Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Maxim is already in the center of the arena, arms raised high, as if he’s already declared himself the champion. A few of the men, very few, cheer for him like this is a spectator sport and not the judgment of the gods. Tyrston jeers, and flashes me a crude gesture when my eyes meet his.
I ignore him and find the king near the archons. He doesn’t need a throne to command the space—his presence is enough. Princess Rissa sits slightly behind him. Her face betrays nothing of her thoughts, but her fingers are clasped tightly in her lap, revealing her tension.
The archons and the Elder sit in a line, their black robes pristine despite the sand in the air. They do not cheer. They do not whisper.
I let my gaze sweep the stands again until I find Ryot’s cast—Thalric, Nyrica, Caius, Faelon, Leif, and Kiernan. Ryot has already joined them. They’re the only friendly faces in the arena. Their presence is a small anchor in a sea of strangers, but I don’t allow myself to look too long.
Right now, I need to stand on my own.
I roll my shoulders as I turn back to the center of the arena, where Maxim stands with his chest puffed, grinning. Tyrston calls out his name, but his voice is thin. The rest remain silent, waiting.
I focus on the ground beneath my feet, the pulse of the scythe on my back, the stretch of leather across my knuckles.
My eyes fall on my opponent. He’s older than me, quite a bit older.
Maybe in his 40s? His hair is a reddish-brown, as is his beard, but some of the hairs in the beard and at his temples are starting to grey.
He’s also huge, even larger than my father.
I have no doubt he could easily crush my bones if he gets his hands on me.
I’m hoping he’s too big to be fast, that I’ll be able to dance around him with ease, that he’ll depend on his brute strength.
Most importantly, though, I’m counting on the fact that he’s arrogant.
He doesn’t take me seriously. And because of that, he doesn’t have a weapon. He’s not even wearing chainmail.
Maxim’s laughter precedes the taunting I’d expected. “Who gave you your armor? Princess Rissa’s lady’s maid?”
He expects a reaction—anger, embarrassment, something to feed his bloated ego. But I just smile, letting his words roll off me. Let him think I’m soft. Let him believe this will be easy.
I spent half an hour this morning trying to pierce the chainmail with my daggers and my scythe.
I laid it out on my soft, feather-fluffed bedding and stabbed and hacked away.
When I picked it back up, there wasn’t even a nick in the mattress.
I think of Thayana—who said you can’t be attractive and formidable, indeed?
“It is time to begin,” a voice intones from behind us. The Elder.
“Warriors, ready your weapons,” Archon Lyathin calls to the field.
I pull my scythe from the scabbard strapped to my back and Maxim’s eyes fixate on the weapon for the first time.
“That’s not the same scythe you arrived with,” he accuses.
“It is my scythe,” I reply. I know this like I know my own name, the flash of heat binding it to my palms.
“Archon Lyathin, the girl has brought an unsanctioned weapon into the arena,” he calls louder.
I grit my teeth. I swear to Thayana, I could rip his innards out just for the way he says girl .
“Hold.” Lyathin strides down the steps, his expression impassive. He places his hand on my weapon and closes his eyes. When they reopen, confusion ripples through them.
“It is her bonded scythe,” he announces. “You were able to recast it quickly.”
I turn to Maxim with a condescending smile. “Of course, I understand if you’re intimidated and would like to choose a weapon.” My smile widens. “No one would think less of you. It is only fair, after all, that we’re equal.”
He reacts exactly how I expect him to—his pride snaps back into place and his lips curl in a sneer. “I could defeat you with my hands tied behind my back, girl. I need no weapon.”
He clenches and unclenches his empty hands as Archon Lyathin leaves the arena to retake his seat.
A hush falls and the spectators become deathly still. Finally, the gong sounds to start the fight.
Maxim immediately lunges for me, going for my scythe, but I easily dance out of his way and his forward momentum sends him several feet past where I was last standing.
Damn he’s fast, the speed of the Altor undiminished despite his hulking size.
But I was right. I’m faster.
We spend the next couple of minutes like that, with Maxim lunging for me, and me evading his efforts. He gets close a couple of times, but even after a couple minutes, he’s winded. There’s so much more of him to move around, and I’m light as a feather.
His style is aggressive, like Nyrica’s. I imagine he could knock me out with one well-placed blow.
