Chapter 9 #2
“I know that it’s probably going to be my toughest battle yet. Selene wasn’t happy with me, and even after her punishment, I’m sure there will be consequences in the coliseum too.”
He leaned in closer. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to help you more. Just know if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll get you out of here.”
I touched his arm. “I don’t want you to help at the risk of something happening to your Faction. You’ve been a real friend and ally, and I truly appreciate it.”
Razor let out a small cry of distress and wavered on his feet. He dropped his head and took several deep breaths, then grabbed my arm and led me deep into the armory. “What the hell was that?” He asked as he undid his shirt to examine his shoulder.
I gasped when I saw a mark on his arm: the tree of life inside a perfect circle, just like Chloe’s and Oliver's.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t do it on purpose.” I honestly didn’t know how or why this was happening.
Razor looked from his shoulder to me in shock, “Do you know what this is?”
I shook my head, “No.”
“Has this happened before?”
I nodded, “Yes.”
“Can you give more than a one-word answer?” He asked, seeming annoyed and amused all at once.
“Right. Before Kristine pulled me here, it happened to two of my closest friends after I touched them.” I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his shoulder.
Razor stared at me in amazement. “This was a mark given centuries ago by Queen Lilibet to mark her Aegisworn.”
Lilibet again —this was starting to freak me out a little. Then my eyes widened. “Someone in a dream I had recently used that word in reference to a friend.”
“Who?” He led me further back into the building when Aurathions began entering to grab weapons.
I really didn’t want to answer him or say it out loud, but I knew I could trust him, and the mark reinforced that feeling. “Queen Lilibet.”
“Fuck.” He bowed his head for a moment and took several deep breaths. “I’ve got to inform Tanya of this.” He grabbed my arm so tightly it hurt. “Don’t whisper a word of this to anyone.”
I jerked my arm out of his grip. “Who the hell would I tell? I don’t have friends, and I’m a little insulted you’d think I’d be that stupid.”
“I’m sorry.” He apologized quickly. “I’m feeling a little protective, and I know how much danger surrounds you here.” Razor looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m going to arrange a meeting with you and the rest of my Faction. I’ll let you know the time and place.”
I nodded. That sounded like a good idea.
“Good. I want you to meet Tanya. In fact, I feel like it’s essential that you do.” Razor started walking back toward the entrance. “Get your swords and begin your exercises. I’ll be out shortly to check on you.”
I nodded, then grabbed my short swords and left. Maybe I’d finally find out more information about Lilibet and what an Aegisworn was.
The practice field was crowded today, as it usually was the day before we performed in the coliseum. Every warrior hoped for victory and for a powerful Nexus would choose them, getting them that much closer to leaving this hellhole.
I find a clearing and take my stance, resting both blades against my thighs for a moment to feel their weight anchoring me.
Then I move... My feet slide smoothly over the packed earth in an ancient rhythm—step, pivot, glide.
One sword swings high, slicing through the air with a hiss, while the other strikes low, quick as a serpent's strike. My movements are well-practiced; each sequence perfected until I’m satisfied.
My muscles warm quickly, heat spreading beneath my skin as I transition between drills.
Slash, spin, parry, thrust—my body moves in sync with an internal rhythm like music only I can hear.
I observe every detail: the whisper of steel, the flex of my wrists, the sting of sweat sliding down my temple.
There’s power in control, a quiet thrill in knowing that if anyone entered my orbit, these graceful arcs could become deadly strikes. This is where everything comes together—where each elegant line ensures my survival.
A bell clangs twice—sharp and grating. The sound slices through the clash of steel like a knife.
Around me, men and women stumble. Blades lower.
Boots scrape over packed dirt as every warrior heads toward the posting board.
The evening air is thick—sweat, dust, anticipation—and beneath it all, that low, hungry murmur that always precedes match announcements.
Seamus arrives with his usual swagger, a hammer slung over one shoulder as if he’s marching to a throne.
His assistant, Marvin, scurries behind him, clutching the parchments as if they were sacred scripture.
Together, they move slowly, capturing the crowd’s attention.
I grit my teeth, wishing Razor were here.
Seamus isn’t a commander—he’s a shriveled little ballsack in nice clothes.
The first blow of the hammer strikes the board with a sharp THUNK.
The iron nail sinks in deeply—and I have a feeling of impending doom.
Seamus smoothly reads the names with his characteristic theatrical flair, pausing to let whispers ripple through the crowd.
His little shadow giggles after each name, as if on cue.
One by one, names are called out. Some warriors grin, others curse under their breath. My heartbeat remains steady, even as the crowd presses in closer, bodies slick with sweat from drills.
Then Seamus finds mine.
“Ahhh,” he drawls, lips curling in a smile that makes my knuckles itch. “Reverie. How thrilling.”
He raises the second parchment high, making sure everyone can see it. The ink isn’t still—it moves, as if it’s alive, swirling across the page. My stomach tightens. He slams the nail home.
CRACK.
The board shudders. A pulse of blood-red magic ripples out, hot enough that the hair on my arms stands up. The name beside mine unfurls like a nightmare:
The Varruk.
The crowd reacts as one—ripples of movement, sharp gasps.
Even the veterans stiffen. The Varruk isn’t just a creature; it’s a nightmare with bones.
A hulking monstrosity dragged from the wilds of Aurathia, with broad shoulders hunched, powerful limbs, and a thick hide that is nearly impervious to weapons.
Its elongated muzzle is filled with rows of sharp teeth, and the strangest part of the creature is the horns arching back, forming a strange crown-like pattern.
Grumpy had told me about them. He’d said that hundreds of years ago, they used to be considered honorable warriors, but now they were little more than predators.
Seamus turns to face the crowd, soaking in the tension as if it were sunlight.
“Try not to die too quickly,” he says loudly with a malicious smile on his face. “The spectators do so love a good show.”
Laughter spreads—some cruel, some nervous. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking away. Instead, I meet his gaze squarely, steady and sharp. The smile that curls my lips is purposeful, thin, and sharp.
“Don’t worry,” I say, ensuring they hear me in the back. “I’ll make it scream just for you.”
Marvin is the first to stop laughing. Seamus’s grin flickers—just for a moment.
I hold his gaze like a promise.
I will not die tomorrow, but they might.