Chapter 3 #4
“Would you care to take a closer look?” He offered me his arm, and I glanced around, aware of eyes upon us.
I couldn’t refuse. I threaded my arm through his and reluctantly followed him toward the line of warriors.
Others stood beside us, openly admiring them.
Still, embarrassment rose. They were men, not objects.
As we came to a stop in front of the one with the tattoo, I felt his presence as if he were touching me.
I kept my eyes lowered, searching for an excuse to leave the Praetor’s side.
He started walking along the line of men.
“Do not be deceived. They are bred for spectacle. Nothing more.” He stopped before me and drew a dagger, dragging the blade lightly across the saber inked on the man’s chest. The skin parted, then sealed almost instantly beneath the candlelight.
I stared at the fading mark, not daring to look up.
“They are violence shaped into obedience. They have pretty blades, yes, but their appeal is dulled by ownership.”
He led me back toward the center of the room. “Men like that are taught to stand still and look dangerous. Thinking is done for them. Desire as well. They know how to hurt, not how to satisfy.” His tongue dragged slowly over the gold at his lip. “I assure you there is a difference.”
I stepped back, but when he caught my wrist, the gesture edged too close to force.
“I should go and find my uncle. Thank you for your guidance, My Lord—if you would release me.”
Instead of letting me go, he leaned closer, his breath brushing my ear. “I want to get to know you better, though this is not the place for it. My wife is here, you see.” His fingers stroked my wrist. I glanced around, aware of people staring.
Then warmth spread from my piercing, contrasting harshly with the cold warning from before, and I gasped. My hand rose to my ear in an attempt to dull it. My gaze landed on him—the Saber Warrior I’d noticed before, the one with the tattoo across his chest.
He was staring intently at the Praetor’s grip on my wrist, his stubbled jaw clenched, the muscle ticking.
Then his eyes lifted and found mine. A violent surge tore through me.
They were the darkest green I’d ever seen, like the moss carpeting the floor of the Lornwild at night, so deep it was almost black.
The Praetor’s touch faded into the distance, and the warmth from my piercing radiated through my veins, blotting out the cold.
The moment lasted only a heartbeat. His hands tightened into fists before he looked away, his control slamming back into place like a locked gate. Whatever had passed between us seemed sealed.
I covered the Praetor’s hand and applied enough pressure to signal my discontent. I opened my mouth to unleash my temper when he didn’t release me—
“My Lord Praetor.” Elion stepped out from behind Decimus, Marcus at his side. Thank the goddess.
The Lanista wore his authority as easily as the blade at his hip. Decimus’s grip loosened at once. His smile returned as if nothing had passed between us. Only a brief flick of his gaze, dark and promising, remained.
“Marcus,” Elion spoke. “Allow me to present my apprentice and niece, Valentina Greenwillow.” He stared at my wrist, a faint frown forming before I turned to bow.
“Ah. So this is the one. We have all heard whispers. A fine Bondward in the making, trained by the mighty Elion,” Marcus said.
“Whispers travel faster than truth, I’m afraid. I am still only an apprentice. But I am grateful for the guidance I have been given. I hope, in time, to honor the Ludaryn.”
“Well spoken. I can see that you are related to Elion,” he answered, clapping Elion on the shoulder.
“The Ludaryn will be richer for your presence, I am sure of it. I look forward to seeing which of my fine warriors will want to bond with you. It will be a pleasure to teach you the inner workings of the Maw. There is much to learn beyond the blade.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the warriors. “Much.”
He stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an exhibition to announce.”
In the corner of my eye, Sartelis entered the room again, adjusting his robe, the servant following close behind, wiping his mouth, and I shuddered in repulsion. Decimus lingered only long enough to send me a charged look before he, too, disappeared into the crowd. I let out a quiet breath.
Marcus now stood at the front of the room, his hands raised high. A ripple of anticipation moved through the room as he cleared his throat.
“Tonight,” he announced, “you will witness an exhibition match of Caelora’s finest—the moment you have all been waiting for. My Lords and Ladies, I present to you a feast for the eyes!” He motioned toward the warriors lined against the wall.
One of them stepped forward at his call, a tall, lean man with short black curls.
“One bout,” he went on. “Between Rhenik Varros—”
The warrior dipped his head.
“And Vayren Thanor, The Ringbreaker of Caelora.”
The world tilted as the second warrior stepped forward. The one with the dark green eyes and the saber tattoo.