for your domain, I find it to be cruel that Sorcia would enforce it on others."

Zulan nods stiffly, intertwining her fingers before her. "And I respect your perspective, Hera," she says, compellingly genuine. "Forgive my outburst. But I stand by my words. Our ways are our ways."

I nod back with a mutual compromise. "And I respect yours."

She looks back at the guards and tells them to wait outside. She and I enter the armoury of rows and rows of discoloured spears, along with racks of blunt-looking swords. And bundles of leather armour collected in the corners. But we are not alone, a seemingly eerie being stands in the centre. He swivels around slowly. Bright yellow reptilian eyes stare back at us with thin black pupils. The dark-skinned male has two bands of black tattoos that run down his bald head. Beneath his eyes looks like black powder has been smeared around it, only intensifying his stare.

Those shiny yellow eyes fasten on me. "You must be the sole Hera I heard about." He articulates each syllable with a lengthy hiss. "A highborn...a woman."

"Thank you for that clarification, Mowent," Zulan says dryly.

His face deadpans as he chucks a glance at her. "Always a pleasure, witch," he says with equal loathing. "You are all in my domain here, Zuzu. This is my world. I hold the power here, sanctioned by His Holiness himself. So you can go and keep his lap warm."

"I know this," she says tightly. "At least let me help the Hera into her armour, then I will abscond."

Mowent cackles, and his mischievous gaze glides back onto me. "Oh, I have no problem doing that part meself."

"Mowent," she reproaches sharply.

He flicks a sloppy hand of approval. "Very well," he exaggerates in a long draw. "I'll wait just outside, but don't keep me waiting too long." Jagged claws elongate from his fingers.

He flashes his yellowish fangs before he slithers out of the armoury. As said, Zulan helps me gear up into flaccid leather armour that leaves my stomach completely bare and vulnerable. Not to mention the gold-studded, miniature leather skirt. And flat sandals with wide cross straps that end below my knees.

Zulan casts a few furtive glances over her shoulder. Then she faces me with a daring look on her face, like she's about to do something criminal. "Perhaps a few finishings will not hurt."

She lifts a hand, fingers sprawled at me—my instincts shove me a step back.

"I will not harm you, Hera," she says warily, and her face twists into a pensive look.

Gradually, she clenches the raised hand. Promptly steel plates begin to materialise from thin air, forming, forging into a breastplate, integrating into the leather armour that shields half of my torso with the royal blue hemming, repeated on the edging. Metal shin guards emerge over the wide cross straps, matching steel vambraces on my forearms lined with the same royal blue hemming. Even a few pieces of armour steel on the skirt; belted at the waist.

Her hand in a ball. My attire is reinforced with steel augmentations.

I examine her work, nodding theatrically. "My odds of living have just tripled." My fingers inspect my hard and exposed stomach. "Perhaps you can conjure up an underbust vest...and possibly lengthen my skirt?"

She purses her lips. "No...I think it may be to your advantage. You may be a fighter, but all your challengers will only see a woman, and all its features in its glory. Flaunt and distract." She snaps her fingers like an idea had struck her. "But I will give you this." Her fingers flutter and she swishes her hand downwards gracefully. Immediately, a bolt of royal blue unfurls behind me, hovering above the ground.

I revolve around like a hound chasing its own tail. Sterling silver clasps clutch onto the vibrant blue cape at my shoulders as it streams down to my ankles, sieved with gold edges. My hair is already bound in a simple high ponytail, with a single braid plaited in the centre. Zulan and I exit. She wishes me well before she and her guards depart, and I am left alone with Mowent.

"Hera," he says, bowing his torso deeply, rolling his hand in an exaggerated flourish. "The mere sight of you will conquer all."

I stare at him blankly.

"The Blood Games will only start in a few more hours. Soon the stands will fill with adoring crowds...all screaming for blood. Whilst you wait, let me show you to your lavish quarters. The finest we have here."

While we voyage through the fiend-filled abyss. The fighters spew a litany of curses in terse-sounding languages both known and unknown. But that can be translated by their livid shouting and flying spittle.

I flick a glance at him. "You must be the Quartermaster?"

He expands his arms out with the utmost melodrama. "The one and only, Hera. I'm in charge of these bloodthirsty lot."

He stops me at an empty cell, and I turn to face it. "What—" he shoves me inside with minimal force—I spin around and he slides the gate shut.

I dash to it, latching my fingers around the corroded bars; the rust scratching my palms. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, sunshine? I'm locking ya up. Just like the other savages here, I'll release you when it's time to fight and put on a show."

"I am a Hera. You will not cage me up like I'm some kind of animal!" Rattling the bars belligerently, the rust piercing my skin.

Mowent blares a malicious cackle. "Oh, the crowd is going to love ya, Hera."

"Let. Me. Out."

He shrugs innocently, like it's out of his control. "No can do, Hera. Because today, you are nothing but a worthless, dirty animal that will fight when commanded or die."

