32. LION
32
LION
The Rage faded, the dark grip on his mind slowly receding.
His eyes were drawn to the wet pile of flesh at his feet.
He fell to his knees, tilted his head back, and howled.
Outside the room, the crowd demanded blood, their deafening cheers echoing through the Switchblade Arena.
Blood coated Lion’s hands, arms, and the front of his armour.
He pulled Saradra’s lifeless body to his chest. Her bones were broken in so many places that no matter how careful he held her, her limbs fell into queasy angles. The sight stole a senseless sob out of him. He buried his face in her scarlet hair. His tears mixed with her blood. A wild sound between a howl and a wail rose from the back of his throat.
He remembered.
He remembered more than he ever did.
He remembered how his hands felt when he hit and broke her face.
He remembered the sound of her skull when he bashed her head in.
He remembered how she begged and screamed and looked at him.
He cried. Howled. Rocked her shattered body back and forth in his arms.
In the arena, a cheerful music invited the Mid-Game actors on the stage to entertain the crowd. Their songs and the audience’s claps hurt Lion’s ears.
Kastian gave an order. There were other people in the room now. Lion neither heard nor cared what they were doing until hands grabbed him. They tried to pry his arms off her.
A primitive snarl escaped his lips. He yanked his arm free, buried his elbow in someone’s face. He wrapped his fingers around someone else’s neck. Crushed their windpipe before Sir Gwodd could yell out his First Word.
He collapsed next to Saradra’s twisted body. Unable to turn his head away, he was forced to look at the slack angle of her broken jaw. One of her eyes was rolled back in her skull, the other was swollen and bloody. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t turn his head. Tears ran down Lion’s face. A deranged scream gathered in his chest, but his paralysed throat didn’t let any sound out.
Hands dragged him away from her, pulled him to his knees. His head lolled loosely between his shoulders. Kastian grabbed his hair and tilted his head back to face him.
“I will say this only once,” the King said quietly. A silent anger masked his face, looking more disturbed than pleased. Disturbed at watching what a purebred could do.
“Fight well, die well, give them a good show, and I give you my word; I will bury your bodies together in an unmarked grave. If those claims are false and purebreds do have rhoas , you might even find her in Farhome.”
I will see you in Farhome.
Bury together. Find her in Farhome.
Together.
The words tore Lion’s heart into shreds. He almost missed the surprising tone hidden under Kastian’s words. The King was desperate. Afraid even. He was frightened of what Lion could do in the arena. What he could ignite.
The King of Chinderia was afraid of the slave.
He had no reason to be. Not anymore.
Make sure he’ll be begging to die…
If Kastian had been more observant, he would know he didn’t need to cast threats. But he cast them anyway.
“If you do anything other than fighting well and dying,” Kastian snarled, pulling his lips back over his teeth. “I will defile her body in every way imaginable. I will have every single house guard fuck her corpse. Once they are done, I will rip your bastard out of her belly and feed it to my hounds. I will shred her body into pieces and dump them in every cesspit in Brinescar. And I will make you watch it all. So, you better not leave that arena breathing today.”
Her belly…
His paralysis was fading. An inhuman whimper spilt from Lion’s lips. He remembered how her arms were clutched over her belly, trying to protect it from Lion’s blows.
“Clean him up,” Kastian ordered before leaving the room.
Sir Gwodd stayed to supervise, as a pair of slaves stepped forward with a bucket of water and a washcloth. A different kind of pressure was starting to build up at the back of Lion’s head. The slaves started washing the blood off his armour. Off his hands.
Her blood.
They were washing her away.
A clump of red hair, ripped from her scalp, was stuck at the base of his palm. When one of the slaves slapped the wet cloth in his palm, wiping it clean, Lion growled frantically.
“No! No!”
He punched the slave’s throat. It was the old man with the weathered face.
“ Padlociatius! ” yelled Sir Gwodd promptly.
The other slave continued cleaning the blood off Lion, while the old man rolled on the floor, gasping and holding his throat. Sir Gwodd kicked him towards the door. “Get out!”
The old man scrambled out of the room, still coughing and wheezing. Others walked in; men wearing Vogros colours. As Lion lay helpless, they dragged Saradra’s body out of the room. All he could do was watch. His eyes had spotted a bloody tooth in the midst of the blood-stained sand.
The pressure at the back of his head grew heavier.
The actors finished their show at the arena. The announcer started his final speech. The spectators stomped their feet in excitement.
Lion was aware of everything around him, but in a disconnected way. Almost as if watching himself from outside his body. He was slipping into that place , leaving his numb body behind. He wanted to stay in that place forever, never return. His thoughts were being crushed under a fierce headache. His paralysis faded, but no further sound came out of him. Sitting on his knees, he slumped in on himself.
Now that his hands were free of her blood, Lion noticed the scratches. Saradra had torn half the skin off his forearms. Her teeth had left deep marks in one of his hands.
She fought. She fought like the fighter she was. She drew his blood.
Lion took his head between his hands. The pressure inside his skull was unbearable. The headache throbbed violently. Hot tears burnt his face.
The announcer was introducing the competitors now, his voice booming through the arena. Switchblade buzzed with anticipation, the crowd stomping their feet in unison.
Everyone else had left the room. It was just Sir Gwodd and Lion now. The knight threw a shield, a lor’qas, and the lion mask in front of him. “Remember what the King said,” Sir Gwodd hissed. “Fight well, die well, and give them a good show…”
Then, they could be buried together.
Together.
He let out a strangled breath.
The Gates of Life opened for the final time, inviting him to his death. Hungry shouts of the spectators filled the waiting room. The sunlight painted the blood-marked sand on fire.
Lion slipped the mask on. He picked up the shield and the lor’qas, pulled himself up on his feet, and stepped into the Switchblade Arena.