Chapter 58
L adomyr’s general threw leathers and boots at their feet.
As if by some gift from the stars, Alora wouldn’t have to compete holding a thin robe together. Despite this, Ladomyr hadn’t ever displayed any inclination to offer them an advantage or show kindness.
Thanks to her blood, her wounds had healed, so she wouldn’t have to nurse them on the battlegrounds.
Alora had only finished dressing when Jade’s hands began working in her hair. She leveled a look over her shoulder and found Jade had braided her own hair in intricate thick weaves. Knotted sections, which she imagined would’ve been beaded if they had any, gave way to patterned symmetrical designs flowing down her fiery ponytail and between her shoulders. Each braid a testament, intertwined with precision as the smaller ones ascended from behind her ears to the thick poofs atop her head.
A whisper, some far-off echo, murmured the song of warriors. The fierce spirits and powerful heritage of Torgalians and Jade’s lineage.
When Jade weaved the last strand of white hair, she stepped away without a word and knelt in the mud. She asked no questions as Jade drew a line in the filth and brought it to her face.
Behind her, Alora remained silent, acknowledging this was some sort of ceremony, something to not be disturbed. Making their cell like a place of worship to be reverent on their knees.
So, Alora dropped to hers. Waiting until Jade turned and slipped her finger in the mud. Jade knelt in front of her so Alora could fully see in the lantern light the rune-like markings she’d painted on her face and neck. Then Jade began painting her, too.
Alora closed her eyes, her every thought narrowed on the stroke of Jade’s finger. Then, collected on the stern and true words she spoke.
“Promise me you'll fight until your claws are freed. Vow your lungs will yield before your flames do. Curse the fucking Flames, if I perish before you, I will soar beside you until we meet again in the skies, my sister-in-kind.”
Alora didn’t doubt this was something she and her sisters had vowed before entering the coliseums. Then she pulled Jade’s temple to hers. “We’re making it out of this alive, Jade,” she stated. “But I promise.”
With a slow nod, Jade took her hand.
They stood as one, hands linked, and together, faced the cell door.
It sounded like a distant storm rumbling over the horizon, trembling the ancient stones of the cavernous depths beneath the mountain. The muffled, powerful surge of thousands of voices resonated through the damp stones of the floor as energy pulsed from the excitement waiting in the world above.
Separated from Jade, Silas ushered Alora down a darkened corridor. Six High Guardsmen followed behind.
No one explained anything to her. What little she knew about the Hunt was summarized by Garrik as some barbaric fight to the death, be that by faerie or a male Made into a beast. Otherwise, she couldn’t prepare herself for what would come the moment the games began.
A spate of cheering thrummed through the ceiling, dropping dust and stone fragments onto their shoulders.
Silas gritted his jaw, brushed it from his jacket, and tightened his grip on her forearm as they neared a blackened abyss at the end of the hall.
She didn’t believe Silas would give her any, but still, Alora gritted out, “Any advice?”
Silas gripped her arm harder and pulled her to a stop, shoving her into the dampened wall dripping with mold and stars-knows-what else. His blood-gaze darkened to inky crimson. “Perhaps instead of asking me for aid, consider reclaiming your claw , Dragon.” Silas’s eyes flickered to the rings on his fingers, which were curled around the leathers covering her death mark, then back to her face. “Might prove useful.”
If she could extend her claws at that moment, then there wouldn’t be an issue. She’d rip them along that thrumming pulse of his neck and gladly watch his blood drain—the guards too. Instead of speaking that, Alora willed a look of Death as damning as her mate’s and growled at him.
“Go ahead, bare your teeth at me. Mine are far sharper.” He curled his lips, revealing long canines that seemed more like fangs, and for a moment, she imagined he would sink them into her. But instead, he lowered to murmur in her ear, “Death unbecomes you, Your Highness . Do try to survive. A great deal has been wagered on you.”
He almost sounded like he cared.
She knew better.
Silas pulled away. Cold iron clamped around her neck. A strange sensation pulsed through it, burning into her neck as he pushed her forward before she could touch it. “See you outside, starfire .” His voice echoed down the hall.
Two guards clamped their hands around her upper arms, and without a single glance of remorse, threw her into the abyss.
Alora held her arm over her eyes to block out the blinding sunlight, but it was nothing in comparison to the sound.
That endless storm she heard under the mountain …
Stars burn her . There must’ve been hundreds of them. Thousands. The entirety of Kadamar, surely.
Alora squinted and scanned.
An arena—an arena of forests and hills and ruins. And squeezed above the walls, the multitude of Kadamar’s High City and the lower town was seated, extending higher and higher until the top of the stadium reached a glass dome, cutting off any hope of escaping through the skies.
The crowd cheered louder at the movement above her.
Dressed in finery, Ladomyr’s prized court strolled along crystal pathways forty feet above. Like a parade, they strutted and waved, chins high as if they were the ones seeking triumphant recognition. When they each found their pavilion, covered by extravagant ceilings and draped in lounges for their bird’s-eye view of what was to come, the entire arena turned toward a high-rise balcony and the three thrones waiting.
And on that balcony … sitting center for the entire stadium and arena to see …
Stood a wooden pillar with Garrik’s wrists shackled above his head, chin to chest. They’d shoved a glassy crown on his head. Black. Sharp. Like his obsidian crown, only the shards were meant to dig into his skin. Trails of blood ran from his temple, from the shackles, soaking into the rolled sleeves of his tunic.
From where Alora stood on that cursed battleground, she witnessed his chest barely rising. Saw the slow small cadence of liquid from the wound in his shoulder still housing that knife.
Her blood went molten.
Everything inside her vowed to see the king gutted. His entrails spilled over the balcony and feasted upon by the beasts he Made.
Alora studied the stone walls. A hundred feet tall, flat-slated for no footholds. Perhaps she could climb the tallest trees, jump onto the crystal walkway, and run until she gained enough speed to launch toward that balcony.
She was prepared to do it. To run to Garrik, her mate. Alora dug her boots into the damp ground and positioned herself when Ladomyr escorted Erissa to the empty throne on the right, while the left became claimed by Kyrell.
Ladomyr’s wicked face turned to the crowd. “Masters, call on your collars,” that out-worldly growl boomed across the arena.
Before Alora could surge forward and damn the king to Firekeeper, she cried out as the metal around her neck sent shockwaves through her. Her knees hit the dirt, clawing at the wretched thing in a hopeless attempt to remove it.
A shadow eclipsed the sun above her, and that bloodthirsty voice rattled through every inch of her. “Get up.”
Silas. Standing on the walkway, turning a sapphire ring on his finger.
Alora glared from the ground, snarling, “ No .”
A male wouldn’t control her. Never again.
The spymaster cocked his head—a threat—but she still didn’t move until that ring twisted and the sharp waves of electricity surged through her again. “You have no choice in the matter.”
Again. She didn’t move. She only lifted a finger and smirked.
What patience the spymaster seemed to hold tarnished.
Against her control, Alora was forced upright, not by her will but by the blaring pain radiating from her neck. Every joint and nerve and bone bent to that ring, at the unyielding power within. And Alora knew any attempt to set her mate free would be futile. The moment she sought escape …
They’re controlling the collars. She gasped on the very little breath remaining, only held upright by that starsdamned thing and the magic burning from Silas’s control.
In the distance, Ladomyr sauntered along the railing and raised his hands before metal groaned on the outskirts of the arena. And before she took her next breath, the sounds of snarling and shrieks pierced her ears.
The Hunt began.