6. LION
6
LION
The sun was setting behind them as Lion and the others made their way back to the castle ahead of King Leonis and his retinue. Badimar and his team’s spirits were high, and their laughter echoed through the streets as they passed in heavily guarded carriages, surrounded by Sir Dramesh and his men. As they approached the castle gates, a small crowd gathered outside, cheering and waving. Sir Dramesh and his men had to push the crowd back to navigate the carriages into the castle courtyard. Once the elegant, high gates closed behind them, Badimar instructed Lion to step out of the carriage. People peered through the iron gates to catch a glimpse of the Lion of Zarall, and they shouted with excitement when they did.
Caesh spun Lion towards the crowd, grabbed his right wrist, and lifted his fist in the air. The crowd’s cheer erupted into a thunderous roar, echoing through the castle courtyard. Caesh grinned and blew kisses to a few women amongst them.
“That’s enough,” Badimar grunted. He was protective of the beasts, particularly of Lion, when it came to dealing with public attention.
Entering the castle, they were greeted by the familiar scent of stone and wood, mingled with the faint aroma of the evening meal being prepared. The corridors were alive with the sounds of activity, servants bustling about, moving furniture and decorations, cleaning the hallways, and lighting the torches along the walls. The King was holding a feast tonight, to celebrate his latest victory.
The group made their way to the barracks hall, a large room with long wooden tables and benches, a central hearth casting a warm, welcoming glow. Castle residents crowded the barracks hall, mostly guards who were off duty, and servants who were idling for a few minutes, to witness the tradition. They applauded when Badimar, Lion, and the others walked in.
Knowing what was expected from him, Lion walked straight to the high-backed chair placed in the middle of the room. He avoided glancing at the hearth and the table near it. Careful not to move his left arm too much, he shrugged his shirt off and sat down.
When Badimar took his place near the chair, the crowd cheered passionately. His hands on his waist, Badimar waited patiently until the room fell silent.
“Is it true he fought Unraged?” one of the castle guards asked. The crowd buzzed with surprise.
Badimar took his time before answering. He let their curiosity build until they were almost holding their breaths, waiting for Badimar’s answer. The Master of the Beasts pointed a thick finger at Lion. “This mother fucker destroyed Skullsworn Unraged!” he announced.
The room erupted into a mixture of cheer and exclamations of surprise. Badimar continued passionately, his voice raised to be heard. “He faced a Raged purebred and buried him in Switchblade! He’s ruthless. He’s feral. He’s a fucking beast!”
Cheers echoed off the walls. Somebody gave Badimar a mug of ale. He gulped it down and tossed the mug, continuing his speech with a sly smile on his lips. “What do you think I do with these beasts?” he raised his question, without expecting an answer. “I fucking train them to be the best! I push them beyond their limits. You think he won by chance? I had no doubt Lion could kick his ass, Raged or Unraged!”
The crowd murmured in agreement. Joharin raised a toast to Badimar. Someone fetched Badimar another mug. Lion reclined slowly, resting his hands on the armrests. He stared at the ceiling as he prepared himself for the next part.
As the noise subsided, one of the off-duty guards pointed at Lion’s left shoulder, which was bruised and swollen, and he asked, “Is he injured?”
Badimar nodded at Vanalten, who had approached the hearth and started his preparations. He folded his sleeves up to his elbows and hardly even looked up at the crowd. “Just a bruise,” he said with a dismissive wave. “A few weeks' rest and he’ll be fine.”
The crowd celebrated the good news. It was a bit more than a bruise. Vanalten had thoroughly examined Lion’s shoulder straight after the fight and declared it was something called Shieldbearer’s Shoulder, also known as Shieldsmashed. He explained it was a type of injury that involved the muscles and tendons which stabilised the shoulder joint. All Lion needed to hear was that if he avoided heavy lifting and combat training for a while, he would recover. Despite the fatigue and other minor injuries of the battle, he had felt rejuvenated and so relieved after Vanalten’s assessment.
