Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
M y hands curled into fists as I sat helplessly on the side-lines, watching the latest brawl from a seat a few rows back in the stands and imagining all the ways I might like to dismember the men in this competition.
The demonic-looking Count Cartoum fought with the pubescent teen Prince Gurvine, the count putting up a surprisingly good fight that spoke of his skill.
He used some strange moves though, throwing sand randomly left and right and moving so fast, he had managed to disorientate the prince a few times.
But Prince Gurvine had muscles of iron and was a frighteningly good fighter.
He aimed for Cartoum’s head repeatedly and with an agility that made him a fierce competitor.
Drake wouldn’t take him easily if he was forced to fight him in another round, but then again, I was fairly sure I had underestimated his efforts before seeing him defeat Kalaviv.
He may have used some less than proper tactics, but he had at least kept himself from going for the balls, so that was something.
The points he had been awarded positioned him very well indeed, and I supposed I would have been over the moon about that had I not had the unsettling feeling in my stomach that this only brought him one step closer to claiming the princess.
I’d been unable to help my eyes from wandering to her throughout the brawl, and I’d witnessed the passion in her eyes as they watched Drake’s movements.
It had angered me to see her so beguiled by him.
Was she pleased he was closer to winning her now?
Was she being swayed towards the idea of a life with him?
It wasn’t even that he was a thief that bothered me, it was that this pageant had been forced upon her and I had heard her express her disgust with this tradition many a time in the palace.
Was she won over so easily already? Truly so accepting of her fate because of a pretty face and quick-witted tongue?
My hands fisted as I tried to equate this princess with the one I thought I’d known in ways.
But perhaps I had been a fool, painting up a fake picture of her in my mind, pretending that I knew her, when really, I was just hoping I had.
Maybe my lonely existence within the Royal Guard had made me a little delusional.
Perhaps this was what she really wanted now that she had seen her options among the suitors. One option in particular.
A hard and unrelenting lump pushed at the base of my throat as I tried to let go of the jealousy searing the inside of my chest. I was teetering on the edge of my restraint, wanting to find something to destroy, burn and ruin in an effort to release some of this pent-up energy coursing through me.
But instead, I simply sat there and reminded myself I was nothing and I had no right to feel this way.
I was only a weapon branded with a number.
Although, as I lifted a hand to brush my fingers along the scar that had now formed through the number behind my ear thanks to Drake, I realised I wasn’t even that anymore.
I was decommissioned, valueless, a creature bred for one purpose which it could no longer fulfil.
Count Cartoum finally went down, and he was awarded six points while the prince took fifteen.
Gurvine approached the stage, still breathless from the fight and blushing as the crowd roared his name, applauding his victory while Count Cartoum was guided away by his entourage, a nasty bruise forming on his temple.
Austyn pinned Gurvine’s rosette to his tunic and I watched her closely, my pulse thumping in my ears as I tried to work out what she was thinking. She looked dejected and her eyes kept skimming away from Gurvine to somewhere beyond the ring like she wished to be done with her duties.
The next set of suitors appeared for their brawl and my gaze shifted from the muscular bald man, Lord Darell, to Kahn.
The more I saw of the empress’s son, the more his altered appearance set me on edge.
Apart from his size, everything about him had changed.
His once shaved head was now overflowing with auburn locks, his face chiselled as if from stone and his muscles more defined.
I turned to the royals once more as the crowd reacted to the sight of him stepping into the ring, finding Austyn glaring at Kahn with undisguised distaste.
My mouth tugged up at the corner and my gaze lingered on her as I thought about how she’d pinned that rosette to Drake’s chest and made him bleed.
I was glad that she wasn’t afraid to show him her spirit, at least. Though a twisted part of me was envious that she’d drawn blood on him, the idea of her hand spilling my own blood making my mind splinter with impure thoughts.
“My son has been gifted beauty from the Prophet of Jahalus,” Magdor announced, rising from her seat. “He is now a fine suitor for a fine princess, wouldn’t you agree, ladies and gentlemen of Osaria?”