He slithers closer, staring up at me with his head tilted downwards. "Your title, your nobility, means nothing here. You fight or die; I don't care for which just as long as you keep the crowd entertained."

He points to something behind me. I whip my head back to follow his line of sight to a nauseating bucket in the corner, besmirched with dried faeces. Disgust rots my face. I look back at him with wide—almost pleading—eyes.

"If you need to relieve yourself," he says in mock consideration. "And don't worry, it's a noble bucket, no splinters. I hope to see you alive after this."

He flashes one last grin before he disappears.

"Mowent."

"Mowent!"

***

Beads of water drip down from the darkness above.

Seated against the ancient stone wall of the cube-shaped cell. Mouldy. Smothered by the unlivable space, choked by a range of odours. My horror mounts at a steady incline with my pity for those who suffer every moment by living in these terrifying conditions. Staring absently past the line of rusty steel bars to the impenetrable gloom ahead. I have spent an untold time listening to the bustle grow on the upper level. The colosseum filling from distant whispers to resonating clamours. However, being caged in this asphyxiating cell…I'm a prisoner of my mind, under siege by my own qualms.

I will fight, and I can fight well.

But can I kill?

I question both my skill and will to do so.

To take a life.

I have never done so before, but if I don't my own will be taken.

I am trained. I can hunt.

But can I kill?

Suddenly, a loud bang breaks the stillness. The noise repeats, ensued by a shriek of metal. Rasping clatters grow, echoing off the ancient stone walls.

"Where is she!" Kelan.

Using the wall, I slide up. A collection of hurrying footsteps, the heavy clomping of boots loudens with a chorus of helpless whimpers. Soon Kelan appears before the rusted teeth of the cell, gripping onto the scruff of a squire's collar before he jams his head into the bars. Face crushed against it.

"How dare you imprison her, a pureblood, a Hera," he seethes into his ear. "If I find him, you will be in need of a new Quartermaster!"

The scrawny being fumbles for his pocket. He draws out a jingling set of keys slotted together in one ring. His hand still trembling, he inserts a key into the lock of my gate, freeing me. He slides it aside, but he doesn't make it halfway before Kelan rips him off and shoves him away. Kelan yanks the gate fully open and I approach him calmly, whereas he stares at me like I was being held hostage for a cycle.

"Were you harmed?" His hands cup my face, inspecting me for wounds. Then he examines my new attire, his eyes enlarge, then they meet with mine again. "This is...new."

I lift my hand to curl my fingers around his wrist tenderly. "I thought you were supposed to depart? Do you not have your duty to fulfil, Primus?"

Both of his thumbs brush against my cheeks in a delicate caress, bubbling sensations left in the wake of his touch. "I sent my second-in-command; he will go in my stead. And later I will answer when I'm called." He fixes his gaze on me with a fiery look. "My allegiance is to my duty, but my duty is to..."

He withdraws from me, taking his warmth with him.

My hand teeters before it drops to my side awkwardly. "You know generally when someone cares for another, they would want to shield them from harm."

He lifts a solitary brow. "Are you referring to the Blood Games? Now why should I defend you when you can defend yourself? I would not have allowed it if I knew that you could not. You are more than capable."

Even facing probable death. A smile flourishes on my face.

He jerks his chin in the direction he came from. "We need to go. I must equip you with a worthy blade. The ones here are blunt."

Which they did deliberately, for grisly purposes.

Soundlessly, we walk together. In the near distance, audible arguing swells. By the sounds of the haughty tones, over-privileged tenors, and vexing voices. Clearly the Herems. We round a short curve. It reveals the Herems encircled around Duce Merian, who looks like he's slowly dying on the inside.

All of the Herems' bare and barrel chests are exposed, wearing gladiator skirts, armed with a double leather shoulder larp or a single black pauldron shoulder armour. Brennon, of course, is spearheading the riot of angered shouting. Abruptly his fervour dwindles as his gaze falls on me, steering all of their attention my way.

"I see you were still held up in your cell." Words uttered in the pinnacle of disdain. "How nice of you to finally join us," he says harshly. "While you were occupied trying to look like the goddess of war. We are trying to comprehend why we are being pitted against actual gladiators."

I catch my jaw before it can drop to the ground.

My gaze snaps to an unremorseful-looking Duce. "We are going to fight real gladiators?"

Solaris bops his head in a way that he nearly breaks his neck. "Yes, we are to face bloodthirsty fiends and possibly be maimed for the pleasure of Sorcia."

"What is the dilemma?" Duce Merian asks casually. "You have been trained to fight all your lives. What is the difference in this instance?"

Markiveus barks a hollow laugh. "Trained to fight, but not gladiators. And the difference is that we can all potentially perish. Are you not concerned about slaying the future High King before he has even become a King?"

"If he is worthy to be King, destined to rule. He shall live," he says through clamped teeth, visibly trying to rein in his frustration.

