Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Emmeline
Rocarri’s jaw tightened as the first strike landed, a muscle ticking with the carnage raining below.
And Emmeline realized, he hadn’t expected this either.
Hadn’t expected the chaos he derived from his own trials, feeding these men with promises of fortune and starving them for blood. He’d expected a show—drama and flare, but not a massacre.
Despite the devastation, for a brief flash, satisfaction curled within Emmeline at him losing control of his own event. Even Balmour Rocarri didn’t hold total power. Good. Let him experience the swooping sensation of the rug being pulled out from under him as he’d done to her yesterday.
But as more men fell—as the cries of agony rang louder then sliced into eerie silence—bile stung the back of Emmeline’s throat. This savagery was being committed in her honor.
The crowd was only encouraging them. Starsearchers were warriors after all. Most grew up with a triple blade in hand, and it was an honor to die on a battlefield. To them, these men had volunteered for this.
“Cyren?” Alana forced out. “What’s happening?”
“I warned them,” Cyren whispered. “A few of us read at the temple last night after selecting the pairings. We saw this as a potential outcome when Rocarri removed the rules.”
“What do you mean?” Alana asked.
“He purposefully didn’t set any instructions on yielding or first blood. The only rule is that half of them must proceed to the second trial.”
“He told them to do this?” Emmeline asked. “To kill each other?”
Cyren shook their head. “He simply didn’t tell them not to.”
Emmeline’s attention whipped to the Chancellor. Skirt swishing around her feet, she stormed to the front of the platform. “What’s happening?”
Rocarri turned to her, and the smile creeping across his face sent a chill down her spine. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Better than I expected.”
Better than…
She’d been wrong. It wasn’t surprise in Rocarri’s expression when the fight broke out. It was excitement.
“Beautiful?” Emmeline sneered, wrenching her stare from the Chancellor to the arena as one man shoved his sword into the gut of another and dragged it out through his side. “It’s slaughter.”
“It’s the mercilessness our Angel requires.”
“How can you know that?” Emmeline snapped. “How can Valyrie wish this?”
“The victor of the tournament must be loyal to you, Emmeline. He must be willing to kill any who threaten you or stand between you,” Rocarri explained as if she was daft.
As if she was the crazy one here. “That is what Valyrie required of the winners who lined her guard, and that is what your bonded partner must be true to.”
“I do not want a man who will kill unprovoked. Stop this!”
The command in her voice rang around the box, and silence answered. Then, the whispers started among the Chancellor’s guests. Phrases such as unstable and out of line clung to her, her temper simmering beneath the disapproval.
“I’d gather yourself now,” the Chancellor whispered, eyes softening as if he truly cared for her.
She shook her head, staggering back a step. How didn’t they see that this was wrong? How did they agree with Rocarri?
Someone tugged on Emmeline’s hand, and she whirled, meeting Alana’s horrified stare.
“Come on,” Alana whispered, face pale.
She argued, “No, he can’t let this—”
“Emmeline,” Alana warned in a low voice, her eyes flicking to the councillors and District Governors. To the guards lining the back of the platform who may have taken a step closer. “For now.”
And it was the promise in those two words that convinced her. The silent vow to figure this out later and the reminder that she needed to play the game if she wanted to find her sister.
But in that moment, she was certain, she couldn’t be a part of this tournament. No matter how desperate she was, she wouldn’t allow the Chancellor to kill innocent men all to harness her magic. To trade her.
This would end, tonight.
If the tournament continued, if the second and third trials took place, Emmeline would not be the bargaining chip the lives were wagered for.
It would be Rocarri’s own malicious intent.
Taking a deep breath, Emmeline forced herself to face the arena again. To hear the cries, to memorize the shapes of the crimson streaks on the dirt and the unremorseful expressions on the men’s faces.
The original Angel trials were likely just as ruthless, but that was to honor Valyrie. Emmeline…she wasn’t worth this. Her magic, her power, her reputation—none of it was worth the agony below. And now she’d live with thirty lives staining her soul.
All because she was their toy—their property. To be used, coveted, and kept. But why should her feelings about it matter? Rocarri had made it clear in his dismissal she was nothing more than a figurehead. A darling with abundant magic who was overstepping her boundaries.
Unstable. Out of line.
Maybe she was worth dying for, but her opinions did not matter. She stifled every bit of rage and hurt over that refusal.
The silver gates across the arena swung open once more.
“Not more competitors,” Emmeline groaned, horror tight in her chest.
But only one man entered this time—the sixtieth competitor who’d been missing earlier. A rusted helmet covering his face, he stumbled into the arena as if he was in a daze. His attention flicked around the carnage as he pulled his sword.
Did he not know what he was walking into? That was an unkind fate if she’d ever seen one. With how confused he seemed, he’d be killed immediately. Hopefully it was a quick mercy. She’d pray to Valyrie for an easy rest for him.
A platinum-blond man with a huge bloody tear down the back of his leathers charged at the newcomer.
Emmeline couldn’t look away as he nimbly dodged the blade and swung back around with his own, meeting the next strike. He found his footing, moving around the dirt in an elegant dance. As if he’d spent many long years training with a variety of fighting methods and weapons, surefooted and silent.
The newcomer drove his sword into his opponent’s chest on a sweeping slash, ripping it free and swiveling to face the next as if on instinct. And with the grace of that movement, Emmeline’s breath caught in her throat.
No.
That body. She recognized it.
The breadth of his shoulders, the way he flipped the sword around his hand, every move precise and analytical. She’d never seen him fight like this, but she’d memorized every facet of him without trying, and the flow of his movements was exactly as she remembered.
The flex of his arms were the same as when he’d held her each time she’d broken.
The grip on the hilt of his sword the same that had reached for her at the end.
She could feel it all now, phantom touches slipping between her fingers.
He fought with the same ease as he twirled a pen around his hand or a wooden puzzle piece. The small ones he always carried in his pocket. A habit. The kind you memorize about a person you care for.
It couldn’t be, though. It was impossible.
After the second kill, he hung back from the group and waited for the perfect opportunity. Because he may be reckless, but he wasn’t stupid. It was cautious calculation.
Run, she wanted to yell, the voice in her head ragged with terror.
Her eyes stung as she tried to breathe over the lump in her throat.
“No,” she whispered aloud this time.
No, what was he doing here?
No, he couldn’t be part of this.
She wanted to scream. To rage at the Chancellor, the Angel, the Fates, whoever would listen because what in any Fateforsaken realm was happening?
Tears gathered on her lashes, a slow drop escaping as she tried to blink them away. The thing in her chest that twined their souls together tugged and tugged, desperation clawing through her as she watched him unknowingly fight for her hand.
And she nearly did scream as a dagger went soaring for his heart.