31
I had fought countless battles in my life, and yet I had never been so nervous. Scared, even.
One single distraction from me and things could get really bad.
That’s why I ignored every sound when the Games started. Amlach watched the performances through the opening in the wall, describing them to me in detail, convinced I was listening.
But I was focused on my body. On the resistance of my muscles. On the responsiveness of my nerves. On how far my eyes could see.
How strong I could be.
I had spent a month training to adapt to my condition, and now I knew my limits well. However, I sensed that the battle we were about to engage in would reveal new weaknesses I had not yet discovered.
And it would be the end for Amlach and me.
“Gladiators,” a guard suddenly called out as he appeared at the threshold.
I collected myself, and the roar of the audience in the stands cheering for the winner of the recently concluded performance seemed to explode in my mind.
“It’s time,” the soldier said, stepping aside to allow a comrade, wielding a sword in each hand, to enter.
I stood up and accepted one of the weapons. It was heavier than the one I had practiced with and too long for my height. The cross-guard was so short that it scarcely protected my fingers, and the metal pommel was too bulky. Not to mention the blade, which appeared to be anything but sharp.
They really wanted to get us killed on that field.
Amlach brushed his fingertips over his weapon and tossed me an eloquent glance. “Training swords are sharper, you guys,” he said in a tone that was both mocking and irritated.
The man who had given them to us had the decency to lower his gaze, looking contrite.
“Come,” the other ordered curtly.
We were led back into the maze of tunnels, but this time, I didn’t need Amlach’s security. My thoughts were solely focused on the looming battle.
As we entered a passage that let in a lot of light from its end, I drew a shaky breath. Halfway down the corridor, the guards urged us to continue on our own toward the sunlight.
Slowly, Amlach and I made our way into the upward tunnel, where a thick iron gate awaited us at the top.
Once we arrived at the gate, I told myself not to peek into the arena, keeping my gaze fixed on the dusty ground. The screams of the citizens, obsessively calling out to us, seemed to take on the form of spiders, crawling across my exposed arms and making my hair curl.
Nervous, I drove my sword into the ground and loosened the leather lace I had used to tie my hair before leaving Roxior’s house. As I recreated the high ponytail, I felt Amlach’s intense gaze on my face.
I willed myself not to meet it.
Not to appear even weaker.
The next moment, the gate’s mechanism was activated with a squeak, and the grating started to rise.
I gathered my sword, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply.
“I got your back, Elf.”
Amlach’s voice, both resolute and intimate, crept into my bubble of concentration. I couldn’t control myself and looked up, gazing at him as if trying to imprint every detail of his face in my memory.
“And I will try not to let you die,” I replied playfully.
He gave me a teasing smile, then we turned our attention back in front of us. The back of his fingers brushed against mine, conveying to me all his determination along with his anxiety.
The gate reached the top with a metal thud.
And Amlach and I moved forward.