The next time he lunges, I drop to the ground and use my scythe to sweep his legs out from under him. He falls to the ground hard enough that a plume of dust rises from the arena floor.
The mood in the arena shifts, men sitting up higher in their seats, watching closely.
But he’s not down long at all, certainly not long enough for me to press the advantage.
He screams, jumping back to his feet, and I scurry back.
This time when he lunges for me, he fakes to the right, and I miscalculate.
He doesn’t get my weapon, but he lands a blow that slams against my chest like an anvil.
It throws my whole body backward. Before I can recover, his massive body crashes onto mine.
That alone is enough to steal my breath, but his hands also immediately encircle my neck and he starts to squeeze.
My scythe is trapped between us, useless.
Holy hells. The blood in my head roars, and I think my neck might snap as easily as a chicken’s.
Maxim smiles cruelly at me. “You don’t belong here with the men. With Altor. We’re heroes. We protect even the gods. And you? You’re an atrocity. You belong in one of Lako’s hells, like the abomination you are. Ryot is wrong. The archons are wrong.”
He leans closer to me and licks my neck, shifting so that his body is aligned over mine.
His arousal presses through my trousers and my body reacts on its own, frantically digging into the dirt at my back to try to get away, to get his body off mine.
Choking the life out of me is turning him on, and I want to vomit.
The pain from the goddess was less traumatic. Surely, he can’t rape me in the arena.
He raises his head from my neck slightly to look to my left and his smile grows.
He loosens his grip enough for me to drag in one shallow breath before his hands clench again and he yanks my head to the side to look to the left with him.
If I could breathe now, I would get nothing but a mouth full of sand. Maxim lays his face on top of mine.
“Look at him,” Maxim whispers.
My vision is blurring, but I squint and focus my eyes. Ryot’s curled his fingers over the wall that separates the stands from the arena floor, and he’s braced like he’s about to catapult over the side. Thalric’s hand grips one shoulder, Nyrica’s the other. They’re holding him back.
“After I’ve killed you, the guilt will eat him up. Ryot’s always had a misplaced sense of honor. He’s never understood the weak are meant to serve us. It’s why you exist.”
Maxim turns my head so that I’m forced to look at him again, and he eases his grip. I get another quick gasp of air, before he resumes the pressure against my windpipe.
“Ah, is there anything sweeter than the taste of fear on your tongue?” Maxim breathes against my face. He hums, like he’s enjoying a tasty feast. His tongue flicks out again.
Gods. What a horrible way to die.
I reach a hand toward Ryot, my fingers digging in the dirt as I stretch my fingers out, seeking …
something. I want a connection to someone else before I die.
I don’t want to be alone in the dirt with my fear and a monster.
Something warm brushes over me, soft as breath and just as fleeting.
It almost shimmers. Comfort, faint but real, wraps around me.
Maxim’s sick presence retreats from my mind and I can gather my own thoughts again.
“Fucking Ryot,” Maxim growls in my ear.
Maxim again releases his hold on my throat so I can drag in another meager breath. He’s drawing this out, soaking up my fear and Ryot’s fury. He’s enjoying this. He’s getting off on strangling a woman in the dirt.
He’s savoring this. Feeding on it.
I close my eyes. I start to slide into a familiar darkness—the same darkness that suffocates me in my sleep.
Only now, it’s a comfort. A small, battered part of me wants to curl up in it and let go.
To finally stop fighting and let my soul find rest with my parents and my brother. With Alden and Irielle.
But another part—the part of me that lives in the darkness, I think—answers back.
I’m not finished.
Without knowing how, I gather the jagged pieces of myself, the darkest pieces, and knot them tighter, weaving them into a shroud that surrounds my mind. It slips outward, stretching like a shadow at the edge of my thoughts, my emotions. My fear doesn’t belong to him.
I go to dig my fingers into the dirt, searching for strength or reality, but it’s not dirt I’m grasping.
It’s something dark, shifting around me.
I wrap my fingers around a thread in the darkness and follow it back to the source, back to something that’s malevolent and gleeful, wrapped in casual cruelty.
It doesn’t have a body or even a shape, but I know it’s Maxim.
I grasp both hands around that thread of toxic pleasure and shove it back at him with all the fury burning inside me.
From far away, so far away, someone starts gagging. The darkness eases, the ground solidifies under my hands.