Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Roremar
She was here.
Relief unspooled in Roremar’s chest as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks.
Emmeline was in the capital as she always dreamed, and in some twisted, Fateforsaken fortune, Roremar was here, too. He had no starsdamned clue what fucked up game he’d been thrown into, but he didn’t give a damn.
Ever since he saw her standing on top of that platform, he’d been unable to think of anything else. He’d barely even noticed the Chancellor as he spoke or the crowd yelling at him. Every drop of his attention was for Emmeline DeLeoste.
She was here.
Within reach, if he could get out of this prison—or barracks.
But while he shared the suite in the Soldiers’ Quarters of Valyn’s Fifth District with five other men he had yet to meet, he saw it for what it really was.
There was still a blade hovering over his head.
Still guards stationed at only the entrance to this room, not the other four the competitors were rooming in, and he’d been told he wasn’t allowed to attend the festivities tonight as the rest were.
He blew out a rough breath, flopping back on the single bed he’d been assigned and rubbing his eyes. At least he’d been unchained and allowed to bathe properly—wash off the blood and grime coating him after the slaughter. His damp hair soaked into the cool pillow, sending a chill down his spine.
When he opened his eyes again, the mystlight orbs overhead flickered across the tiled ceiling. One had clearly fallen out and the replacement was a few shades off, the speckled pattern not matching.
As he watched it, willing his mind to still, the small grey dots spun, forming constellations. Star maps that moved across the ceiling between mystlights like Emmeline had rearranged those in the sky.
“Dammit,” he groaned, sitting up and bracing his boots squarely on the floor.
He’d seen her. Her pain had coiled in his own chest as she watched him in that bloody arena.
Roremar would kill any man in here—commit any reckless crime—if it got him back to Emmeline. He was a risk to her, couldn’t be trusted long term, but for one more minute? He’d gladly stain his soul.
First, he had to get out of this cage. His head drooped between his shoulders as he thought, a ringed hand tunneling into his hair.
There was one chance—one person he could ask for help…
But while Roremar was desperate to get to Emmeline, he wasn’t quite despaired enough to ask the Fate of Chaos and Revelry for a fortune. Dryvius wasn’t currently using him, and Roremar wanted to keep it that way.
Perhaps the Fate had gotten what he’d wanted from him.
Perhaps he’d stay silent.
Even as the thought dawned and a sliver of hope sliced into the tattered edge of the hole in his chest, the abyss of missing memories slammed into him.
What had happened when he killed each victim?
Had they pleaded with him?
Was his face, twisted in cruelty, the very last thing they saw? Was—
The door opened, and light spilled in a long rectangle from the corridor, much brighter than the dim mystlights overhead.
Three men strode inside. The first two were busy chattering, pausing when they noticed him.
The third didn’t pay him any mind, pushing between the others and crossing the room.
His brown curls—still wet from a bath—bounced with every step to his bed in the far corner, sending water droplets across the floor.
One of the men near the door twisted a dying roll of crushed herbs between his fingers, curiosity coloring his tone as he said, “Roremar the Reckless.”
Fan-fucking-tastic, Roremar grumbled internally. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Who in this city hasn’t?” He snorted a laugh as he dropped onto the bed beside Roremar’s and opened up a velvet pouch, spilling more rolls on the nightstand.
He placed one between his teeth and pulled out a set of matches, lighting it with one flick of his wrist. He inhaled and puffed out the smoke. “Everyone knows you.”
His companion nodded in agreement, studying Roremar for a drawn-out moment as he twirled a wine glass between his fingers.
He tilted his head, smirking in a knowing way that unsettled Roremar, but Roremar held his eye.
He wouldn’t back down in front of any of these men, not after how Emmeline’s presence had revived him today.
Finally, the man broke eye contact, setting his wine on the table inside the door and stooping to grab a bag beside the first bed.
Dark hair reached past his shoulders, curtaining his face as he pulled out a clean tunic and traded it for the one he wore, discarding the dirty garments in a basket in the corner.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Roremar said aloud this time, head tipping back toward the ceiling.
“Not a fan of the notoriety?” the competitor sitting across from Roremar asked as he took another hit. He exhaled slowly, crossing one ankle over his knee and smirking insufferably.
“Not a fan of how said notoriety came to be,” Roremar gritted out, fingers knotting. His chest was unbearably tight, breaths short. Vision hazy.
Not again, not again.
“Leave him alone,” the soft voice in the corner cut in.
