Chapter 32
The razah scurry across the crumbled ground on all fours, dragging limp corpses back into the molten blisters that spawned them.
The gnarled, calloused abominations leave little more than splats of entrails and smoggy welts of cooling magma in their hurried descent back toward the world’s volcanic core.
All the while, the crowd roars—screaming for more battles.
More blood.
More death.
Boasting a crown of pin-sharp teeth, swathed in the heavy weight of his frayed cloak, the Scavenger King looks down on it all from his moonshard throne, comfortably set on his wide and lofty booth high above the viewing mezzanines.
What makes up the biggest, grandest battle pit in the world, renowned for its savage shows, flowing refreshments, and wild debauchery.
His palace.
His kingdom.
… At least until he sits upon his rightful throne.
Slouched in a much simpler throne, the Tri-Councilor sighs, displeasure rumpling his long face. “It’s been a while since I graced the Pits of Khindard, but I must say, Arkyn, I remember it being much more exciting.”
The Scavenger King frowns, turning his attention to scan the screaming crowds. Tiers of prestigious folk who’ve come to feast on the carnage, emptying their pockets in exchange for a front-row seat to slaughter. Ripe for the picking.
Einar, it seems, is the only one not enjoying himself.
Arkyn’s about to say as much when a null server steps forward, dips into a curtsy, and offers him the requested mug of mead.
She hands a second to the esteemed member of the Tri-Council; the youngest of the near-fossilized group, his eyes not yet gone milky with the wisdom of too many phases lived, his mind still somewhat soft.
Somewhat pliable.
Arkyn’s special guest.
Einar scowls into the mug, then slams it back on the tray. “I don’t drink your gritty filth,” he growls, backhanding the server so hard a red mark blooms on her freckled cheek. “You dishonor me. Find me something palatable.”
The server scurries from the booth while Arkyn tracks the motion. “You maimed my server.”
“Null incompetency.” Einar’s scowl deepens. “They bask in our cities, safe behind walls they had no part in shaping. They drink water we cleanse and funnel, breathe air we purify when a moonfall strikes. The least they can do is serve us something that’s fucking drinkable.”
Arkyn drums the itching tips of his fingers against the armrest of his throne, chewing on several … less diplomatic responses before he settles on, “Perhaps incompetent isn’t the right word. Where would your beaded brothers be were it not for their dedication to the mines?”
Einar chuckles, waving a finger. “You’ve got me there. On that note, you ought to feed fewer nulls to your pits, more beasts. Once Cadok and Tyroth take control of The Burn, troves of nulls will be funneled into fresh bloodstone mines so we can finally unlock the north’s untapped supplies.”
Arkyn’s hand stills.
Interesting …
“While I’m all for the sport,” Einar continues, steepling his hands, “at the rate you’re currently feeding the razah … well. It won’t be long until we outnumber them a thousand to one, not the other way around.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Arkyn lies, of the belief that any competent brown bead could excavate their own bloodstone … if they only deigned to breathe the dirty mineshaft air.
But no. They’d rather have it handed to them on a platter.
While Arkyn doesn’t enjoy feeding nulls to the pits, it’s the means to an end; the near-constant flow of revenue paving the path to a greater world once his mission is complete.
“For now,” Arkyn continues with a dash of his hand, “enjoy the show.”
The sound of grinding chains echoes through the amphitheater as the many pit gates lift.
Numerous folk stumble through the smog, masked and garbed in mismatched bits of scavenged armor.
Some immediately wet themselves, while others try to bash through the bars they came from.
Only one stands sturdy, with a bravado of false confidence that’ll soon taper.
The crowd cheers—not for the tributes but already celebrating their impending deaths.
A cloaked male pushes past the black velvet curtain and bows to Arkyn and Einar, turning his shoulders toward the Tri-Councilor—ledger, quill, and sack in hand. “Any bets? Perhaps who will be the first to fall? Or the last remai—”
Einar sneers, dismissing the male with a single look. Something Arkyn finds curious, given he’s perfectly aware that Einar enjoys winning bloodstone as much as he does consuming it.
Usually.
But if—like his spies suggest—the Citadel’s stores are depleting …
The Scavenger King arches a brow. “You’re not betting, my friend?”
“Not this dae,” Einar murmurs past tight lips, all but confirming Arkyn’s suspicions. “Besides, my attention wanes. These battles were much more exciting before you lost your Fire Lark.”
Arkyn stiffens at her mention, possessive heat slugging through his veins.
“Everything else that steps foot in the arena simply pales in comparison.”
