Chapter 32 #2
Arkyn simmers while five brimstone welts begin to bulge across the arena’s crumbled face, like fleshy sores. Some of them burst, spewing magma and belches of sulfuric smog as the razah bust toward the surface—coaxed by the summoning thump-thump … thump-thump …
“So the Tri-Council won’t support my claim to the throne?”
“Even if your blood were to sing true to the Vaegor line, your supposed pah didn’t claim you as his own. Didn’t title you prince and certainly didn’t announce you as his heir.”
Each word is another smear of fire across Arkyn’s flesh.
Not that he lets on.
“The Citadel’s favor sits heavily with the twins, given their legitimate royal claim and tri-bead status,” Einar says, flicking a pointed glance at the single ruddy bead dangling from Arkyn’s ear. “As I mentioned, Tyroth and Cadok have plans for the north.”
“So you intend to trial Kaan, condemn him, then gift The Burn to the twins?”
“Of course not,” Einar scoffs. “The great Kaan Vaegor will not simply hand himself in, but this … incident is the trigger we’ve been waiting for.
Our sources suggest Kaan’s been brewing his militia for phases, and given the tight seal he keeps on his kingdom, he’s the only one who truly knows its might.
It’s unanimously believed that taking him down will require the twins’ help—and their respective battalions.
They’ll earn their patriarchal rights to reclaim the territory through bloodshed. ”
Arkyn hears the words he’s not saying. That the Tri-Council doesn’t want to get their hands dirty unless they have no choice.
“We have treaties in place with the twins,” Einar continues, shrugging. “They pledge that any bloodstone mined from The Burn postwar will be split three ways in exchange for our continued support.”
Hard to miss the way Einar’s voice hitches at the mention of bloodstone. Nobody relies on it quenching their lust for immortality more than the Tri-Council members—drunk on power and control, desperate to cling to it for eternity.
Nobody suffers more without it.
“Forgive me, Arkyn, but anything you can bring to the table would simply fall short.”
Arkyn’s smile is small, his attention dropping to the battle pit. “Of course.”
Though he’s used to others underestimating him, it never fails to burn.
“But you must know that I will always be a supportive patron of this establishment, and of you.” Einar leans forward, his attention homed on the five razah punching free of their molten wombs, wrestling to the surface.
All the while, the offerings wait for the battle that’ll likely be their end—gathered behind large chunks of stone or tucked in rocky crevices that’ll make for messy deaths.
“Given we have time before the falls, I’ll stick around for the show a little longer. ”
“I thought you were growing bored of the entertainment?”
Einar rubs his sharp jaw with his thumb.
“Between you and me, most of my beaded brothers do nothing but sit around collecting dust these daes, crunching on shards of bloodstone, and the fun ones have their toys to keep them entertained. Even without your Fire Lark gracing the stage, this trumps their stale company.”
“Well, I’m honored,” Arkyn lies, preferring his own company to the feel of licking Einar’s ass. Something he’ll resent less once the toothy crown he wears is replaced with a melted bronze one.
He looks down at the unfolding carnage he’s grown used to over the phases—the means to an end—fingers tapping as he prepares to wield his secret weapon.
Taking a moment to mourn the loss of what could’ve been …
given he’s imagined himself ripping out Kaan’s throat with his teeth more times than he could count.
He resigns himself to the fact that he’s grown quite fond of the itch that wriggles and writhes beneath his skin, lusting for blood. After all, where would he be without it?
Dead.
“And what if I managed to get the great Kaan Vaegor into this battle pit? Make a scene of his demise for everyone to see—punishment for his slights against the Tri-Council?”
Slowly, Einar turns his head, his narrowed stare grazing the side of Arkyn’s face. “Impossible …”
“But if I did?”
Time stretches as Einar studies Arkyn, perhaps seeing him in a new light.
An opportunistic light.
“It would very much depend on your stance on the untapped bloodstone stores in the north.”
“I have no interest in it.”
Einar goes still as stone. The first tug on a cast line.
“No need to split it three ways, then split it again between your beaded brothers,” Arkyn clarifies. “The Tri-Council could have it all.”
Once Arkyn has The Burn, he has no need for the bloodstone the Tri-Council craves. He’s amassed enough in the pits to fund a war and sustain a territory for eons.
No.
All he wants—all he cares about—is watching Kaan’s blood spill and claiming his rightful throne.
Einar’s smile is musing, a ravenous glint in his eyes. “Well, my friend. This has been an interesting conversation.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
A razah rips into the throat of the null that stood so strong and composed when the drums began to beat. Blood sprays as the beast drags his fresh meal toward the molten boil it spawned from—gone.
“Conclusion?” Arkyn presses.
A hungry quiet slips by.
Einar swallows, perhaps trying to hide the fact that he’s salivating.
“Should you achieve the impossible, I’m certain you’ll earn the Citadel’s favor.
And the Tri-Council’s … eternal respect for being more than just an underground handler of monsters.
” He raises both brows, studying the melted half of Arkyn’s face. “Worthy of the bronze crown.”