Roremar whipped around, vision still blurry. The man with the dripping wet curls wasn’t looking at any of them, fingers flicking through a bag of coins as he counted them out quietly, a soft jingling filling the dormitory.
“Come on, Rian,” the smoking man said. “I’m getting to know our bunkmate.”
“Bunkmate?” Roremar echoed, trying to breathe properly again.
He smiled a salacious grin, hazel eyes glinting. The color was greener than Emmeline’s, though.
“We’re all yours,” he said, silver hoops in his ears swaying as he opened his arms.
“Should you really be smoking in here?” Roremar asked. He didn’t really care, but he was the one who was going to be stuck in this chamber with the lingering scent, and his head was fucked enough without drugs. “At least open a window.”
“Don’t you want to be a little reckless?” the man joked, but he stamped out the roll in a crescent-shaped clay ashtray on the bedside table.
Roremar bristled.
The man near the door picked up his wine again, taking a sip. “You don’t like your nickname?”
“Khasson,” Rian warned, separating a few of his coins into a small pouch on his belt.
“What?” Khasson asked, tucking a long strand of hair behind his ear.
“It’s fair to get to know him if we’re all to share a room.
” The mockery in his tone grated on Roremar, but he was still preoccupied thinking of Emmeline, he couldn’t bother with a clever retort.
Instead, he tucked away details of his new bunkmates who, to their credit, didn’t seem afraid of him.
Rian straightened, kicking his pack under his bed. “You’re not getting to know him, you’re tormenting him. Come on, let’s go.”
He headed for the door without another glance in Roremar’s direction, presumably off to enjoy the city. Khasson shoved a hand into his pocket, broad frame vibrating with quiet laughter as he drained his wine glass and followed Rian from the room.
The final bunkmate didn’t stand, still atop the bed beside Roremar’s.
Roremar lifted a brow. “Can I help you?”
“Don’t let Khasson bother you,” he said. “He’s a bastard, but he’s trying to get a rise out of competitors. Find their weaknesses.”
“Right,” Roremar said sarcastically, jerking his chin toward the door. “You know those two well?”
“Met them a couple weeks ago when we all arrived in the capital. Rian was already here—a lot of the guys were—but Khasson and I are new. The pool became small quickly. Rian and I were in the original twelve. Khasson tagged along last night when the opportunity presented itself.”
Roremar didn’t know what most of that meant, but he didn’t want to reveal his lack of information about this entire situation to a stranger. He gathered all the details to assemble later.
“I’m Perry, by the way,” the man said, extending a hand. Roremar eyed it, finally shaking. “Looks like we’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together.”
“Suppose we are.” Didn’t mean Roremar wanted to befriend him. He didn’t trust anyone from the arena.
Perry snorted another laugh, endlessly amused by him apparently. “Don’t sound too excited.”
“I’m not looking for friends.”
“None of us are,” Perry said, tone serious. “You saw what happened today. I don’t think any of us consider the others friends. But you should be looking for something.”
“What?” Roremar asked as Perry stood, straightening the rolled sleeves of his tunic, the laces tied tight at his chest.
He winked. “Allies.”
“No thanks,” Roremar huffed. Why would Perry or anyone want to ally with him anyway?
“You may want to reconsider.” Perry didn’t wait for him to respond, striding toward the door to join the others. Hand on the knob, he paused. “Oh, and Roremar?”
Roremar grunted.
“As I said, Rian and Khasson seem fine to me so far. So does Devinli, the fifth man who’ll be in this room. He’s the youngest who survived today, a bit jumpy, probably not a threat. But watch out for Svalla.”
“Svalla?” Roremar repeated.
“Ritheus Svalla. The sixth man in our bunk. Hard to miss, a big, bearded bastard—and this time I don’t mean that affectionately.” Perry’s expression was entirely somber now. “He’s here to play dirty, and rumor has it, he set his sights on you today.”
“Why?”
“You killed his brother in the arena.” Perry shrugged. “I’d watch out.”
The door closed behind him, and Roremar sighed. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
He wouldn’t be getting much sleep now waiting for Svalla. He started to untie his boots, tensing when the door swung open again.
Maybe Svalla wants a fight already.
Roremar pushed up from the bed, but it wasn’t another competitor who entered. It was a fresh-faced soldier, Valyn City Guard uniform pristine. Attentive eyes flicked around the room before falling on him.
“Roremar Silventa?”
“Yes?”
He straightened, hand on his sword. “Come with me.”