Even now, as he listened to Vanalten telling everyone that he would be training again in no time and would be ready for the next tournament, the Serpent’s Grip, Lion was filled with that immense relief. If he had a rhoa , like the free men and women did, he would be praying gratitude to the Twelve Riders.
But purebreds didn’t have rhoas . He dismissed the confusing comment Skullsworn had made about going to Farhome — the purebred was probably rambling out of blood loss — and focused on the ceiling.
“All right, here it is,” Caesh said as he handed Vanalten a long and slender package, neatly wrapped in cloth. Vanalten put the package on the table and started unwrapping it under the curious watch of the crowd. He raised it above his head to let everyone see the custom-made branding iron.
Whoops and cheers erupted in the room. After examining it and nodding his admiration at the craftsmanship, Vanalten placed the bird shaped tip of the branding iron into the hearth. Then he approached Lion. While the iron heated, Vanalten prepared Lion’s chest. He measured and marked the spot for the fourth brand, then measured it again, to be precise. He cleaned and shaved the area, then lathered it in a generous amount of oil-like substance that smelled sour. The familiar smell made Lion vaguely nauseous.
He focused on the shadows in the far corners of the ceiling where the flickering lights couldn’t reach. He felt his mind nearing the edge of that place . He breathed and watched the shadows. It’s not my body, it’s their property , he thought the words clearly in his head. He kept repeating it silently. The words helped him slowly distance himself from his body. After the fourth repetition, his mind had slipped into that place , where he didn’t have a body. His body was a thing that belonged to King Leonis Zarall, and what happened to it didn’t concern Lion. He wasn’t burdened by the fear and the anticipation of pain. The tightness in his stomach eased.
The branding iron was glowing an angry red now. Vanalten gave Lion a folded leather band to bite on. Then, he slipped heat proof gloves on his hands and carefully lifted the iron.
The people in the room made a cacophony of excited sounds. Some people whistled sharply until Joharin gestured for them to be quiet. Vanalten needed to focus. The physician positioned the iron over Lion’s chest, his hands perfectly steady.
Not my body, Lion thought. He clutched the armrest, bit the leather, and stilled himself.
Vanalten waited for Lion’s next inhale, then pushed the iron against his skin.
Cheers erupted, echoing off the walls as people clapped each other on the back. Drinks were raised in the air, a toast for Badimar and his team. Someone struck up a lively tune on a lute, and soon the room was filled with the sound of music and laughter. People began to sing along, their voices blending into a raucous chorus.
Drowning under the sounds of their joy, Lion sunk into his chair. A searing pain radiated from the burn and sent waves of agony through his body. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nose. The effort to hold back his scream left him weak and lightheaded. The pain didn’t ease even after Vanalten pulled the iron back. He slumped in the chair, breathing laboriously, his jaw clenched tight as he bit down hard.
Sending his mind to that place didn’t stop the pain. It only helped him distance himself from the fear and the hopelessness associated with it.
His fingernails had left long marks on the armrests, but he had kept them there, as if they were tied by invisible ropes. Music, songs, and laughter suppressed any noises that escaped his throat. Vanalten came back with a jar of paste and he spread it over the burn. The paste wasn’t for pain; it was to make sure the burn never healed properly and left a mark for the rest of his life. The physician made his final checks, nodding his satisfaction, and pulled the folded leather out of Lion’s mouth before leaving to join the celebrations.
Lion kept himself quiet on the chair, his head sagged, his trembling hands still clutching the armrests. People approached to see the latest brand, but they mostly left him alone. Tables were cleared to make room for dancing. Every corner of the room buzzed with animated conversations and hearty toasts. Feeling himself slipping from that place , Lion repeated in his head: It’s not my body, it’s their property… Not my body… Breathing steadily, he distanced himself from his body again, forcing himself to see what the people in the room saw: just a thing sitting on a chair.
Other than a reminder from Joharin to sit up straight, no one interacted with him. Lion surrendered himself to the pain and the music and the laughter, drifting along as if carried by a current. He lost sense of time as he waited for the next part. Some time later, after most of the servants had returned to their tasks and half the castle guards were drunk enough to look for a fight, Lion heard Raydon’s voice nearby.
