Chapter 3
VALIANT SPIRES
VEXAR
THE COLISEUM’S CROWD is thunderous. A chorus of thousands—cheers, chants, and violent stomps—that blend into a rabid cacophony. It is both infectious and distracting. But I must focus. I must use my training.
Discipline and control.
I squat and grab a handful of dusty sand, admiring the soft, dry texture. This planet is so different from my home. There is nothing green. Nothing wet. Only dust and death. It is fitting, I suppose.
I spit into my handful of sand, adding some much-needed moisture, before rubbing my palms together and standing.
This moment is one I have thought about many times, but the scale is far more dramatic than I envisioned.
On the vidFeeds, the Coliseum appears grand, but in person, it is vast, ancient, and foreboding, carved by the brutality of the desert itself.
A massive stone structure weathered and worn to a nearly organic state. It is beautiful.
Where the sandy flat of the killing-floor ends, the rise of jagged stone begins.
Vertical walls of heavily eroded rock give way to consecutive, expanding layers of seating that end where the stone peaks kiss the open sky above, as if inviting the gods to bear witness to what occurs within.
It is a striking oasis, all valiant spires and dramatic fractures that speak of an ancient, raw power.
The power of my people. And I can feel that power radiating from this place and all those who fill it.
Smooth wood greets my hand as I pull my axe from its sheath. It is shocking how effective the high-gravity training was. My body and axe feel featherlight.
Testing my legs, I jump, and a vicious smile crosses my face. I am grateful I heeded my brother’s advice. He is wise in the ways of war.
“Today is a momentous day!” Gaius booms from his viewing box in the upper levels.
“We have in our midst the Prince of the Vhorathi Empire, the Fury of Solira, the Vanquisher of Verdoon, Vexar Valdís!” The crowd roars its approval and Gaius proceeds to explain my purpose here.
When he is finished, the metal portcullis opposite me begins to rise.
I pace, fixated on the shadows behind the rising gate while thousands of curious eyes track me. They are eager for blood. Perhaps too eager.
The sun heats my skin. Sand kicks up around my feet. Sweat drips from my nose. And then, my opponent emerges. I frown. He is not a species I am familiar with, and I have studied every sentient race within 250 light-years of this sector.
The male stalks towards the outer wall of the killing-floor, and an unsettling tightness creeps down my spine.
His body is a strange amalgamation of creature types.
His bottom half is that of a quadruped—four legs supporting an elongated body.
But his top half is similar to a bipedal creature—a torso with two arms and a head.
The more I look, the more certain I am that this male was not born. He was made.
My eyes flick to the Magistrate’s box, halfway up the Coliseum’s seats, where Gaius sits in his oversized throne.
As certain as I was that Gaius is not mad, the circumstances of this fight are forcing me to reconsider my assumptions.
Bringing an engineered creature to Calidus is highly illegal, and yet, unless I am mistaken, Gaius has done just that and is flaunting the crime in front of me.
In front of the future King of the Vhorathi Empire.
Shaking off my confusion, I return my focus to the arena. My opponent lazily walks the perimeter, swinging his longsword dramatically and riling the crowd into a frenzy. He is enjoying the attention.
Good. It is a poor use of his time.
Gaius’s voice booms again, but the only word I hear is my opponent’s name. “Botar.”
My focus is narrow. Singular. Unwavering.
As my opponent parades, I learn. Every twitch of muscle and flash of eyes offers valuable insight.
Botar’s head moves slowly under the weight of his oversized horns.
Reduced ability to track fast or unpredictable movements.
Four smooth hooves. Vulnerable to unstable or slick ground.
Large hind muscles on hinged joints. Strong forward attacks, but weak lateral movement.
Wide-set eyes. Poor field of view in front and behind.
This fight is clearly uneven, and yet, Botar seems unaware of that fact. If anything, he appears confident. Carefree.
Shaking my head, I kick off my boots and leave them in the sand.
The soft ground gives beneath my feet, affording me additional leverage that my opponent does not have.
As much as I would prefer to call off this fight, that choice is entirely out of my hands.
I can only hope Gaius sees reason before the end.
A sharp, sudden blast of sound marks the start of the fight, and Botar charges towards me. Anxiety tightens my chest. I shake out my arms and focus.
He approaches at an angle, his hoofed feet sinking into the sand with each loping step.
He expects me to dodge, so I do the opposite.
I step in front of him, where I am certain his vision is limited.
His head turns under the weight of those massive horns as he tries to track me. But he is slow. Gods, he is slow.
I glance up at Gaius who sits unmoving in his throne.
Does he want a slaughter? No time to think.
I jump, clearing Botar’s horns while angling my body to land behind him.
His head turns frantically as he searches for me in the wrong place.
Frustration blooms, and I swing my axe into Botar’s hind legs, sending him tumbling forward.
He regains his footing quickly. Blood coats his rear legs and pools in the sand beneath him, but he does not limp.
I lunge forward, dodge his sword, and land another punishing blow to a front leg. This time, he roars. With some space between us, I risk one last glance towards Gaius. He sits calmly, hands folded, face too distant to read. Everything about this feels wrong. I was promised an equal fight.
