The Blood of Darkness

Chapter 19

Kye

I had forgotten just how loud the fighting pits are. Zyair isn't fond of this place, and neither is Neve, so I haven't been here in a while. I, on the other hand, like the crowd, the betting, the life this place emanates. As a child, I always enjoyed watching the fights, not for the violence, but for the times when someone would push themselves back up off the sandy floor of the pit and refuse to give up.

I guess I've always been fascinated by it, the way some people keep fighting, even in the face of failure. Their sheer will, their unbreakable spirits, the way they push through the pain and into greatness, it all makes me feel as if maybe I can do the same.

It reminds me of Val, in a way. She told me she was broken—"I'm more broken than you think, Kye."—but she seems so strong all the time, so carefully composed, so empty. Except for the time I found her sobbing in her room. I had nearly forgotten about that time, due to how cool and closed off she always acts, as if tears are foreign to her.

Is that who she truly is? It can't be. I think I've become fond of Val—especially the girl who talks about the stars, who tells me to go down fighting, who made her way through a rainy kingdom to save my friend, whose goddamn hand I can still imagine fitted in mine. The Val without the mask. No—the Val beneath it. Because I think the mask is a part of her.  A part that she created. But why?

Stop that, Kye, I tell myself. You're done trying to get to know her.

Lake stands beside me, appearing relaxed, but really scanning the large room and pointing out all the Rurikan spies. They're interspersed throughout the crowd, most of them enjoying themselves, completely at ease.

We're here to scout things out, survey the place, see if the chained door to the basement is unlocked and opened regularly for the spies to emerge. Sure enough, it has been, the men locking it behind them. The door is situated in a shadowy corner, on the other side of the pits, so their entrances and exits weren't noticeable unless you were watching for them.

Lake and I linger at the outskirts of the roaring crowd, where within, onlookers bet on the brawls taking place in the pits. It's still crowded over here though as well, tables packed together tightly, occupied by rowdy groups of friends, drunken merchants, attentive Rurikan spies, shady dealers, and many more. The floor is slick, reeking of ale, piss, and worse. I'm used to it, but Lake is definitely not. He shifts uncomfortably, staring around himself with distaste.

"What?" I hiss, nudging him.

He swallows, throat bobbing. "This reminds me of places in Rurik. But inside the pits were magic-welders, even children, being beaten to death with Lychnus clubs."

"Oh." Now it's my turn to shift uncomfortably. I notice a few of the Rurikan men staring at us, and a knot of nervousness creeps up inside me. Lake and I are both cloaked, like many others here, for the fighting pits are a lawless place. Criminals, dealers, and others tend to frequent the pits.

According to Zyair, Lake and I should be virtually unrecognizable, for we were either cloaked when some spies saw us, or the spies that saw us never made it back here alive. Still, my reddish hair seemed a bit too pronounced, so when we were at the market today, I bought some pigment to color my hair a bit darker. Now, it's a dark burgundy hue, bordering on maroon.

At the pigment vendor, Zyair was very enthusiastic, enthralled by all the different shades. Long story short, his hair is now pink. He will definitely stand out, especially to the spies, but it made him so happy that I couldn't bring myself to say anything about it. I'm sure Val will anyways.

As Lake subtly surveys the Rurikan spies, I find myself watching a group of four people sitting at one of the tables, talking in hushed tones. They wear buttoned tan coats, and swords are sheathed at their sides. I recognize one of them, with his deep-set brown eyes, amber skin, and sandy blond hair. My mind searches for a name to put to his face. Mishal. I knew him when we were younger; his father owns a popular cafe in the market that sells the best pastries. When I went there, Mishal's father would often send the two of us outside together, orange jam-filled pastries in our hands. He wanted his son to make a friend, but nobody wanted a friend two and a half years younger than them. In short, we never got along very well. Now, he's a member of the Royal Guard. So what is he doing here?