“Looks good,” the Master of the Slaves said as he leaned forward to examine the new brand.
“I’m just gonna have to bandage the left shoulder and arm,” Vanalten said. His speech was slightly slurred.
“Very well. I can make do with that. I have an attire that will conceal the bandages. Is he fit to take a bath?”
“Yes, just avoid touching the shoulder.”
“Will he be required to keep the bandages at night?”
“Yes. Why?”
Raydon scrunched his face and sighed.
“Why?” Vanalten asked again, scowling. “What’s going on?”
“Lord Hosten finally earned an audience with the King.”
Vanalten stared at him for a second, then shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Indeed.”
“How did he convince him?”
“It eludes me.”
Vanalten’s face darkened. “I’ll have to examine the girl.”
“Yes, certainly. I shall bring her to you later this afternoon.” He nodded at Lion. “Has he eaten yet?”
As if the question gave Lion permission to acknowledge his hunger, his stomach growled.
“No,” Vanalten said. “He can eat as usual, if he has the appetite.”
Lion always had an appetite for food. Pain never stopped him from eating when they put food in front of him.
“Very well. Let us go and prepare him.”
Raydon gestured Lion to follow him. The King’s Master of the Slaves was a young man with neatly combed dark hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing, constantly scanning the slaves for any sign of imperfection. He hardly found anything to criticise in Lion’s demeanour and hardly ever paid attention to him. If he did, he would have noticed the flash of dread on Lion’s face when he heard Badimar catch up after them.
“I just need a minute with him,” Badimar said as they stepped into the corridor. Badimar closed the barracks door after them, muffling the sounds of the celebration and leaving them in a tense silence.
Vanalten sighed. “Do you have to? Can it not wait?”
“No.” Badimar sounded drunk and reeked of alcohol. He waved a hand at the two of them. “You go on ahead. I’ll send him after you. It’ll only take a minute.”
“Do not aggravate anything,” Vanalten mumbled as he and Raydon walked away.
Badimar looked around at the empty corridor, then pulled Lion to a secluded corner. A knot tightened in Lion’s stomach and made him forget his hunger. He was expecting this. He was already so tired and in so much pain, yet he still knew this was coming. He had seen it in Badimar’s face back at the Switchblade Arena, straight after the battle. Given his condition, he had thought maybe Badimar would leave it until the next morning, but he hadn’t fostered any hope.
“What was that?” Badimar growled. “What did I see at the arena?”
Lion dropped to his knees, his head bowed. “I forgot to salute my Owner after the fight, Master,” Lion said flatly. He had remembered it with only a few seconds’ delay, but Badimar’s sharp eyes had seen the slip-up.
“You forgot?” he repeated.
“Yes, Master.”
The Master of the Beasts towered over him in silence. Sweat beaded on Lion’s forehead. A freeborn would have begged for mercy and forgiveness, but begging was an Act of Defiance, and purebreds never committed those acts. Begging was too close to wanting, requesting, and demanding. Not to mention it required speaking without permission, which was another Act of Defiance. So Lion kept his mouth shut. He had made a mistake. If Badimar chose to punish him, Lion would suffer it.
Badimar’s penetrating gaze sliced into Lion’s flesh. As the silence dragged, Lion’s stomach twisted with anticipation. Vanalten and Raydon had stopped at the other end of the corridor, waiting patiently. He clenched his jaw and desperately tried to seek comfort in those words again: Not my body. Not my body. It’s their property. Not…
Badimar finally uttered the Word: “ Prihjtivaviula .”
Lion collapsed on the floor with a pain that he had no words to describe.
Nothing could match the agony inflicted by the Pain Word; not the soreness from the battles he had survived, not the throbbing shoulder injury, not even the searing pain of the hot iron pressed against his skin. Pain Word was worse than everything combined.
