19. The Girl With Stormy Eyes
THE GIRL WITH STORMY EYES
S tone rasped as I carved out another mark above my bed.
Exhaustion clung to my bones, the deep aches and healing wounds from yesterday’s match sapping every bit of energy I had left.
My fangs throbbed, bringing forth a dull headache, and my throat was parched, desperate for a soothing rush of blood.
I’d downed gulp after gulp of water, but it did nothing to quench this thirst.
I dragged my fingers over the lines carved into the stone.
There had been thirty-six yesterday, and yesterday marked the start of the thirty-seventh.
I would have marked it yesterday had I not collapsed with exhaustion the moment they’d thrown me back into my cell after my match.
A victory hard-earned only to be rewarded with being thrown back behind bars with the promise of no rest and another match to come.
We always celebrated our birthdays on the first day of the fighting season. It gave everyone a chance to celebrate, as they weren’t guaranteed to survive to the end of it. So many fell to the beasts in The Pits—to each other .
The record wasn’t accurate; I’d missed a lot of time when I was young, thrown into training as soon as I’d been able to stand after Arden had marked me.
It hadn’t been long after my training began that Arden had thrown all the children into The Pit, forcing them to fight for their lives against lesser creatures for entertainment, allowing patrons the chance to assess us and start planning favorites or prospective warriors to acquire.
I couldn’t even remember how old I had been when I’d been taken, could no longer remember my parents’ faces, their names.
The only thing that remained of what life I had, was in the tattered remains of the coat the sweet boy had gifted to me, which remained on my cot.
Every night was spent curled up with it, trying and failing to remember what he looked like, the only thing remaining his kindness, his warmth, his scent, which had been all but snuffed out from the coat years ago.
I slipped the scrap of fabric in my pocket, praying his lingering presence might bring me good luck when they dragged me back to The Pit for my next fight.
“She had the most enchanting silver hair and became Arden’s favored for her beauty and power.”
I glanced over my shoulder to find one of the cell mothers telling stories to the children. I’d been told the same story as a child.
“Who was she?” one of the children asked.
“She was Niassa, a princess of the wyverns, taken from her home on Hesperian’s Reach as a child.”
“A wyvern?” one of them asked in awe.
The cell mother nodded, her smile warm in a way that seemed near impossible. How could someone hold onto such warmth amidst the cold of this place?
“Arden kept her here, vowing she would serve him forever, for the wyverns do not die. Their flame souls burn for eternity, and only when wyverns relinquish their flame and forsake their leathery form can they die and pass into Elysium.”
I couldn’t help but listen to the story, clinging to the only thing that had given me hope as a child.
“She gave up on ever finding the freedom she craved, to be able to take her true form and spread her wings, to take to the skies. But there was another who was held captive, one who loved Niassa. A lost love—who’d once been held captive just as she was—broke into the cells one night.
He had been believed to be dead, cast out after losing a fight in The Pits when they were younger. ”
The children listened in bated silence, their eyes bright with wonder and excitement.
“He found her in her cell, and he vowed to get her out. Together, they fled, fighting their way out of Nastra, but in their struggle, he was gravely wounded.”
The children gasped and broke into a mix of questions, asking what happened—if he survived .
Gruff voices echoing through the cavern cut through the story, and the cell mother and children instantly quieted as guards stormed down the walkway.
My heart launched into my throat at the sight of Kish slumped in their grasp.
The smell of blood reached my nose, and I shot to my feet as they tossed her limp body into our cell.
I fell to my knees at her side. “Kish!”
A soft groan of pain was her only response, and I quickly turned her over to find her covered in deep wounds and quickly-forming bruises.
“Gods, what did they do to you?” I asked, quickly biting into my wrist, desperate to give her blood to help her heal.
“No,” she gasped, shoving away my hand as I lowered the wound toward her lips, blood rolling down my skin to drip onto her already blood-stained clothes. “You need…”
“You’re up!” the guard yelled, grabbing hold of my arm.
