Chapter 10 Incongruities
INCONGRUITIES
AMARA
“SO WHY DID you come here to complete your Obligation?” I ask, as I pass Vexar a cup of water and lean my hip against the table. As much as I would’ve preferred to keep suturing, my hands were tired and needed a rest.
Outside, the afternoon winds have begun to churn, kicking up sand and casting an eerie orange glow over Vexar’s face. He’s even more stunning right now, and that just seems to irritate me further.
“That is the purpose of the Coliseum,” he says before draining the cup and handing it back. “It was originally built as a temple for the rulers of the empire to test their worthiness. Obviously, its use has expanded, but it still serves its original purpose.”
I refill the cup for myself and take a sip, watching Vexar carefully.
I still can’t decide if I trust him or not.
My gut says I should, but logic tells me something completely different.
Almost every person I’ve come in contact with on this planet—who wasn’t a nurse—was aware of, and in support of, the slave trade.
It’s hard to believe any future ruler of this place would be unaware of what’s happening.
“Just to clarify, you’re expected to prove your worthiness by killing gladiators? Here?” I ask. Seems a bit … barbaric for a society capable of traversing star systems. Then again, it’s not like I’ve seen much in the way of empathy out here.
“No ruler of Vhorath has ever led without being tested in battle first. It is important for us to uphold our traditions, and the Coliseum allows us to do that without risking real conflict. It is an honor to fight here.”
I swallow a mouthful of dirt-flavored water and try to keep my voice steady.
“So you practice manufactured war to prove you’re worthy of a crown?
And that’s honorable?” Vexar’s expression tightens, and I suddenly feel guilty for my lack of a filter.
“I didn’t mean to—” To what? Insinuate that his ‘ancient obligation’ is essentially just manufactured war? Obligated murder? Because it is.
“You are not wrong.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “The reality of the Coliseum was not what I expected.” He pauses and grimaces. “It is pointlessly cruel and archaic.”
My brows shoot up. I was expecting him to defend his ‘obligation’, not agree with me. And he looks … pained. No, that’s not it. He doesn’t look pained; it’s like he’s radiating sadness or something. Like his ache is infecting me. I feel it tightening my chest.
Trying to shrug off the strange sensation, I ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”
He’s silent for a long moment. “The more I think about it, the more certain I am that this”—he gestures to the room around us—“does not fulfill the original intention of the law. It is a misalignment of values that I am shocked my predecessors allowed to continue.
“Before my people were a unified tribe, battles were a fact of daily survival. There was no need for a formal rite of passage; it just happened naturally. Once the tribes unified beneath a single leader and the constant battles stopped, we needed a way to keep our traditions alive. But this? This is what they chose?”
He runs a hand over his braided hair, and his expression darkens.
“I was told fighting here would be heroic. I was told this is how we avoid unnecessary bloodshed while upholding our traditions. But that”—he points at the door—“did not align with tradition. It was a farce. A deadly, horrible farce.”
I have to work to keep my expression neutral as the shock of his words rolls through me.
“My fight today did not feel like an act of valor. My opponent was not a normal gladiator. He looked … gods, I think he was a hybrid. Like he was made rather than born.” He pauses and looks away. “He had no chance of surviving that. Of surviving me.”
His clear distress over what he did in the arena has turned my world on its head.
How is this guy the next in line for the throne?
It just doesn’t make sense. His morals clearly don’t align with the brutality of this place, and yet, he’s supposed to rule over the millions of people who come here weekly to cheer for blood?
“Does anyone else in your family feel this way?” I ask.
“No.”
That sinking feeling in my spine returns, and it’s harder to shake this time. My eyes flick to the strange wound in his side, and I have to swallow down the wrongness of it all.
“Have you ever taken a life? Before today?” I ask.
“No.”
I climb onto the table and sit facing him. As strange as it seems, I swear I can feel his emotion—that familiar weight of guilt and disgust that comes after doing something you know can’t take back. It sparks distant memories that feel more like someone else’s life than mine.
My hands press into my thighs. “No one told you what it would be like, did they?”
“They did, but they were wrong.” The bed creaks as he raises a hand to rub his eyes. “They were cheering for his death,” he whispers darkly.
Wind howls past the window as the sandstorm continues to rage outside.
“That’s the worst part, isn’t it? The incongruities? How none of it seems to make any sense?” That’s where the true horror of warfare lies. Where expectation is crushed beneath the strangeness of reality. Beneath the rawness of death and despair, and the cruelty of others.
“Yes,” he whispers.
He took a life in the most disturbing setting possible.
Even worse, he wasn’t fighting a war or trying to protect anyone.
He was killing for killing’s sake. He took a life while thousands cheered him on, and it’s clear that being in that arena was not a choice he would have made on his own.
At least not if he knew what it actually meant.
Despite our many differences, this is something we have in common.
My eyes fall to my feet. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but it doesn’t.
The killing, I mean. But that’s probably a good thing, you know?
There are people who can kill without a second thought, and I sometimes wonder if that would be easier?
But then I remember that killing should never be easy.
” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m not in that business anymore, but I do know that you should try to talk about it.
If you hold in that pain, it’s going to get worse. ”
“I chose to be here, and I have to live with the consequences of those choices.” He swallows and rubs his palm over his chest as if he’s trying to rub away an ache, before adding, “I don’t know why I told you all that.”
Our eyes meet, and a look of confusion flits across his face before it’s replaced by shock. His left hand grips his chest violently, and I watch in horror as his claws sink into his skin.