Chapter 21 #2
I spared Aric a wary look before stepping up to the banister.
Two men, wearing only black scaled pants and boots, faced off in a brutal fight.
Blood ran a crimson river down the back of one, wide muscles heaving as he lifted a sword high in the air.
The other figure sported no blood but was covered in dust from the ground.
He deflected the first man’s strike with a tired defense and countered with his own swipe of the blade.
“What is this?” I flinched as metal nearly met its mark.
Soldiers lined the walls of the arena, their composure rigid.
Above them, onlookers sat calmly, observing the fight with quiet interest as if these two men weren’t trading mortal blows.
As if one of them wasn’t going to die the moment a blade found its target.
Aric’s father had killed people for sport, and Aric claimed he was different. But this? This…this was barbaric.
“Watch.” Aric sidled up beside me. Leaning on the balustrade, he jerked his chin toward the two men. “The closest man, the one with the blood, is going to win. His friend there has exhausted himself too early. It’s a trait I’ve told him to work on, and today, it’s going to be his downfall.”
The non-bloodied man stumbled back, his exhaustion evident. His opponent capitalized on the opportunity, driving forward with a brutal strike that he barely deflected.
“Is this another one of your indulgences?” I said, accusation dripping from the question.
He pursed his lips. “This? I wouldn’t call it an indulgence.” A grin stole the sincerity of that statement. “Though I am entertained.”
I didn’t think Aric was a good man, but I didn’t paint him as bad as…as what this looked like. “If it isn’t an indulgence, then what is it?”
“A necessity.”
I scoffed.
His amusement faded as he gestured before us. “See the people watching? The soldiers lining the walls? They aren’t cheering. They aren’t betting. They aren’t jumping from their seats, despite the excitement here.”
“You’re telling me things I already know. Tell me—” Steel struck true. The tired man fell to the ground, blood spurting from a slice to his side. Clumsily, he rolled to his feet, favoring his injury. “Tell me what it is I don’t know.”
This man was going to die, and from the slump of his shoulders and the hang of his head, he knew it. He was going to die, and we were all just going to stand here and watch it happen.
“What you don’t know is that our tired friend there has been vying for the other man’s position in the ranks. I’ve told him he isn’t ready for it, but he wanted to petition for it anyway. This is how our soldiers petition.”
I rocked back as that information clashed with the conclusions in my mind. “What?”
“We hold a Petition twice a year. During it, soldiers can challenge others for their positions. You either fight to defend your ranking, or you fight to improve it in some way. Whether or not it results in death depends on whether the loser is willing to surrender.”
“But who would surrender, here in front of their peers and people?”
“Those who are smart and want to live. I encourage it.” The losing man dodged an attack and lost his balance, falling to the ground. Aric muttered, “This one has never been smart.”
His opponent towered over him, knocked his weapon away, and placed the tip of his sword at his neck. My fingers tightened on the stone. “He’s going to kill him,” I breathed.
Aric sighed. “No, he won’t.” He sounded disappointed, and that was entirely wrong. “Hugo’s going to kick him in the face, knock him out, break some of his teeth, and walk away.”
A moment later, the winner—Hugo—did exactly that.
I flinched as his foot made contact, and the man on the ground stopped moving.
Hugo didn’t celebrate his victory, and neither did the audience.
In fact, the end of the fight was entirely anticlimactic.
Hugo stalked off to a far wall and disappeared into an exit, while three soldiers left their posts and picked up the limp body.
I forced myself to speak as the losing man was carried away. “If this isn’t for sport, why have an audience?”
“For the health of our Territory,” he answered frankly. “It reminds our people of our strength and our soldiers’ dedication.”
Some of my tension eased as I processed this. Still, the brutality of the event didn’t sit well. “Whatever your reasons, with every death, you lose a good soldier.”
“We lose a soldier, not a good one,” he corrected. “We don’t want the stupid ones in our ranks. The option to surrender keeps our ranks limited to the smart ones.”
I studied him, the scar tracking down his cheek and the harnessed power in his casual stance. His flirtatious disposition was deceptively disarming.
Aric was a savage man.
He motioned toward the seats, and I followed, finally seeking out Harthon.
Wearing his typical leathers, daggers strapped across his chest, he stood more ferociously than Hugo had on that battlefield, even without blood staining his body.
