Chapter 30 #2
At the door stood another man I recognized—Felix. He looked older than I remembered, more lined around the eyes, but just as sharp. He clocked me instantly and held up a hand to stop me.
“Wait here,” he said.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Felix leaned in through the sliding door to inform her of my arrival.
And I stood there in the heat and noise, shadow-wrapped and still, waiting to be summoned into the lion’s den.
The door slid open with a low hiss.
Felix stepped aside. “She’ll see you now.”
I walked in without hesitation.
Mother Ashford’s private box was everything I remembered—lavish in a way that made your skin crawl.
Velvet-lined walls. Gold trim flaking at the edges.
A table of untouched delicacies laid out like a banquet for a corpse.
And at the centre of it all, in a high-backed chair like a throne, sat Mother.
She didn’t rise. She never did.
Instead, she sat perfectly poised, legs crossed, one gloved hand wrapped around a crystal glass half-full of dark wine. Her other hand toyed with the edge of a letter opener—gleaming silver, razor sharp.
“Elira,” she said, her voice smooth as silk over broken glass. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”
I didn’t answer right away. I took a slow step forward, letting the shadows settle around my shoulders like a mantle.
“I never forget,” I said. “You know that.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Mm. Loyalty. Such a slippery thing, isn't it?” She gestured lazily to the chaos below. One of the fighters was on the ground now, blood pooling under his body. The crowd screamed. “Everyone’s loyal when they’re winning.
When they’re strong. But loss... loss tends to show the truth of people. ”
My jaw tightened, but I said nothing.
Mother took a slow sip of her wine. “Tell me, Elira. Have you come back to fight? Or to beg?”
“I’ve come for Finn.”
She paused mid-sip. Just long enough for it to be noticed.
Her smile returned, sharper this time. “Ah. The stray.”
She leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering with cruel amusement. “And what makes you think he’s for sale?”
“I didn’t come to buy him,” I said softly. “I came to offer a trade.”
Mother sat back, her interest piqued. The room seemed to quiet for a moment, the crowd’s roar fading to a distant hum behind the glass.
“Oh, darling,” she purred. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Where is he, Mother.”
She leaned back in her seat, one leg crossing over the other with elegant disdain. Her black eyes gleamed like obsidian.
“He upset me terribly, you know,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass. “He actually tried to rob me… can you believe it?”
“He made a mistake,” I replied, my voice steady—mostly. But I felt the crack beneath it, brittle and rising.
Ashford tsked softly. “A terrible one, indeed. But I’m merciful, you see. He’s lucky I only caged him.” She raised her glass in a mock toast. “I did that for you, by the way.”
“I’d like to see him.”
She lowered her glass, the softness draining from her face like a curtain falling.
“Well, you can’t,” she said flatly. “Not without a price.”
I stood still, pulse pounding.
“What do you want?”
She chuckled at that—low, indulgent, cruel. “Oh, darling. What don’t I want?”
Her gaze sharpened, turning surgical. She studied me in silence for a long, heavy moment. Then, with a tilt of her head:
“Do you think I don’t know about you, little girl?”
I didn’t flinch. But something cold slipped down my spine.
“I thought we trusted each other, Elira,” she murmured. “And yet… imagine my surprise when I start hearing whispers. Hints. That the street rat I once took in has been keeping very serious secrets from me.”
My jaw tightened. “I’ve never lied to you.”
She laughed then—truly laughed, the sound sharp as snapped bone.
“No, perhaps not with words. But omission, Elira? That’s just a more elegant form of betrayal.”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dropping low and silken. “Magic. The kind that shouldn't exist anymore. The kind kings kill for. The kind that glows in your veins when you think no one’s watching.”
The air in the room shifted. Heavy. Cold. Like the walls were closing in.
I held her gaze, jaw tight.
“What do you want, Mother?” I asked, the words clipped and bitter. “Just tell me.”
Her smile curled at the edges, slow and venomous.
“I want you to dance for me,” she purred. “My dear shadowmancer. These fighters…” She flicked her fingers dismissively toward the bloodied pit below. “They bore me. Brawn and bone and no imagination. But you—oh, you’ve always had a flair for drama. You were never like the others.”
I stared at her, the fire in my chest flaring beneath the cold.
“You want me to fight?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and let it fall to the floor. The chill hit my skin immediately, but I didn’t flinch.
“Fine,” I said, voice steady. “One fight.”
Mother’s eyes lit with cruel delight.
“You’ll show me Finn,” I added, stepping forward. “After. Win or lose.”
She leaned back slowly in her chair, sipping her wine like she’d just been given the finest vintage in the city.
“Of course,” she said, almost too quickly. “One fight.”
I knew that smile. I knew better than to trust it.
But for now, I had no choice.
I made my way down to the pits.
The corridor down to the pit was narrow and low-ceilinged, lined with flickering torches that cast long, broken shadows across the walls. My boots echoed with every step, slow and deliberate, as if even the stone was holding its breath.
I felt the weight of eyes before I even stepped into the open. Guards. Fighters. Spectators who'd caught word and crowded to watch. They whispered behind their hands, unsure if they should be afraid or amused.
Someone announced me. I barely heard it. I just took a breath and glared up at the witch in her private box.
Even though I couldn’t see her, I could feel her glee at my current predicament. She thought she had won something. I was about to show her what her prize was worth.
The crowd pulsed above me, a living wall of noise. But I didn’t hear them.
I only heard the shift of boots across packed blood-soaked earth. The rattle of chainmail. The low snarl of breath from across the pit.
He was a monster of a man—broad-shouldered, arms wrapped in old scars and fresher bruises. He had obviously fought before and blood still dripped from the wounds from his last battle.
His face was hidden beneath a dented helm, his chest bare but smeared with dried blood not his own. A spiked cudgel hung from one hand like it was part of his body.
He lunged first.
Fast—faster than he should have been for a man his size.
I ducked low, feeling the wind of his swing scrape past my shoulder. Dirt sprayed as he slammed into the ground where I’d stood a heartbeat before. I slid to the side and twisted, shadows already curling from my fingertips like black silk.
The second strike came wild—reckless and heavy. I called the shadows to me. They answered like breath, wrapping my arms, sharpening into blades as I moved. I struck low, slicing across his thigh.
He roared in pain and spun, backhanding toward my head. I dove, rolled, came up behind him.
The crowd howled.
I wasn’t fighting for them.
He turned, fury in his eyes now. Good. Let him burn.
He charged. I waited.
At the last moment, I stepped into shadow—phased just enough for his weapon to pass through empty air—and emerged behind him again. Before he could recover, I drove my blade of shadow into the back of his knee.
He collapsed with a scream.
This time, I didn’t move away.
I stood over him, shadows writhing around me, breath heaving.
“I don’t want to kill you,” I said.
He spat blood. “You’re in the wrong place for mercy, girl.”
I raised my hand.
The shadows rose with me.
And then I struck—fast, clean, and silent. Not to kill. But to end it.
My blade stopped an inch from his throat, frozen in the air.
The bell rang.
The match was over.
A hush rippled through the crowd, confusion hanging heavy—until Mother Ashford’s laughter broke through, slow and indulgent.
“She’s wonderful,” I heard her purr.
I lowered my hand, the shadows melting away.
The man lay unconscious at my feet.
I stood tall in the centre of the pit, surrounded by blood, bathed in flickering light.
Not a victim.
Not a girl.
A weapon.
And the entire city had just seen it.