Chapter 10 #2
Grateful for the interruption, I followed, the narrow tunnels closing around us as we pressed deeper into the structure. The scent of damp stone grew stronger, mingling with something older, something that clung to the walls and coated the back of my throat.
The ceiling dipped lower in places and my breaths shortened further, each one a little more shallow than the last. Jorius caught up and took a long look at me.
“Have you never been here before?”
I merely shook my head.
“There’s a hierarchy to the seating,” he said, as if we were not walking beneath a place built for blood. “The golden-pierced sit at the top with the Lanistas. Below that, the elite households.”
“And us?” I asked, clinging to the distraction.
“Bondwards have their own pulvinus. It’s below the golden-pierced. Close enough to see everything. Far enough to survive it.”
The tunnel curved upward, and we climbed again, step after step, the air thinning as light slowly returned. The roar grew louder until it pressed against me with a force that made it difficult to ignore.
And then—
we emerged.
The sun hit all at once, bright and blinding, the heat returning with it in a wave that felt almost suffocating after the cold below.
We were directed to our seats. Jorius was right.
Our pulvinus sat elevated, set apart from the rest—high enough to see everything, but exposed in a way that made me aware of it.
The stone beneath me burned through the thin fabric of my tunic as I lowered myself onto the bench.
I barely noticed.
My breath stilled. The Maw lay stretched out before us. It was vast. The sand below was pale, almost bone-colored, but it was marked, here and there, with darker stains that no one had bothered to hide.
I followed the curve of the stands upward, drawn higher and higher, pulled toward the center of it all.
Toward the Royal pulvinus. The Praetor sat there, his back turned to me.
But Aelia’s was not. Her curled brown hair was drawn into a crown atop her head, leaving nothing to soften her features.
She saw me immediately. Recognition flashed across her face, and with it something colder.
Hatred. She shifted, drawing closer to Decimus, her hand moving with practiced ease as she pulled him in for a kiss. I shuddered. Better her than me.
The Aedile sat nearby, Cassara at his side.
They both looked resplendent and severe, watching the Maw with anticipation that barely bothered to hide itself.
At the center, upon a throne shaped in curling gold like a coiled serpent, sat a man who needed no introduction.
Power radiated from him. He was dressed in a way that made every other display of wealth seem insignificant by comparison.
His short-cropped golden hair caught the sun as if he had no need for a crown, though he wore one all the same.
A serpent wrought in gems. The fountain in the Traders Quarter flashed through my mind—the statue I had once thought imposing.
It hadn’t come close. Here, there was no stone to soften our ruler.
Beside him sat a woman with hair spilled in pale golden waves, threaded with glittering stones.
Her gown shimmered like molten gold, intricate beyond reason. For a moment, I simply stared.
Jorius leaned closer. “Impressive, aren’t they?”
I tore my gaze away, though the image lingered.
“The Imperator,” he murmured, “Varos Drakorian. And his wife, Severa.” A theatrical sigh followed. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of fun with the pair. Together, ideally.”
The absurdity of it cut clean through the tension, and a laugh slipped free before I could stop it. The Imperator rose, and my laughter died in my throat along with every other sound in the Maw.
He stepped beside his wife’s throne, resting a hand against her shoulder as she looked up at him with adoration. There was something in the way he carried himself, an authority that made the space around him feel… controlled. It stirred a vague sense of familiarity.
“A fine day in Valystria,” he declared, his voice carrying effortlessly across the stone and sand. “Where the greatest city of all opens its doors for spectacle—Caelora.”
A murmur rolled through the stands, rising and falling.
“A city of splendor and discipline. Of wealth earned and power maintained. Caelora stands as proof of what Valystria becomes when excellence is cultivated rather than squandered.” His gaze swept across the Maw. “Its people are the finest our Empire has to offer.”
“We welcome today the Bondwards, the people, and the Lanista of Aurexium—a proud city, home to the most resourceful merchants in all of Valystria. Nowhere else do rarer ingredients change hands, nor finer goods find their way into our Empire. The beating heart of trade itself.”
Applause followed loudly, before he quieted it with a simple lift of his hand.
“Together,” he continued, “we gather for the midday bout—the finest spectacle this day will offer. A contest of strength, will, and honor, as befits the eyes upon it.”
His hand lifted once more. “And now—the Lanista of the Ludaryn of Caelora may introduce his champion.”