It was in the carved structure of his face, the solidness of his capable form, the way the veined muscles of his forearm flexed as he drank from a goblet.
Above the rim of his cup, he was watching me.
No, not watching.
Studying.
Those dark orbs left my face to track down my neck to my chest, where they lingered. My leather vest heaved on a too-full breath. His eyes zipped back to mine.
I know, they said. I know you did this to provoke me.
I did.
And this was only the beginning.
It wasn’t right. Or mature. Or becoming of a magvis. But it might just prove more productive than our debilitating conversations. Even if it didn’t, even if Harthon really was just a man who played with hearts and feelings with no regard, it would feel better than just letting him.
“Would you like to sit?” Aric asked pleasantly, waving toward a chair in the front row.
Knowing Harthon could hear us, I replied, “Will you be sitting?”
Intrigue flitted across his features. “I will do whatever it is you would like to do.”
I smiled sweetly. “Let us sit.”
Aric was no idiot. He was well aware of the situation between Harthon and I. Domus knew he saw enough of it yesterday to draw accurate conclusions. And if he knew this, then he likely knew what I planned to do. The question was whether or not he wished to play the game.
As we sat, Harthon leaned on the balustrade. He faced the next pair of fighters who’d taken the floor, his demeanor relaxed. Muted conversations buzzed around us on the terrace. A nobleman approached Harthon for a conversation, surprising me. I thought everyone here hated him.
“Care to explain who our company is?” I prompted Aric.
“Members of my cabinet.” He tracked my attention to the two men in conversation, explaining, “They find this alliance valuable.”
“Do you like your cabinet?” It was a brazen question, but Aric didn’t seem to care much for etiquette.
“Does anyone like their cabinet?” was his dry reply.
As the next petition began, a servant came over with a platter of drinks. Aric plucked two from the gold tray and offered one to me. I took it so I’d have a prop to hide my fidgeting, then angled my legs toward him.
Harthon didn’t seem to notice, engaged in his conversation.
For this fight and the next two, Aric and I discussed the men on the floor and their tactics. Or should I say, Aric discussed their tactics, while I observed and tried to pick out what I could apply to my own training. Each battle ended in a brutal surrender, to which Aric would nod in approval.
Maybe he didn’t find joy in senseless deaths.
When a new set of men entered the arena, Harthon still hadn’t acknowledged my position. I leaned on the armrest next to Aric and felt the fabric at my chest slightly gape. That, too, was ignored.
I glanced at Aric, whose sole focus was on the swordplay. When he said, “Watch how he waits. He’s searching for weakness,” my confidence wavered, because it seemed that Aric wasn’t playing the game.
Maybe it’s because he’s a Princeps who needs food for his Territory and wishes to maintain his alliance.
Eying the wine in my cup, I drained it. That managed to capture the attention of both Princepes, as well as a blue-eyed noble who, until now, had been deep in conversation with two others.
“The wine is watered,” the stranger said, sauntering over. His voice was deep and assured, reflecting the confidence in his gait. “It allows us to stretch our cellars. Though, it also means you must drink more of it to taste the grape.”
Appearing to be around Harthon’s age, he was handsome—far more handsome than any of our own cabinet members. He lay somewhere between rugged and refined, stubble coating his jaw, face lightly tanned from being outdoors, a wide chest hinting at muscle, gold chains indicating his status.
“Ah, Matthias,” Aric said warmly, though that warmth fell short of his eyes. “Meet Etarla, the lovely magvis.”
Matthias flashed a dazzling smile and bowed. He smelled of a perfume that reminded me of the woods. He graciously offered his hand, and I took it, surprised to feel hard calluses on his skin.
He lifted my hand and kissed it. “It is a pleasure, Etarla.” His thumb brushed across my fingers before releasing them.
Harthon was still engaged in his conversation, but I could feel the weight of his gaze. Some of my broken confidence pieced back together.
“Are you enjoying the Petition?” Matthias asked, probably because I still hadn’t responded to him.
Clearing my throat, I offered him a friendly smile. “I am,” I lied. “Though it was unexpected. I have never heard of this type of tradition before.”
A grunt emanated from the arena. Matthias pivoted to view the action. “It can appear rather barbaric, I know.” He turned back to me and lifted his cup to his lips, speaking over the rim. “But it is good for our men, and good for our people. Besides, who doesn’t enjoy a good fight?”
Me, along with those who value life.