9. Marcus
CHAPTER NINE
MARCUS
W hen Dru first began training with the Faithless, a year after they dug her out from the rubble of her home, she had no idea how to fight.
And she’d clearly never held a weapon in her life, not even the dagger found in her possession.
Marcus was still an initiate then and could hold his own, but Dru needed help. Seeing her struggle, he gave it freely.
Slowly, painfully, she learned. At first, her arches and thrusts were too gentle, her movements lithe and nimble though still unsure.
Now, her form has tightened, hardened—shaped by years of the Faithless beating her down, molding her into what they want.
He can tell simply from how sure she holds herself, how confidently she grasps the wooden sparring pole in her hands.
As Cato said, she’s deadly.
Leaning on one of the columns on the ground floor of the Ammaliare Arena, Marcus watches Dru and Cato spar.
Though Dru likely hasn’t held a sword in some time, it’s impossible to tell.
Not that wooden poles carry the same weight as a sword, but it’s certainly no dagger, and watching her wield it deftly doesn’t leave him any less impressed .
He also watches Cato closely. Despite the king’s insistence otherwise, Marcus can’t help worrying he won’t be ready to fight in the blood trials.
Physically, he’ll be fine, but his heart isn’t in it.
The longer he’s known Cato, the more the king in him has withered away.
He’s faced unimaginable loss the past few years, losing his confidence, his good humor, everything that made him who he was.
Marcus has no idea if this Cato can survive four days of rigorous challenges.
“Do you know who your opponents will be?” Dru asks Cato as they circle each other.
“Besides my own people, the competitors from the Imperium hail from all over the continent.” Cato lunges and misses, but stays on his feet. “An envoy will be here in a day or so, but all the great families will come the next day with their chosen champions.”
Cato swings down with his pole and Dru parries easily.
“Do you think it likely your own people will treat you like the other participants, given what your death would mean for them?”
“I don’t,” he admits, “but that’s their choice, not mine. This situation is already precarious enough without having to worry about whether or not the odds are stacked in my favor.”
Dru thrusts forward and taps his leg. Cato grunts in frustration.
He takes his stance again. “I’ve also been warned there will be a lottery.”
Dru’s brow furrows and she straightens, her grip on the pole loosening. “A lottery?”
Cato relaxes too. “Not the kind you want to win. A number of men and women over the age of sixteen from across the Imperium and Anziano will be chosen at random to participate in order to fill the remaining spots. The Imperium have already chosen theirs.”
Even from where he stands, Marcus sees her nostrils flair.
“And what are the chances those chosen will have enough training or know-how to survive even one of the trials?”
Marcus knows the direction this conversation is headed. When Dru actually showed up for her history lessons, she often engaged in a philosophical debate, and wouldn’t let up until she won an unwinnable argument.
Pushing off the stone column, he heads into the arena.
“It’s likely going to be rigged by the Imperium as well and the chance of survival is minimal at best. But none of that matters if the king of the host country meets his end in the first trial.”
Cato looks unsurprised to find Marcus there, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his thin mouth.
Dru, however, visibly stiffens. He must’ve pulled her out of her thoughts, of her concern for the victims of the Imperium’s lottery.
One of the Faithless leaders once confided in him they thought Dru cared too much for others to be one of them; he’s glad to see that part of her remains true, despite her uncanny ability to kill.
“That would be rather convenient for the Imperium, though,” she says finally.
Cato leans on his pole. “Such little faith you have in me, Marcus. I could have you killed for that.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Marcus takes the pole from Cato.
“What have I told you about your stance?”
Cato folds his arms and tucks his chin. “That it’s too closed and too stiff.”
“Right, so why does it remain so?” He squares up with Dru, whose expression remains serious. “Watch and learn.”
Nodding in mutual respect, they tap their poles together once, beat the ground, then begin to circle each other.
But while Dru keeps her eyes on his weapon, Marcus watches her face.
Despite her calm demeanor, her eyes and lips pinch slightly in concentration, her grip flexing along the chipped wood.
A slight breeze whips through the arena, bringing her sent with it.
Marcus can’t help breathing her in. It’s been clear since the tabernae that she hadn’t bathed in all the time it took her to travel from the Faithless compound to Nusquam.
But now she smells clean, slightly floral with a hint of olive oil .
He nearly stumbles.
She surprises him by moving first—a thrust to his midsection.
He blocks it away easily. The way she positioned herself, though, allows her to swing the pole around, whacking his hip before he can get over to block it.
She cracks a genuine smile, and he swears his heart stops at the sight of it.
He forgot how infectious it can be—likely because he’s only seen it a handful of times since meeting her.