"So we are to be butchers for sport or possibly the ones being butchered. All for repulsive entertainment," Treyton says, arms strained, muscles rigid. "What if we perish? We are purebloods. If one of us perishes, our Regnum will channel their anger towards Sorcia. And the Decuria will join to punish Sorcia, which means a military confrontation."

Duce Merian looks like he's moments from yawning. Unfazed. "If any of you refuse, you will be disqualified from the King Trials. A royal carriage awaits just outside if anyone's balls have seized up."

The threat demands instantaneous silence.

Duce Merian revolves exaggeratedly to ensure no one opposes. "No one? Good, because there is no royal carriage. If you will excuse me, I must join the Xercra's side. I have the best seat in the house for the spectacle that is about to unfold. I hope to see all nine of you after."

Vince is disturbingly quiet and my eyes shift—Rimnick captures my gaze. His reedy lips curl, his sneer curdling my skin. Duce Merian swivels around and struts off into the opposite direction.

WELCOME, ALL, BOTH SORCIAN AND FOREIGNERS TO THE ANNUAL BLOOD GAMES!

The crowds above on the stands thunder a booming cheer. I glance up at the wisps of dust that fall from between the stone ceiling in scattered cascades.

HOWEVER, THIS CYCLE IS UNLIKE ANY OTHER. WE HAVE NOBILITY IN OUR MIDST. AND FOR THE FIRST TIME. IT WILL NOT BE YOU SERVING NOBLES BUT NOBLES SERVING YOU. PUREBLOODS OF THE DECURIA HAVE BEEN GIVEN A SORORDER!

The booming cheers that follow are a meld of both confusion and excitement, fluctuating in volume.

YES, IT IS TRUE. ALL NINE OF THE ELDEST DESCENDANTS WILL BE PARTICIPATING IN THE MATCHES THAT WILL UNFOLD. STARTING WITH THE ONLY WOMAN AMONG THEM. A HERA.

From that point on, my hearing fails. My pulse is hammering beneath my skin. Fear has me gripped in its icy siege, and like venom, it spreads through me fatally.

For whatever the announcer proclaims, all of the Herems' gaze shifts on me.

"Hera Adalia," Kelan says from my side, his voice waking me. "Your match is to begin soon; you must wait at the southeast gate. I will escort you there."

He starts first, and I follow him as we cut through the circle of Herems. We make our way in the direction that the Duce went. With each step I take, horror builds to its zenith. When the Herems are out of earshot, that is when my dread climbs to the peak of insurmountable dread.

I falter and halt, like someone pulled me back.

Kelan turns. Concern breaks through his stoniness. "Adalia?"

I shake my head once, three times, too many times. An inferno of panic erupts within me, like hot steam, it causes my eyes to mist. A lump forms in my throat.

"Ke—lan." My voice wobbles. "I cannot do this, I cannot kill."

"But you can fight," he declares. "I have gauged your skills for myself and I am never wrong. You can fight. You can triumph. Think on your Regnum, your family, do it for them. Here—" his hand darts to the grip, unsheathing his broadsword, "—take my sword, use it, and always know that I fight for you and with you. I warned you that in the Vasilias Imperii, you will face challenges that will test your will to live."

With tentative fingers, I take the sword by the grip, reviewing the craftsmanship. Gleaming Alrosia fibres flank the etched metal designs that line the spine of the blade.

"I warned you that only before death, you will come to realise who you truly are," he says with a supernatural tenderness. "And you are great. Even though I will defend you with my life, you do not need me to defend you. You are more than capable."

I swallow the lump in my throat. I force an unsteady nod.

Kelan and I journey to the southeast gate on the other side of the colosseum. When we reach it. A short paved ramp leads up to the spiked metalized grating. I can see glimpses of the arena between the precise gaps. Hostile winds blow through all of them, rustling the hem of my cape.

This is really happening...I am a fighter in the Blood Games, about to battle a gladiator.

A gladiator!

LET THE BLOOD GAMES COMMENCE WITH THE FIRST MATCH OF THE NOONTIDE. PRESENTING, THE FIRST CONTENDER. HERA ADALIA OF REGNUM VALWA.

The portcullis lurches upwards, ascending gradually. Unleashing a flood of brilliance.

And with it, so does my fear. I didn't even realise I'm walking backwards, retreating.

"I cannot do this." My words are nearly lost to the distant commotion.

"You can." Kelan grips my shoulders and spins me around to face him. His resolute belief in me is like the cure to the venom. One that mutes my fear. "This is your moment to prove to all, what I already see in you. My Adalia, my queen, you have strength like no other. It is time for you to show that to them all."

He releases me carefully and snaps a strong nod.

The speckles of mist in my eyes evaporate.

"You are afraid," he says factually. "Good, because you have the strength to overcome it."

I grip the sword readily. I inhale a breath, rallying courage.

"If I perish, Primus Kelan," I say, and I walk forward to be so close to him. My nose nearly touches his. "I want you to know. That I will haunt you for all your days."

His lips peel back into a small, bolstering smile.

Now I know I can.

I swivel from him and march up and out of the portcullis. And into the all-consuming light.