The pain didn’t focus on a single part of his body; it was everywhere, and it was everything. He felt it in his blood and at the tip of every single hair on his body. Invisible flames consumed all his flesh, veins, muscles, and bones. He couldn’t even scream to let the pain out, because the air in his lungs was on fire, and all his muscles — including the ones on his neck — were cramping. No sound could crawl out of his throat. He simply lay there in a silent cradle of pain as his body convulsed, and his back arched, and his rigid limbs shuddered violently…
Then, it was over.
The effects of the Pain Word only lasted for half a minute, but it felt like a lifetime. He didn’t remember where he was, and why he was lying on the cold stone floors, and why Badimar was angry at him. He took strained, broken gasps that sounded more like sobs. As his mind started to catch up, he rolled face down, bringing his knees to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around his head, with his forehead pressed on the floor. He shook and whimpered like a kicked stray dog.
Badimar watched him without moving a muscle. He continued to torture him with his silence, maybe waiting to see if Lion would beg. Lion bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. He tasted blood. Tears wetted the stone beneath him, and he shuddered as he waited, drowning in helplessness. He didn’t beg.
When Badimar finally opened his mouth and took a breath to talk, Lion flinched. “I don’t want to see you making stupid mistakes like those again. You’re a purebred, not a half-trained freeborn. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Lion said. His voice shook.
Badimar waved his hand. “Now go and get ready for the feast. Play your role as the King’s favourite toy.”
The banquet hall was the second largest room in Castle Brinescar, surpassed only by the throne room. It had the highest ceiling in the entire castle, creating a sense of grandeur and openness. Suspended above the guests was a chandelier holding five hundred candles. It was crafted from a unique metal that shifted colours depending on the viewing angle. Even the flames flickered with exquisite hues. Some guests swore they could see the face of Kahil of the Twelve Riders, the God of Craftsmen, reflected in the intricate design.
King Leonis Zarall sat at the main table. Only his queen and the most important of his guests were seated with him. The rest of the guests — all noble families and successful merchants — sat on the two long tables that stretched along the length of the room. In the space between the tables, a band of musicians were playing cheerful songs.
The food had already been served, though only a few guests were actually eating, which was a shame, considering how delicate the dishes looked. They were more occupied with walking around in the hall with their cups in their hands, talking to each other, making connections, spreading rumours, or doing whatever free men did at dinners: anything other than eating.
Lion was given a hasty and modest supper. He was on a strict diet — rich in meat and poor in taste — which was carefully planned by Doha and Vanalten. Doha had strong beliefs about how beasts should eat three meals and two snacks each day, and that eating certain types of food would help them build muscles and have more strength. Lion had heard some servants saying it was crazy talk, but Badimar agreed with Doha, and that was good enough for everybody. If Lion hadn’t been in so much pain, the sight of the feast spread across the tables — fried goose hash, lamb roast and mushroom, smoked boar kebabs, baked duck and lentils, cherry crumble, roasted liver pasties, apricot pie, blueberry cake and many other foods that he didn’t even recognise — would have made his stomach rumble.
He took a slow, deep breath, and let it out steadily. The smell of the food distracted him, but he did his best to focus on his breathing.
He was positioned at the other end of the hall, opposite from King Leonis’s table. The platform he stood on was three feet high off the ground, so all the guests could get a good view of him from where they sat. Although slaves typically stood with their gaze down, Lion was instructed to keep his head high and his eyes straight across.
Like a proud lion , so many of the guests had already commented with admiration.
Raydon had spent quite a long time working on Lion’s appearance, which was surprising considering how little clothing he was wearing.
After a scalding hot bath where they’d washed his hair and scrubbed all the sand and blood off his body, Vanalten had wrapped his shoulder in a snug bandage. Then, the physician had abandoned Lion under Raydon and his assistants' care, to be groomed and pampered for the feast. After drying his blonde, wavy hair, Raydon’s assistants had spent an hour shaping it, giving it more volume to make it look like a lion’s mane. They had trimmed and cleaned the dirt out of his nails, shaved the rest of the hair off his chest, and lathered him in a perfume that faintly smelled like wood and spice.