“No! We can’t leave her like this!” I shouted as they dragged me away from her, leaving her on the floor, chest heaving. “You bastards!”
I fought to get to her, and the Kobalos guard jerked me against him, a putrid stench wafting from his too-big leather armor.
He forced my attention to his grotesque, goblin-like face, his ashen, bulbous nose reddened from what I assumed was an indulgence of fairy wine he’d likely stolen from one of The Pit’s spectators.
“If you won’t come, we’ll throw her into the pit in your place,” he growled, his milky eyes narrowing on me, sharp-toothed grin spreading with the promise of violence against those who wouldn’t stand a chance.
I froze, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“Go…” Kish gasped, and I twisted around to look at her. She couldn’t even push herself up.
“I’ll be back,” I promised, and the guards guided me out of the cell. “I’ll be back!”
The beast within me bristled, growling lowly at the guards as they escorted me down the tunnels and to the entrance of one of the fighting pits. How bad were her wounds? Would she make it to the end of my match so I could tend to her?
We passed Rhyas in the tunnel, and I pulled against the guards. Rhyas stiffened when he caught sight of me but didn’t speak, didn’t react, couldn’t react, lest he give away how much he aided me and the other captives.
“Kish!” I cried out, hoping and praying he understood.
The faintest hint of panic and terror flashed across his face as we passed, and I twisted to see him rushing toward the cells once he was out of view of the guards. I turned forward, fury burning in my chest, the beast within me pacing back and forth in quiet anticipation of what we stood to face.
A familiar face stood next to the gates, arms crossed over his leather-clad chest. The memories resurfaced as if they were yesterday, of him carrying an unconscious child through the tunnels, how he had watched from the other side of the bars as I ran for my life from the Featherclaw who had shredded nearly half of the children he’d helped kidnap to pieces.
He had spent every moment since that terrible day ensuring my life was as difficult as he could make it.
“Well, hello there, Thalia. Ready to put on a show for us?” Santor said, his green eyes lighting up as he leaned against the wall.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response as I caught sight of a new signet affixed to his breast. He’d been promoted again, and I wondered just what he’d done to curry favor with Arden more than he already had.
He huffed a laugh. “So cold. I wonder if you’ll be that cold when we bring you in for Arden’s enjoyment again.”
The wooden gate groaned as it rose, and I flinched at the bright light of the pit as it flooded the tunnel, the roar of the crowd flooding my ears in deafening waves.
“Good luck,” he whispered and shoved me forward.
I grunted as I hit the dirt and resisted the urge to look back at the wooden door as it closed behind me, locking me within these terrible walls. No, I couldn’t let myself get distracted, not from what I stood to face.
My hands tightened into fists as I looked up at the massive creature crawling along the cage ceiling encapsulating the pit.
Its long, armored body, lined with countless legs, wound and twisted as it turned its attention on me.
Its head was a mass of countless beady red eyes and a razor-lined mouth armed with two monstrous pincers.
The beast growled within me, teeth bared, relishing in the fight to come—in all the ways we could bring this creature down.
Its blood will stain these walls just as the others did.
Blood soaked into my fur—my dappled gray coat painted in the crimson of my own blood mixed with the foul green of my prey—before pooling in the dirt beneath my paws.
I panted, barely able to keep myself upright as I stood over the body of the creature who had put up far more of a fight than I cared for.
The deafening sound of the crowd’s applause was unbearable.
Most of the patrons cheered while some seemed displeased that I’d survived, clearly hoping for a more gruesome show.
My legs quivered with exhaustion as I stumbled off the body.
I lifted my gaze to them, barely able to make out their faces in the darkness of the seats beyond the blinding lights of the pit. If only I could get up there, tear every one of them apart for what they subjected us to .
Something crawled over my skin as my attention was drawn to one spectator in particular, her eyes as black as the souls of those around her, her skin gray.
Her smile was wicked, and there was power in her stare, the sort of power that promised violence and cruelty.
She wasn’t like the other fae, and I wondered if she was even fae at all.