The noblemen and women applauded, but some muttered under their breath, a ripple of concern passing through them over the use of magic, but there wasn’t the shock and outrage I’d been hoping for.
No doubt this news had already been leaked across the city, wagging tongues silenced and loyalties bought in the way only the nobles knew how.
I sat up straighter as Magdor gazed around at them, her brows pinching together as she realised her words hadn’t been received too well despite whatever work had gone into securing the support of the nobility.
I wasn’t surprised. The people of this empire had long since learned the danger of accepting help from a Prophet.
Endless tales of the cost of wielding magic could be heard in every tavern and around every campfire for miles.
Nothing stolen from the lost gods came for free.
And it usually wasn’t what it seemed either.
Only someone filled with despair and desperation would dare ask for the help of a Prophet, and even then, they’d expect the price of such magic to be steep indeed.
For them to learn the empress had accepted a gift of beauty for her son left more than a few of them uneasy, no doubt wondering if the entire empire might suffer the cost of the magic thanks to her position.
A smug smile captured my mouth as she returned to her throne, feeling as pleased as if she’d just sat in camel shit.
The people of my kingdom don’t much care for your ill-gotten potions, Magdor.
The fight started and I focused on every movement the men made, my training having taught me to see far beyond the outer layers people presented to the world.
I was adept at assessing threats, to see danger coming far before it struck, and I was almost certain of Kahn’s victory in this brawl already.
He wasn’t just a powerhouse of strength; his movements were well practised and confident.
Lord Darell danced around him for a minute or two, dodging the swings of Kahn’s fists, but if there was one thing it seemed Kahn was adept at in life, it was this very thing.
He was letting Darell do all the work, springing about, dodging blows while Kahn kept all of his energy ready for when Darell made a mistake.
One slip of the foot and Darell faced the first impact of Kahn’s knuckles right to the chest. He was thrown from his feet to a round of gasps from the audience, slamming down onto his back almost theatrically, but the crunch that reached everyone’s ears proved this was no play.
Even the judges arched the odd eyebrow, and some of them noted things down on the parchments laid out before them.
Darell wheezed, brushing the sand from his bald head as he hurried to get up and waved a hand to the crowd like it was nothing. Kahn allowed him a moment to compose himself while guffawing at his opponent openly, and a smattering of applause sounded.
I watched Kahn closely as Darell moved into a fighting stance once more, picking apart his movements and dissecting his weaknesses. His gloating didn’t last long as his gaze fell on the lord before him, and he raised his fists in preparation of an attack.
He hadn’t once offered his back to Darell, keeping enough distance between them to prepare if the lord sprung at him.
But Darell was too busy trying to pretend he wasn’t hurt to dive into the fray once more.
His movements were more cautious this time as Kahn allowed him to circle and close in, moving only his feet in a slow circle while Darell had to hop and bounce his way around the very fringes of Kahn’s reach.
As he was larger than any normal man, his reach was likely far more than Darell was used to in his opponents too.
Darell’s brow was growing sweaty, his gaze set with determination, but every now and then, a wince crossed his features and his left hand moved to cup his chest where Kahn’s fist had impacted.
Between the heat and his injury, he was burning himself through the last of his reserves already while Kahn hadn’t even broken a sweat.
It was a pitiful display that had my own hands curling into fists, the desire to stand in his place flashing unexpectedly into my mind.
My gaze shifted to the princess and my foolish, hopeless self, indulged in a moment of madness as I imagined what it would be like to stand in that ring against Kahn, against any of these unworthy bastards.
This pageant was outdated and the idea of anyone winning Princess Austyn like a trophy made me want to behead every contestant and cut down anyone else who demanded she take part in this barbarity.
To slay for her…to kill for her freedom, that would be a wish fulfilled indeed. I pictured myself bloody with Kahn’s head swinging from my fist as I marched up onto that platform and knelt before her in an offering, the fantasy getting my heart pounding.