Raydon had chosen Lion’s outfit himself. A pair of black leather pants and black boots were the main items of the outfit. His accessories were a pair of golden greaves on his shins, a large, golden belt around his waist, and a black half-cape which hung over his left shoulder to conceal the bandages. He held the trident in his right hand. It was the same one he used at the battle, with Skullsworn’s dried blood still on its prongs. After a debate, Raydon had decided not to give him the weighted net, because it would take the attention away from the outfit. But he had agreed to fold it neatly and leave it next to Lion’s feet on the platform, just to complete the appearance.
Lion’s chest was left bare, displaying the four brands, including the latest one. It was glaringly red and raw, the skin swollen and blistered, with angry edges. Vanalten would keep applying that sour smelling paste every day to reduce the swelling and to ensure the area would develop a thick and even scar tissue.
Lion took another deep breath, held, and released it quietly. His chest hurt like a nightmare. He could still feel the searing touch of the hot iron on his skin, as if it had never left, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh lingered in his nose. He kept thinking about his bed and wondered when he would be excused.
“What’s gotten into Vanalten?” Sir Gennald asked quietly, pulling Lion out of his thoughts.
Two of the King’s personal knights stood on either side of the platform, keeping the Lion of Zarall safe from any potential threats, including the drunk and handsy guests. King Leonis loved displaying Lion at every event. But he was also paranoid about his safety. He always tasked one or two of his royal knights with protecting him. One was almost always Sir Dramesh. Tonight, the other was Sir Gennald.
“Seating arrangements,” Sir Dramesh smirked subtly.
Deep breath in, hold, exhale slowly. Lion couldn’t help but glancing at the table where the King’s revered staff were seated. Badimar and Vanalten were sitting somewhere around the middle of the table. Badimar seemed to be enjoying the food, his plate stacked with meat and pastries, and he was engaging in conversations with the guests around him. But a sour look covered Vanalten’s face, glaring daggers at the three old men sitting near the head of the table.
Lion recognised one of them as the King’s head physician. The second man — wearing a white robe with red flames embroidered on its cuffs — was also from the King’s court. Some sort of advisor. The third man was wearing a plain black robe. Lion had never seen him before.
“Who’s the black robe?” Sir Gennald asked suspiciously. “Looks like he’s from Eternal Pillar.”
Sir Dramesh scoffed. “Hope not.”
Lion didn’t know what that meant, and they didn’t elaborate, so he went back to his breathing.
Free men and women were complex. He didn’t understand why they’d get touchy about frugal issues such as who sat where, but it wasn’t his place to judge the actions of his superiors. He only lived to serve and please.
The feast went on for another two hours. Then, the celebrations moved on to the throne room. Lion followed Sir Dramesh and Sir Gennald and climbed up onto another platform placed nearby the throne.
Guests were served drinks by well-dressed house slaves carrying the Zarall coat of arms — a black and gold lion — on their uniforms. A group of male and female pleasure slaves with flame tattoos on their necks performed a steamy dance on the stage set in the middle. Free troubadours, fire-eaters, acrobats, poets and bards took the stage as well, though none could get the attention the pleasure slaves received.
Despite his tiredness, soreness, and the lingering pain on his chest, Lion felt energized from being in the throne room. Here, he had the opportunity to see the intricate map of Chinderia drawn on the floor.
His orders were to look straight ahead, but his eyes itched to examine the map. Rivers and mountain ranges were drawn meticulously. Cities and larger towns were marked by squiggles that he identified as writing. The thick golden lines that linked some of the cities were trade roads. Forests were depicted with a delicate pattern of leaves and trees, and the sea that framed the western end of the country was rendered with swirling lines that seemed to shift and move.
The entire map was a living, breathing work of art. Looking at it made the hairs on Lion’s arms stand up. He had memorised almost every detail of the map. Moreover, he had a secret about this map; a secret that could send him straight back to Faychill Ranch for some brutal retraining with Breeder Astaldo.
The thought of doing something wrong and being punished stirred Lion’s stomach. He imagined what Badimar would do if he ever discovered what Lion was doing in his room — the memory of the Pain Word was still too fresh in his mind — but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to finish what he had started. He would get rid of it once it was complete. They would never know. He just had to finish it.