When Botar swings his sword again, I hook it with the beard of my axe and pull the blade towards me, letting my fist drive into his abdomen. There’s a crack of bone. A wheeze of breath. I pull back to drive into him again. A glimmer of light catches my eye. His sword is free.
I duck, lose my footing, and feel the ripple of air as the blade passes over the back of my neck.
Too close.
I roll away. Sand sticks to my skin, my nose, my mouth. My hesitancy is going to get me killed. I cannot hold back anymore.
Botar’s chest rises and falls rapidly. He is winded and bleeding.
I let the handle of my axe slip through my fingers until I am gripping the very end. Like this, it is a weapon of inertia. A brutal object to be wielded with aggression.
Botar lunges and swings his sword again with a hopeful roar.
This time, I move towards it, ducking at the last moment and using my momentum to carry my axe into his chest. It lands with a wet crunch followed by a strange cracking sound as Botar crumples on top of me, burying me beneath his titanic weight.
My breath is short and shallow as I push him back and free myself. My vision is spotty. A chill rolls over my skin. I feel … strange.
The crowd bellows. Gaius’s voice thunders around me. And yet my focus does not waver from what I have done. Everything about this feels wrong. This was supposed to be a victorious moment, heroic even, but it feels hollow.
I grip the handle of my axe and wrench it free of Botar’s corpse as guilt tightens my chest. He should never have been here at all.
Everything around me clashes in discordant commotion. The turbulent jeering of the crowd; the slumped body of my opponent; the blood covering my hands, my face, everything. I was sent here to prove my worthiness to lead. To show my strength. But this … this was not strength.
Confused and uneasy, I do my best to appear stalwart, straightening up to my full height and keeping an unreadable mask on my face. My people are watching—not just my fellow Vhorathis watching the feed at home, but every face in these stands—I must not show weakness. Only strength. Only power.
Discipline and control.
I offer the crowd a subtle raise of my chin, grab my boots, and exit the arena.
The cool dark of the hypogeum is a welcome reprieve, but in the stillness, my confusion flourishes. That wasn’t a battle; it was a murder. An unnecessary slaying. Botar had no hope of surviving that. Of surviving me.
Exhaustion surfaces as the energy of the fight wanes.
I move at a sluggish pace, peeling away armor until a painful sting stops me.
Something wet coats my hand. Blood. Red blood.
I remove my leather breast-plate and find a large gash, deep and ugly, that traces a line from the middle of my ribcage to the top of my groin.
Streams of crimson run down my body to pool at the waistband of my pants.
How?
I was not struck during that fight. And the wound feels strange. The pain is different from the familiar burn of a blade. Too delayed. Too dull.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
My mind spins as I grab a towel and press it to my side, trying to slow the bleeding. I need a doctor … and I do not have access to one. The realization hits me, and I want to tear this room apart.
Marius was right.
Focus. I need to stop the bleeding. I need something better than a towel. I spin and take in the room around me. It is simple and sparse. There is a rack for weapons, two wooden benches, a shelf with towels, and torches for light.
Torches. Fire. I can cauterize the wound.
I reach for a torch on the wall, and nearly roar when I discover the flickering light is coming from a bulb. Imitation flame. Another one of Gaius’s many deceptions.
The Coliseum was built to appear ancient and operate in the ways of old—solid-state melee weapons, limited medical technology, and gambling with real chits—but of course, the illusion does not include real fire.
I push down my bubbling rage.
Emotion serves no purpose. Do not let it control you.
A shuffling sound has me spinning on the spot. The guards have come. I abandon the fake torch and turn to face my subjects, who are now my keepers. It is a strange dynamic.
One of them I recognize. He escorted me here but never gave me his name.
Honestly, I am surprised he is working as a guard at all.
His people, the Undurians, are not known for their courage.
The other guard is new to me, but I know his kind well.
He is from Palitus—the one planet in the empire I avoid visiting at all costs.
“Come with us,” the Palitian says, waving his fat, scaly hand.
His home world is a swampy, desolate planet, devoid of all life beyond the species the Palitians keep as livestock.
Their appetite for destruction is unparalleled, and their planet has suffered because of that.
It is a shock that their species survived long enough to develop language, much less technology.
I move to follow the Palatian, but the pale-faced Undurian slaps a hand over his mouth and points at the bloodied towel in my hand.
“You are bleeding,” he says through his slim fingers, as if he has never seen a battle wound before. He is speaking Undurian, but the Palatian clearly understands him. Translators. I almost forgot.
“I am,” I reply in Undurian.
“We … uh. We don’t have anyone who can...” His fumbling words only add to my rising frustration, and I give him a stern look, waiting for him to finish. “We only have female healers.”
I wonder if this interaction is as uncomfortable for them as it is for me. They know who I am, and I doubt it feels natural to interact with me in this way. Perhaps that is why the Undurian is struggling with his words.
“Have bandages and a hot iron brought to my cell,” I say as kindly as I can.
“A hot iron?” the Palitian asks, confused.
“To seal the wound,” I say.
He shakes his head. “We have nothing like that. We can get you a needle and thread.”
I let out a disapproving grunt. “Check anyway.” Dying here is out of the question. I must finish my fights.