Chapter 9
Raiden
Baltas’ hand on my shoulder is the only thing keeping me in my seat.
“You have got to calm yourself. She is doing fine,” he whispers in a volume only audible to me.
He’s right, Arina has performed so well in all of her hand-to-hand matches today. It doesn’t make them any easier to watch. Each time one of her opponents lands a hit, I add another name to the list of people I will have taken out.
I’m sure she’s thrilled they’re treating her like an equal, but I have no respect for a man willing to land full-powered blows on a female the way they have been today.
Dolan has been watching her just as intently as I have. He studies her every move, and I hope she’s aware enough to know she can’t use the same moves on him that she has on the others.
The two square up, but refuse to shake hands at the start of the fight as is customary. The herald calls for the brawl to begin, and they’re quickly a tangled mess of limbs. My stomach turns, and I look away, watching Baltas for any indication of trouble.
A woman in the crowd begins screaming. It’s just a low hum at first, but as she gets closer, her words become clear.
“She’s a demon! Evil incarnate!” The crowd gets quiet as it parts, and the woman finally becomes visible. She’s holding a bottle and swaying her way closer to the ring. Demitra.
At first, I think maybe Arina hasn’t seen her, but she continues to shout and slur, until there’s no ignoring the ruckus.
A loud crack hits the air, and Baltas winces as the spectators cheer. I turn back around to see what’s happened, but I shouldn’t have.
Dolan is on top of Arina. His open hand comes down on her, but she blocks him with her arms. The gruesome thud of his hand connecting with her forearm, her head, and any other piece of her he can, awakens a monster I didn’t realize lives inside of me.
She’s losing strength. The herald goes to stop him, but Dolan is possessed.
Arina moves to get away, but she’s not fast enough. Dolan grabs her by the fucking hair. He wraps her braid around his arm, trapping her in his space. She releases a bone-shattering wail, and I swear I can feel her pain.
I’m on my feet, inching closer to the ring as I watch in horror. The onlookers scream, but I can’t hear a fucking thing.
Of course Captain Perfect is nowhere to be seen. He would stop this. Maybe even take care of Dolan for me. If I jump in there, it could ruin everything. I have to stay put. It’s harder than I thought.
Dolan wraps his arm around her neck, and there is no question in my mind that he is going to break her.
He gets her in a choke hold with ease, looks me in the eye, and whispers a little too loudly for my liking, “I’m going to murder your fucking queen, and then I’ll track you down and make you beg for death. And there’s not a godsdamned thing you can do about it.”
Blinding fury pierces through me. White hot rage that I cannot tame. But before I can jump into the ring, Baltas flies past me, pulls Arina from Dolan’s grip, and flattens him with one punch to the face.
Arina
“PUT ME DOWN! Let go!” I kick my legs out, attempting to twist from the grasp of the rebel who had been behind Phil at the ball.
“You’re injured, Miss,” he rumbles, dragging me away from the ring with ease.
“What the fuck do you care?” I demand, but the adrenaline is wearing off, and I my head starts to spin from the onset of pain radiating from my arms and face.
I close my eyes to combat the dizziness, but then I remember what had caused all of this in the first place. Demitra.
“I need…” I try to speak, try to explain that I can’t leave without her, but it’s no use. The rebels don’t care, and I’m too weak. Darkness overtakes me, and there is nothing more I can do.
MY EYES SNAP open, and it takes me a moment to orient myself. It’s late in the day, marked only by the fact that it’s still light outside. I’m in my own bed.
“How?” I don’t mean to say it out loud, and my throat burns when I do.
Slowly, I sit up while taking stock of my injuries, which are nowhere near as bad as they had been at the end of that fight.
I half expect to find someone in the room with me. It’s unsettling to discover I’m alone. I could have sworn …
“Arina!” I fly out of bed at the sound of my mother’s voice. My bones don’t protest as I expect them to. Another surprise.
She’s in her chair in the living room. “How did you get home?” I ask, hoping she’s in a decent enough mood.
“What are you talking about? I’ve been home.”
My bullshit alarm is blaring, but that’s nothing new when it comes to her. I want so desperately for her to just snap out of it and pull herself together. But the more I fight for her to wake up and be the woman and mother I know is in there, the worse she gets.
I make us a quick dinner, and when I go to hand her the plate she stares through me, and the plate falls to her lap. She doesn’t so much as flinch when the hot food hits her.
“Mother! What are you—"
“Demons. Lukasia is alive and full of demons.” Her spindly fingers point in front of her at nothing. This must be it. The Smog has taken her mind.
She continues, “Envy. It will be our ruin.”
I’m running through my options. I could lock her in her room, but then I’d have to drop out of the tournament. And I don’t believe the rebels will release me from my task on account of my mother’s insanity.
But as quickly as it started, it stops.
“What in the hells have you done, you stupid, clumsy girl?” I can’t say I’m relieved to have her back.
“Nothing. I went to hand you the plate, and you dropped it.” I bend down at her feet and begin tidying the mess.
The silence in the room lays like a blanket, and I can feel her eyes burning a hole in my head.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You’re leaving me.”
I freeze and look up at her.
“Are you going to deny it?” she asks.
I push up to stand and take the mess to the kitchen. When I return, I grab her hand.
“I’m doing this to help you. To help all of us.”
She picks up a bottle from the small table next to her and takes a big swig, then wipes the bit that escapes out the side of her mouth with her sleeve.
“You would be nothing without me!” Demitra yells, throwing her empty bottle at the wall where it shatters.
I breathe through my nose, knowing it doesn’t matter what I say. In the past, I would leave conversations questioning my own sanity. She’s so far gone, and I have too much to lose now to waste any of my energy fighting with her about nothing.