He risked stealing a few glances at the floor, etching the elegant lines into his mind. The beauty of the map even made him forget about the burning pain on his chest and the ache on his shoulder. He fixed his gaze ahead when he noticed a group of guests were approaching to gawk at him.
One of the men was dressed elegantly. A nobleman. The second man was a slave Breeder; identified by the whip hanging low on his hips. The last member of their group was a female slave.
Lion had learned to examine people out of the corner of his eyes keeping his gaze ahead while still taking in the girl’s striking appearance. She seemed only a few years younger than Lion. Her long, flame-red hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the light, and her pale skin looked impossibly smooth. Her full, red lips stood out, but it was her bright blue eyes that caught his attention the most. He wouldn’t have noticed her eye colour if she hadn’t been staring right at him, head held high, like a free woman. The collar around her slender neck kept most of her tattoo concealed, but the brightness of the ink and the flaky skin around it proved she had just been enslaved. A fresh freeborn. She hadn’t even mastered the basics yet.
Lion tightened his jaw, holding back a scoff. A freeborn. She clearly hadn’t had settled into her new life yet. Even her face was still very expressive. She studied Lion with wide eyes. Then, she turned and looked at the map on the floor and looked back at Lion.
Lion’s stomach dropped. Had she seen him glancing at the floor? Had others seen him? He thought he was being careful.
“I don’t like any slave being treated this way,” the Breeder grunted quietly, as he sized Lion up and down. “It’s not good for their training.”
“He’s a purebred,” the noble lord said.
“Even purebreds need scheduled maintenance training,” the Breeder snorted. “Especially ones who are being revered and spoiled like this.” When he noticed the female slave was entranced by Lion, he yanked her chain sharply; not hard enough to make her scream, but firm enough to remind her to keep her eyes down.
“I would have preferred more time with her,” the Breeder growled, without taking his gaze off the girl. “She’s a slow learner.”
The noble waved his hand dismissively. “The King finally agreed. I have no intention of giving him any time to reconsider.” He glanced at her. “She’ll do.”
“Lord Hosten?”
Raydon, followed by Vanalten, approached the noble and his two companions.
“I am Raydon, the King’s Master of the Slaves.” Raydon bowed slightly. He raised his eyebrows at the female slave. “Is this her?”
“Yes.”
Raydon gave her a thorough once-over. The corners of his mouth twitched downwards. “Well… Come this way please, My Lord. We can discuss the arrangements while Master Vanalten examines her.”
Lord Hosten and the others followed Raydon. Raydon’s involvement and Vanalten’s ‘examination’ only meant one thing; the King was buying a new slave.
Yet, it was odd. Despite her beauty, the girl was untrained. Most of Leonis’s slaves were either purebreds, or highly disciplined freeborn.
Once again, Lion reminded himself not to assume he knew anything about his superiors. I live to serve, I breathe to please, he recited in his head. He knew his place.
He continued breathing slowly, pretending his chest didn’t hurt. He discretely looked around for Badimar, but the Master of the Beasts must have left. When he thought it was safe enough, he glanced at the map again.
The party progressed into the late hours of the night. The guests got louder as they got drunker. King Leonis and Queen Arasanara excused themselves after a speech. The guests raised their cups for another hundred years of Zarall's reign.
After the King and the Queen withdrew, the guests started departing one by one. Finally, one of the other knights released Sir Dramesh and Sir Gennald of their duty. Lion was escorted back to the dressing room by Raydon’s apprentice. He shrugged off his outfit, put on a simple tunic and pants, then he was released to return to his room on his own.
Being the King’s favourite beast, Lion had a small room at the staff quarters, right next to Badimar’s larger bedroom. Master of the Beasts liked keeping a close eye on Lion. As he dragged his feet through the corridors, thoughts of sleep and fatigue occupied his head. The female slave with the flame-coloured hair was the last thing on his mind.
That was until he opened the door and found her in his room, naked.