I didn’t lose her.
Arkyn doesn’t say the words burning on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he sips his mead, chews his grit, and continues watching the happenings far below as a creamy parchment lark flutters into Einar’s lap.
He’s swift to unfold it, skeletal fingers flattening the creases with nimble precision. “Creators,” he mutters, skimming the scrawl, his entire body tensing. His skin turns a starker shade of white to match his flowy garb. “Word from the Grand Chancellor. A moonfall approaches— No. Many.”
Arkyn draws another long sip, swallowing. “Yes.”
Einar’s head whips around, blue eyes piercing, severe against his chalky cowl. “You knew?”
“Have for a while now. My miskunn misses very little.” Arkyn watches the offerings ready for their impending battle, some clawing through the crumbled stone and embers to hunt for hidden weapons scattered across the vast arena.
“There’s still time. A little over fifteen cycles, based on the aurora’s thickening. ”
Einar relaxes into his throne, his demeanor softened.
“Well, that’s very good to know. Our miskunn missed that, stupid thing.
I’ll pass the information on with my response.
” He looks at the script again, brows almost bumping into his slick blond hairline.
“Well, well. King Kaan Vaegor’s been outlawed for an attack on Bothaim. ”
Old news to Arkyn, but the mere sound of his half brother’s name is enough to make his bones grind, the tips of his fingers itching so much it’s a gritted effort not to rip into the skin with his teeth.
“Oh?”
“Yes, it seems his dragon killed one of the bonded mercenaries and took out three ballistae. Naughty, naughty.” Einar makes a pleased sound and folds the lark into a square he tucks in his pocket. “There are many moons above these mountain ranges. I’m guessing you have a plan to see out the falls?”
“Of course.” Arkyn gestures to the pit beneath; toward a swarm of fluttering larks diving into the hands of patrons cramped in the mezzanines. “My flourishing fortress is”—soon to be—“protected against moonfalls.”
The Tri-Councilor scowls. “How is that possible?”
“My title is not without weight.” Arkyn lifts his chin. “Everyone here is now receiving notice of the impending event and an offer of refuge, should they bow to me as the rightful King of The Burn. The firstborn son of the late Ostern Vaegor.”
Though he delivers the statement like a punch, Einar simply arches a brow, his tone dismissive as he says, “I never heard such a rumor.”
“Perhaps because I’m the bastard son of a null?”
The nonchalance in Arkyn’s tone does nothing to honor the fact that his skin’s melting in the wake of Einar’s words. Confirmation that his pah didn’t care about him enough to so much as whisper his name.
“That’ll be it.” Einar winks. “You’ve done well for yourself despite your shortfalls. Rather than stumble above your station, you should be proud,” he says, gesturing to the arena below. “Spend your ambition more wisely.”
Shortfalls …
Stumble above your station …
Spend your ambition more wisely …
Arkyn taps his ravaged fingers against the armrest of his throne. Silent.
Seething.
It takes him a moment to swallow the flaming words threatening to lash off his tongue. Einar is, after all, an important puzzle piece. A relationship the Scavenger King has weathered for many phases, like an ember quietly blown, kept alive, now ready to be tucked beneath a pile of wood.
Dousing it would be an awful waste.
Arkyn clears his throat and continues, ignoring the last lines of conversation—as though they never existed.
“As a token of my gratitude for those who drop the knee, everyone is free to stay right here and enjoy the show. Battles will be waging nonstop until the falls; an attempt to keep minds unburdened until the desolation settles, at which stage my forces will charge north and seize the bronze throne.”
Silence stews, long and cloying.
Arkyn turns his head, meeting Einar’s gaze. “Can I count on Bothaim’s support once I claim the crown?”
Einar begins to laugh, low at first, then harder, louder, folding over himself as his body jerks to the violent beat of his amusement.
Arkyn watches him as servers spill out onto the mezzanines below, offering refreshments to concerned folk. The summoning drums begin to thump. A timely distraction for the jittery crowd.
By the time Einar composes himself, tears wet his cheeks.
Perhaps noticing Arkyn’s stoic expression, any remaining humor falls off his face. “Creators, you’re serious.”
“You believe me incapable?”
Einar bites down on the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, but Arkyn sees it.
Loathes it.
“Do forgive me, old friend, but Kaan Vaegor is very much out of your league. You’d be wise to let whatever lust you feel for his blood continue to fester.” He raises his brows, jerks his chin toward the chewed-up tips of Arkyn’s fingers. “Despite whatever forces you’ve somehow amassed.”