Marcus rose with ease. He walked to the front of the Royal pulvinus as he swept the Maw as if it were an extension of his own domain.
“People of Valystria. Caelora does not parade legends lightly.” He paused, letting anticipation build. “I give you the legend of Valystria. The Ringbreaker of Caelora.”
The name struck the Maw like steel, and the chant rose at once. Ringbreaker .
Thousands of voices thundered through the stands, shaking the stone beneath my feet. Marcus raised a hand, and silence fell over the Maw.
“He is unmatched in control. Unrivaled in violence. A warrior whose restraint is as feared as his fury.” He turned to the other Lanista. “In my judgment, there is no finer Saber Warrior in all of Valystria.”
“Vayren Thanor!”
The name detonated. The chant surged back, louder than before.
Ringbreaker. Ringbreaker. Ringbreaker.
It quieted once more as Marcus continued, “And beside him—bound by blood and will. A creature shaped for war. Kharos! We honor the Ludaryn of Aurexium with this challenge.”
The Aurexium Lanista scoffed and rose with a flourish that felt almost theatrical. His robes gleamed and his fingers were covered in rings with gems too large for their settings. He spread his hands wide as he stood, basking in the attention.
“Aurexium answers Caelora’s challenge with pride,” he proclaimed. “We present our champion. Titus Ferox, the Gilded Fang, undefeated in six cycles and raised in the harsh Northern Shatterlands.”
Cheers erupted from his section.
“And his saber—Syrath, the Sun-Blooded. Bred for speed, his violence fed on many victories.”
He dipped his head toward Marcus, more performance than respect. Marcus hadn’t exaggerated. This man was excessive in every sense—his voice too loud, his movements too grand, his presence straining for attention.
Both Lanistas raised a hand in unison. The guards below us moved. They carried ringchains as they ran toward the gates. The click of the iron mechanisms groaned through the stands as the heavy steel opened.
I leaned forward without thinking. Around me, the others did the same. Anticipation surged through me, my pulse quickening as we waited.
Vayren entered the sands first, his stride unhurried. Kharos padded behind him with measured grace. As they prowled toward the center, a hush rippled throughout the crowd.
A blackened steel chestplate bearing the Imperator’s crowned serpent covered his torso, fitted close to his body.
A broad belt cinched his waist, its clasp fashioned into the head of a saber—its lines echoing the tattoo inked across his skin.
Thick bracers encased his forearms, rings of varying metals threaded along them.
In his hands he carried the pair of double-edged axes he seemed to favor, their blades flashing in the harsh midday sun.
Something in me clenched at the sight of him. He looked like death given form.
Kharos paused beside him, his muscles coiled, his breathing steady. He seemed focused inward, as if preparing himself before the violence began.
Thanor was just as composed. He observed the crowd in the stands with lethal calm. I forced a steady breath and glanced toward the opposite gate as it opened.
Titus Ferox strode out with a grin on his face, an expression too sharp to be anything but unhinged.
A silver ring pierced through his nose glinted as he laughed.
His bronze hair caught the sun as he threw his head back to drink in the roar of the city’s applause.
But it wasn’t his name that was shouted the loudest.
Ringbreaker. Ringbreaker. Ringbreaker.
The sound swallowed everything else.
Syrath followed him. He was leaner than Kharos, but restless energy rolled off him in waves. His muscles twitched, ready to strike at any moment.
A jolt ran through me as I imagined standing between them when they clashed. They towered above the warriors. Too large. Too fast. Built for destruction.
Behind me, Lucina leaned closer to Mira and Iris.
“Titus’s piercing,” she murmured, her voice thick with anticipation, “will be torn from his smirking face soon enough. Another ring for Vayren’s bracers.”
A soft, satisfied breath followed.
“Another story to be added to his legend,” she added.
The hunger in her voice made my skin crawl. The Royal pulvinus distracted me as the Imperator brought his hands together in a crack that echoed through the Maw.
The sharp clap made me jolt. The tension I had been holding snapped through me as I took everything in.
The match began.
Titus moved first. He paced the sands with arrogant ease, his boots carving slow arcs as he circled. He lifted one arm, then the other, dragging the crowd’s attention with him. The roar swelled in response, feeding his grin.
Thanor didn’t move. He stood as still as stone, his axes loose at his sides, watching. Waiting. There was nothing rushed in him. Nothing wasted.