Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Roremar
What in the Fates’ starry-eyed fuck was going on?
After a quick stop to eat at the docks and being shoved into different clothes, Roremar had been thrown into a cart, no starsdamned clue where he was being taken as they raced down uneven cobbled and dirt roads.
Dipping over hills and wheels splashing in puddles from the recent rain, he’d simply tried not to vomit up what little food he’d been given.
Now, as he called on the remnants of strength the meal provided to narrowly dodge a dagger soaring toward him, Roremar was pretty fucking grateful he’d kept it down. Luckily, his instincts had reacted as soon as a blade was put in his hand.
The man who had thrown the knife charged at Roremar from his left, the dagger a poor distraction.
The helmet they’d slammed over his head provided way less visibility than Roremar liked, but he let his other senses take over, relying on the quick-footedness and keen hearing he’d spent years honing in the jungles on Lyra.
And when his attacker got closer, Roremar didn’t hesitate to slam his sword through the man’s gut—straight to the hilt—the third and most brutal life he’d claimed in a few short minutes.
Blood poured over his hands—unchained for some Fatesdamned reason—and the sticky sensation dragged him back in time.
No, no, not again. Not again.
The blood turned the blade slippery. Roremar’s grip loosened. His steps staggered backward.
Not again.
The man’s helmet tumbled off as he toppled to the ground.
Not again.
Vision blurry, Roremar blinked down at his victim’s coarse, dark hair through the slits in his own mask.
Not Nico.
This wasn’t Nico.
This had been a man intent on killing him, and he could remember every moment and decision. This wasn’t Dryvius using him, this was self-defense and pure battle instinct.
It was one of many lives lost today. The only question was what in the Fate’s everlasting grave was going on?
Shoving the man off his blade, Roremar turned. He kept his back to a bare expanse of stone wall and scanned his surroundings, taking a second to calm his shaking hands and assess the situation.
They were in a large arena of some sort, flags snapping in the breeze from the highest points of the arched walls.
Crowds lined endless rows of seats, their roaring cheers a crashing tide as if this slaughter was for sport.
A dozen or so bodies lay lifeless in the dirt, the rest of the men still dueling with every aggressive means they could drudge up.
Were they all criminals like him? Was this some sort of entertainment to dispose of them? Based on the enthusiasm and the different names painted on banners, Roremar was certain the viewers had personal stakes—wagers, likely.
It wasn’t some underground operation, though. No, this was out in broad daylight, in an arena bigger than anything he’d ever seen on the Constellation Isles. It nagged at a memory, but he couldn’t remember where he might have heard of it before.
And he didn’t have time to dwell on where he was as the crowd cheered for his kills—no one knowing his name, thank the Spirits. Other men in the arena noticed where the spectators’ attention went.
They turned his way.
“By the fucking Angel,” Roremar grumbled, squaring his shoulders.
One of them aimed for him, and Roremar met him head on, blades clashing before he pivoted behind him.
The guards who had escorted Roremar had given him a nicked old sword and a few dull daggers. He wrenched one from his belt, the grip wobbling in his fist, and—with exceptional, unfortunate force—rammed it into the guy’s spine.
The strength he had to employ to sever bone and ligaments had him gagging, but he gritted his teeth and shoved the blade home. The man crumpled beneath it with an agonized scream that shook Roremar’s spirit.
His vision flickered.
Between here and a bloody cell.
Here and a war camp.
Two deaths he was responsible for. That he heard in his nightmares.
What was he doing, taking more life? He already had so much Fatesdamned blood on his hands, he couldn’t handle any more.
And while the men he just killed seemed so inept with a weapon they were practically asking to die, why did they deserve it?
But him…
Well, he fucking deserved all the grief the realms could rain down on him.
A glint had his attention snapping up. A triple dagger whizzed through the air for him, blades igniting in the sun. Out of habit, Roremar threw up an arm to block. The weapon clanged against his rusted vambrace and shot to the side, sliding across the ground in a cloud of dust.
“Fates.” He laughed. He couldn’t even die properly.
Finally, after weeks of torment, this was his chance to hand his life over and escape all the guilt and misery that had shrouded every Angelsdamned waking and sleeping second. And his body was still defending him in a way he didn’t deserve.
He deserved to feel every ounce of pain these opponents could bestow on him—he longed for it, as messed up as that was. And then, he’d let them take his life.
It was cowardly, getting to abandon it all, but perhaps whoever had thrown him in here had done him a favor after all.
He’d be dying without the answers his missing memories desperately sought, but he had to take the opportunity.
Two warriors collided before him, neither fighting with any finesse, but they were fairly matched. Distracted by one another. Another gift of the Fates, he supposed. Giving him the chance to do what he must.
Roremar threw his bloodied blade to the dirt, a cloud of dust puffing up around it.
Hand shaking, he unhooked the buckles on one vambrace then the other. The ink of his sigil tattoos was bold as his sleeves slipped up his arms, and he silently said goodbye to the siblings they represented.
The aged, shoddy armor landed on top of his weapon, the scrape of metal against metal loud in his ears despite the roaring crowd.
Swallowing, Roremar unhooked the weapons belt he’d been given, the spaulder protecting his shoulder next. Before he removed his helmet, his gaze lifted above the men dueling around him, and he truly looked at the crowd for the first time.
At their hungry expressions.
At their array of colorful flags and streamers.
At a box jutting out from the third tier of seats above the battle, framed in silver pennants and shaded by an awning so he couldn’t make out anyone’s faces. Except one pair of eyes he knew so well.
Through the narrow slit of his visor, his entire world froze.
The clashes of battle, the screams of the dying, the taunts of the crowds…it all faded. Despite the distance, his vision tunneled in on those hazel eyes. Nothing else existed, no one around her more than a blur.
His heart started pounding. He’d sworn the thing was pummeled with Nico’s death, but now, it went wild with desire and selfish will, really beating for the first time in weeks, a string tied around it thrumming as he saw Emmeline DeLeoste.
Dressed to the fucking stars with tears fighting to roll down her cheeks and utter torment on her face.
A switch within his mind snapped. His entire focus, his reason for existing, was now Emmeline. How to wipe that look from her face, how to feel her in his arms. How to kill anyone that stood between them. Blood on his hands be damned, he’d bathe in it if it meant a moment with her again.
And with his eyes on Emmeline’s, Roremar came back to life.
He didn’t know how—how they’d ended up here, what anything around him meant, or what the purpose of this damn fight was—but he knew one thing. Emmeline DeLeoste was watching him with a pleading, terrified look in her shocked eyes. Begging him to survive.
Now I won’t rest until I get you back.
That’s what he’d promised her. He’d broken so many promises, many he couldn’t even remember, but seeing how she looked at him, he didn’t give a damn what the Fates had planned for him today. They could be added to his list of kills, as well.
At the thought, helmet covering his face, Roremar grinned for the first time in weeks.
Then, armor still littering the ground around his feet, he swiped his sword from the dust and kicked the other rusted pieces aside.
And he did what was perhaps one of the most reckless acts he’d committed to date: He fought to get back to Emmeline DeLeoste.