37
“Ah! There they are!” Roxior exclaimed, his voice booming, cutting through the surrounding chatter and the music coming from the small group of musicians in the center of the room.
Everyone turned to us, their faces lit up, and a unified applause echoed through the hall.
Roxior navigated through the myriad of guests and acrobats, their half-naked bodies adorned with gold paint, until he arrived at the high threshold where we stood.
His cheeks were flushed from the wine that spilled from the glass he held, leaving a mark on the hem of his white and blue toga as he stumbled to a halt.
“Your Highness,” he greeted me with a bow so deep that he almost spilled his drink completely. “Your beauty is beyond words.” He nodded to Amlach, twisting his lips at the sight of Amlach’s sewn wound. “That was close, Commander.”
Amlach half-smiled. “I’ll live.”
But Roxior was right. Had the blade penetrated slightly more, it would have severed the main artery. The very thought made my blood run cold and my stomach knot up. In the next fight, I vowed to pay closer attention and ensure he didn’t get even a scratch.
“You’d better hope you do.” Roxior took a sip of his wine. “Are you ready to party?”
“Can’t wait to show the elf how much fun we mortals can have,” Amlach said with a grin.
The elderly man burst into a short laugh, giving him a pat on the arm. “Well said, lad!”
Amlach winked at me. I shot him a glare before swiftly putting on a fake smile for Master Roxior.
Encouraged by wine, he boldly took my free hand and pressed a sticky kiss on my knuckles. Yet, when I caught a subtle warning in his gaze not to stir trouble, I realized that his cheerful demeanor was just a facade.
He was more than vigilant.
And he was up to something.
I extended my pinkie to brush Amlach’s and gain his attention, but before I could even glance at him, Roxior rapped the ring on his index finger against his chalice to quiet the crowd.
When the musicians raised bows and fingers from the instruments, Roxior began with his deep voice, “Dear friends and guests, I am pleased to introduce Princess Nauriel, daughter and heir of Erech, King of the Elves, and Amlach Pyrós, commander of King Amlach III’s army in the Kingdom of Men.”
Numerous glasses were lifted in our honor, as the attendees’ gazes lingered on us with such desire that I instinctively moved a bit closer to Amlach.
“Let the fun begin!” Roxior declared, spilling more wine as he dramatically lifted his glass. He gulped down the last of his drink in an unrefined manner, staining his white mustache and prompting a servant to swiftly arrive with a tray that held a freshly filled glass.
From that moment, Masters and Mistresses approached us with their gladiators in tow to pay their respects.
I doled out smiles that didn’t touch my eyes, trying to discern which individuals had plotted against Roxior and his lover.
Yet, they all appeared so at ease and friendly, even the gladiators, who relished the abundant food, drinks, and company, as if they were not slaves but equals to their owners.
The celebration continued with streams of red and white wine, alongside various liqueurs flowing from the fountains on the lengthy refreshment tables.
As the laughter grew louder, the dancing became increasingly bold, leaving me both embarrassed and captivated by those movements, which were so different from the ones of elven dances. So obscene.
So carnal.
As the evening went on, surrounded by the drooling gazes of men boring me with questions about my own people and the alluring looks of women striving to capture Amlach’s attention, I observed that some gladiators had drifted away from their owners and were entertaining themselves with other Masters or Mistresses.
And they looked pretty . . . intimate.
So, once we concluded our conversation with a distinguished red-haired Master clad in amaranth robes and accompanied by his gladiators—who appeared to be siblings, given their resemblance and identical black almond-shaped eyes—I turned to Roxior with a decisive look.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
The man took a bite of a tart from a passing servant’s tray, washed it down with a sip of wine, and then leaned in to speak to me in a low voice. “What you see here, Your Highness, are the gladiators earning the favor of the great Houses of Rubra.”
“Earning?” I echoed him with a skeptical frown.
“With their bodies, Elf,” Amlach whispered in my ear.
I tried hard to ignore the shiver caused by his warm breath on my cheek and neck. “Why?” I asked Roxior, doing my best not to sound too indignant.
He raised the chalice to his lips, his eyes closely observing what was happening in the hall.
“Because, in exchange, they can request anything: more food, additional male or female company, greater comfort, or simpler adversaries in the arena . . . The pleasures of the flesh wield significant influence, Your Highness.” His mood became cloudier. “Or lead to death.”
I glanced sideways at him. Was this what had happened to his lover? Had he refused to give himself to another Master or Mistress because he was in love with Roxior? Could that have been the reason for his murder?
“It’s awful,” I said softly, in a tone that was half compassionate and half disgusted.
“It’s Rubra, Your Highness,” he said through clenched teeth, downing yet another drink as a woman with a regal presence came toward us.
She donned a crimson dress like mine, except for a deep slit on her left leg.
Golden dust sparkled on her eyelids, accentuated her prominent cheekbones, and highlighted her full, black-painted lips, enhancing her brown complexion.
She was adorned with gold jewelry studded with rubies, and a crown of thick raven curls framed her elongated, high-foreheaded face.
Though she was petite like me, she wore high-heeled sandals that brought her up to Amlach’s shoulder.
And her dark eyes were fixed right on him.
“Yrrek,” Roxior greeted her politely, but he made no effort to conceal the anger in his voice.
“Roxior,” she greeted him back, equally sharp, never taking her eyes off Amlach.
“I see that your gladiator has already abandoned you,” the elderly man went on with a note of mockery.
She reacted to the taunt with a sly smile, casting her gaze at her own gladiator, who was with a Master near a column. He was the young man with sharp teeth I had encountered before stepping into the arena.
“As always,” the woman sighed, faking sadness. She looked back at Amlach as if he were her favorite meal. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Roxior snapped his fingers at a servant who had just filled his tray with glasses of white wine. Moments later, the boy stood beside his Master, who took a chalice and placed the empty one in his hand onto the tray.
“Princess, Commander,” he said, showing off a polite attitude. “This is Mistress Yrrek.”
Amlach and I presented her with the same bow we had given to all the guests who came to introduce themselves. However, unlike the other women, she extended her hand to Amlach.
“It’s a real pleasure, Commander,” she said sensually, completely ignoring me.
He hesitated for a moment, and then, with his gaze fixed on hers, he gallantly kissed her knuckles. “Likewise, Mistress.”
I clenched my hand into a fist to refrain from punching him in the teeth.
Her eyes lingered on Amlach’s lips. “You have greatly impressed me today in the arena. You are truly worthy of your military rank.”
He held his hands behind his back, stretching the small chain that connected our cuffs, and gave her a half-smile that was both smug and seductive. “Thank you, Mistress.”
The woman stared at him unabashedly, and I was about to step in front of Amlach to prevent her from gazing at him.
“I believe your talent would have shone even brighter if it weren’t for a specific impediment you had.” She cut me a look full of superiority, then gazed back at him and added in a bewitching tone, “Am I right?”
I clenched my jaw until my molars ached to refrain from snarling at her like a beast, piercing the woman with a look more than deadly.
“Well, no one likes to be tied,” Amlach joked, prompting a fake laugh from Roxior.
The Mistress took a step forward, and my fingers tingled with the urge to seize her hair and push her away.
“I do,” she said sensually.
Amlach ran his eyes up and down her curvaceous form with deliberate slowness. “I thought so,” he said, smirking in a way that made my nostrils flare with the rage surging inside me.
Yrrek brushed his sewn wound, slightly visible beneath the collar of his tunic, then let her hand rest against his chest. She raised her hungry eyes to meet his and, in a soft and sultry voice, proclaimed, “I want to spend the night with you, Commander.”