I don’t bother telling her goodnight, and she doesn’t call out for me again.
DEMITRA SPENT HOURS of the night yelling about demons and something about envy in her sleep. None of it made any fucking sense, and we didn’t discuss it this morning when I left for the tournament.
Checking my scores the moment I got to the lists was a terrible idea. I’m dead last. The match against Dolan ended in a forfeit, which is a shame, because I really fucking needed those points.
Thankfully, today is my off day. Each of us is given one full day to recover, and I was fortunate to draw the day just before the final event.
Dolan landed some lucky hits, but the damage could have been so much worse if the big rebel hadn’t stepped in. I was lucky to walk away with a few bruises on both arms and a swollen eye. Demitra almost ruined everything with her drunken foolishness. He could have killed me.
Horns blare in the arena, our signal to line up to be presented before Queen Daphne and the crowd.
Queen Daphne stands on the decorative platform meant for the royal family. She’s surrounded by servants and soldiers as she stoically observes the lines of contestants still standing after days of brutal competition.
She’s as gorgeous as she is intimidating, but her unblinking brown eyes are filled with sorrow. Her gown is gold and red, and a gorgeous golden tiara sits atop her braided blonde hair. It’s not attire anyone outside of the inner city is used to seeing, and I’m not the only one gawking.
There is one last round of jousting today for those who have not yet competed, and tomorrow will be the final test of our skills. They haven’t told us what exactly it will be, but I do feel rather confident.
When the queen’s gaze lands on me, I have an urge to fix my hair or wipe the dirt I’m certain mars my face. It might be my imagination, but I swear she’s staring at me a little longer than she did the rest.
I wish she could read my mind, or that I could scream across the field to warn her that the rebels are coming for her. Maybe she can sense I have information she needs. I have to find a way to get close to her.
When she finally moves on to inspect the rest of the contestants, I look over my shoulder to where Dolan stands, face still swollen and bruised from the failed murder attempt, as if he refused to see the healers.
He catches me looking and shoots me a murderous scowl.
The queen finishes her inspection and takes her seat on the dais. Meanwhile, the master of ceremonies drones on about the day’s festivities.
Maybe I’m losing my mind a little bit, but I think I can get to her without anyone knowing. It will be a delicate balance between keeping Phillipa safe and ensuring my queen isn’t assassinated.
A plan begins to form in the recesses of my mind. If I can just find a way onto the dais …
“You have all fought gallantly, and our queen wishes to bestow her gratitude upon each of you for your efforts. You should take pride in having made it this far. Good luck.”
With that, the ceremony ends, and we are dismissed to our events. I am grateful once more for the good fortune of it being my off day.
Though, now today may turn into a trial of a different sort.
I weave through the crowd outside the arena, narrowly avoiding accidentally plowing over a young boy selling fat bugs on a stick.
I’m certain I’ve reached the spot behind the dais when I happen upon two soldiers who are clearly guarding the area. Now, to come up with a way to get in.
For what feels like hours, I watch and wait for an idea that will get me near enough to Queen Daphne to warn her. I’m pacing from the pent-up energy, and working hard not to talk myself out of this.
Every once in a while, a servant appears with a tray of refreshments I can only assume the queen and her companions are consuming.
It’s starting to get dark when the next round of servants comes through. I wait for them under the stands, and when they leave, I follow them to a tent full of royal attendees.
From my spot outside, I listen in anticipation for my next move.
“Come on, then. Haven’t got all day. Don’t want her starvin’, do ya, Angelina?” an older woman calls out.
“No, ma’am,” the servant I assume is Angelina mumbles.
The servants all wear black cotton uniforms, and the women wear matching scarves that cover their hair and veils over their noses and mouths to filter the thick air.
An easily replicable outfit if only I had the time. My only choice is one I don’t love, but I’m desperate. I pull my dagger from its sheath and wait outside the opening of the tent.
Angelina’s shadow moves closer, and I lift my blade above my head, prepared to bring the hilt down only hard enough to knock her out for a little while.
The breath I heave fills me with resolve, and I’m about to strike when a hand wraps hard around my wrist from behind. I’m spun so violently away from the tent, I think a hole tears into the sole of my shoes from the friction.
Before I can blink, I’m chest to chest with Raiden. He twists my arm behind my back so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from shouting.
The pressure on my wrist causes my fingers to lose their grip on the blade, and it falls to the ground. From the corner of my eye, a black blur holding a serving tray disappears into the crowd.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Raiden’s voice is pure irritation, and his jaw ticks. Heat pulses in the gap between us.
When I don’t respond, he speculates, “Let me guess. You thought you’d disguise yourself as a servant, get close enough to the queen to warn her about the impending assassination, and win yourself a little glory?
” Hate oozes out of him, and I try to unwind myself from his grasp, but lack the leverage required.
I don’t bother to deny his accusation.
“I thought I made it clear what would happen should you not follow through on our arrangement. Do you need a reminder?”
Fucking hells. I hadn’t considered failing at all. I shake my head, fighting the tears flooding my eyes.
“I’m going to need you to use your words, little snake.” His face scrunches into a sneer.
“I do not need a reminder. It won’t happen again,” I say, and to my surprise, he releases me.
The movement is unexpected, and I stumble back, landing on my ass in the dirt. My fingers hit the end of my dagger, and it takes all I have not to scramble for it.
“You’d better run off to your tent and get some rest. Tomorrow is inevitable,” he dismisses me, and I run backward, keeping my eyes on him.
“And cut your godsdamned hair!”
I roll my braid around with one hand. He might be right, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of doing what he tells me.