Cato laughs. “She got you there, Marcus.”
Marcus rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, bending his knees. Time to get serious.
The second Dru settles into her stance again, he comes down on her with his pole, aiming for the top of her head. As expected, she brings hers up in time to block him. And he lets her.
He releases his grip on the pole, and her effort, as well as the angle he positioned his pole at, causes it to flip in the air.
Catching it lithely as it falls, he immediately aims for her legs in a sweeping motion.
A moment later, she’s on the ground flat on her back, her feet knocked out from under her.
Dust plumes around her and she gasps out a breath.
But she finds her bearings quickly. In a move he never had the chance to teach her before he left, she flips herself up. A challenge sparks in her gaze as she pushes her damp, loose hair out of her face with her free hand. His pulse quickens.
Someone who’s not Cato clears their throat.
Marcus turns to find Ettore speaking softly into the king’s ear. Cato and Marcus share a look before the two of them depart the arena. Dru doesn’t seem to notice—or she doesn’t care. Probably pissed off I bested her.
Breathless, she says, “Can’t recall being taught that move before, Praetor Marcus.”
He falls back into position. “There are plenty of my moves I haven’t taught you, Drusilla.”
She stops long enough to consider the implications of what he meant for him to make his next strike. But she parries his advance at the last possible moment.
“Where did my orders come from?” she asks after they exchange a few blows.
He falters at her question, taking a misstep. She takes advantage, striking out at him—he feints in time.
“From you?” She lunges for him, and he blocks her down. “Or from the Three?”
Stellae, she’s relentless . He knew she’d ask about her orders eventually. He wouldn’t do any differently and expected no less. But she’s barely had a chance to settle in before questioning her reason for being here.
More importantly, he can’t reveal the truth of it.
“The Three,” he lies, chest aching. “They require someone here besides me who knows about the blood trials. To keep the king alive and Anziano from falling into Imperium hands.”
In response, she attacks, which he blocks again.
“Is that the whole of it?”
His stomach clenches with guilt. “Yes. Now, let’s put this behind us.”
She doesn’t answer, circling him instead. Which is answer enough— for now.
Certain he has her beat when she leaves her flank open, he lunges forward.
But she feints easily to the right, as if waiting for him to make that move.
She knocks into his chest with the center of her pole hard enough that it forces him to drop his weapon and fall backward.
But her own momentum allows him to reach out and wrap a hand around her arm, dragging her down with him.
Marcus hits the ground hard first, followed quickly by Dru’s weight on top of him. Luckily, her pole flew away and rolled off somewhere—otherwise, she would’ve cracked his ribs with it. Maybe worse.
When she doesn’t move off him, he meets her gaze. Shock raises her brow and parts her lips. Their chests heave in rhythm, the gold in her warm, brown eyes sparking beneath the curtain of her dark hair.
Stellae, she’s beautiful.
Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to ignore the feeling of the weight of her entire body flush against his. The way his core warms and his breath hitches from her nearness.
He pushes down those sensations. As much as he might want her, he ruined anything that could happen between them the day he told her he didn’t care about her, after she bared her soul to him.
He regretted it the moment he said it and every moment since.
But it’s in the past now, and it had to be said.
Once he knew what his first orders from the Three would be, he had to ensure she moved on from him.
Besides, he won’t allow his feelings for her to ruin Cato’s chances of surviving these trials. Even as his arms ache from not holding her.
He squirms carefully beneath her, which he quickly recognizes to be a poor idea. But it does the trick. Before anything happens, she shoots off of him, brushing imaginary dust from her clothing despite no part of her touching the ground.
Lying there, he perches himself on his elbows, watching her tuck her hair behind her ears and pick up both poles from the ground. She refuses to meet his gaze, clearly flustered. He hides his grin.
“We should get back to the palace,” she calls over her shoulder.
Before he can open his mouth to agree, she hurries over to the weapons stash and tosses the poles into the crate.
Marcus slowly climbs to his feet as she flits about, busying herself with organizing the other weapons.
“Dru—”
She stops fidgeting, choosing instead to glare at him. “What?”
He continues to fight against his lips tipping up. “You’ve gotten better.”
She raises a brow.
“At fighting,” he amends.
“Oh,” she breathes, her shoulders loosening. “Thank you. I hate to admit it, but I wouldn’t be nearly as good if not for you. You were the best trainer the Faithless had.”
A compliment . His chest warms. “Glad to see all my hard work hasn’t gone to waste.”
She shakes her head, and he knows she’s biting her tongue.
“What is it?”
She sets her shoulders again. “Nothing.”
And he watches her walk out of the arena.