[Book 3 of the Grounding the Storm series] Renit's worst nightmare has come true. Roux isn't at his side, and he's banished from his throne and his crown, leaving him nameless and on the run. While trying to escape his father's cruel reign, he has t...
I shake out my wrists in a hasty manner, my arms relaxing and my shoulders slouching forward. Staring down my nose across the arena, my opponent, a burly man wearing no shirt, rolls his neck back and forth. A cracking sound bounces against the stone in response. Back and forth, back and forth. Shortly, his neck will twist so far that it's impossible for him to take another breath.
My boots seep into the sand covering the floor of the pits, the only surface capable of soaking up the blood and other bodily fluids from competitors. The small heaps and mounds will prove treacherous, but I've been in these pits a few times—have learned that using the jutting stone in the walls is the perfect way to launch myself out of the way of enemies.
The more jagged pieces, shaped into precise daggers, work great for impaling. I haven't decided yet about how this man is to die. Horrifically, surrounded by a group of spectators circling the stone ledge, holding ales in their hands. They don't care about us, about me, about my competitor. All they care about is the money they can win.
I've heard my name shouted a few times, but the advantage is strongly in the other direction. With no weapons and no real rules, these fights are blood-thirsty and to the death. There is no other option, some try to claw their way out of the pits on broken legs but find themselves at a loss when they're tugged back down. Usually, the fights don't last long after that.
Flickering torches against the walls of The Iron Spoon and held by the spectators overhead are our only light. Even in the dim flicker of flame, I spot horrid yellow teeth as my opponent flashes me a grin, a different man that broke my arm two weeks ago.
After I lost, my training became even harder until I was ready to come back here. King's orders. He always knows what is best for me, always has, always will.
Shouting erupts from somewhere in the tavern, followed by glass breaking and a thudding of wooden stools on the floorboards. Someone is growing impatient.
The witch standing off to the side, one with no tongue and unable to speak, signals for the fight to begin. My entire body tenses at once, willing strength into my fists and upper-body. It's the only advantage I have as all the muscle the king plans to put on me hasn't fully developed. Some have, I'm bulkier than I was before—a twig of a witch—but I'm nothing compared to my opponent.
That's why they're betting against me.
He lurches forward, teeth bared and eyes wide, and I slide out of the way when he runs at me, dragging my leg in the sand for him to trip over. His punch aims for my head and I duck underneath it. A second later, he slams face first into the titanium bars that were once the only barrier behind me. The crowd gasps as blood streams from his nose, seconds after the fight began, and I grin.
They're foolish when they're raged.
"Be careful," I offer. "It's slippery in here."
He growls and spits blood in the sand, directly where the dragline from my boot is. I feel Binx's eyes on me, watching from the edge of the ring in case something goes wrong. He couldn't interfere, I made him promise he wouldn't if it looked like the fight was turning on its sharp heel. Although Binx listens—for the most part—can't help but wonder if he'll take matters in a whole new direction.
Ignoring those looming eyes, I pace back and forth in the ring. My boredom is enough to piss off my competitor, who is somehow already sweating from his bald head. It drips down, soaking into his dark chest hairs, free of all the tugging he was doing before the fight started. Enough to earn a grimace from one harlot passing by.
"Take your shot, pretty girl," he challenges.
A twinge of rage that is not my own pinches at my skull. I inherited the king's skills, but much more than that, too. His anger, frustration, irritation, nearly every bit of his personality. Shoving that new part of myself away, I drag my toe back and forth in the sand.
"I don't have all day," I say. "If I'm right, your dinner is getting cold."
All it takes is one wink from me and he's charging again, teeth bared and mustache coated in a layer of blood. I let him charge like a crazed bull and give him the chance to draw back his fist to deliver that punch. When I slink out of the way, ducking low, he spins wildly. Bored, my mind screams at me. I'm so bored.
I brace my palms in the disgustingly warm sand and vault my legs, pushing will all my might, and slam all my strength into his left knee. The one he had been liming on earlier from a fight the night before. Intel from Binx. Something cracks and he releases a cry of pain. Before I can expect his reach, he grabs for my hair and yanks up, taking everything—including my body—with it.
He doesn't hold on for long as seconds later, I'm soaring through the air and slamming against those titanium bars. My body hits the dirt and I scramble to stand despite the stinging in my bones. That hurt.
My opponent attempts to kick me in the throat, and I roll out of the way, taking bloody sand with me. One attack after the other, I dodge to the best of my ability, using my size and speed rather than strength. That's what the king's personal guard told me. Binx reminded me repeatedly to use what I have so I don't get hurt. Why does he care so much, anyway?
The crowd erupts in cheers when I'm back on my feet on the other side of the ring. He managed to deliver one blow to my abdomen with the tip of his boot, but that's it. Everything else is completely untouched. With the titanium band around my wrist, I can't heal myself in a matter of seconds as I did after the broken arm—once they unlocked the titanium band. I still fought, and won, after feigning defeat. The snap of my opponent's neck rang out seconds later.
I waggle my fingers at the man, finding my skin covered in a layer of bloodied sand. That will not wash off easily. My grin, unsettling as it might be to others, catching Binx's attention in a completely different way.
"Focus, Roux!" He shouts into the pits. His command echoes off the stone walls.
My opponent looks over his shoulder at Binx, who merely glances before turning his attention back to me. Although he tries to appear unfazed, his furrowed brows and crossed arms tell a different story. He's been chewing on his lip all day—I'm aware of his nervous habits. Out of everyone in the castle, he doesn't want me in the pits.
"Let's finish this. I have a harlot I paid for," the man growls.
I allow him to direct a punch to my cheek, only to crouch low and on the way back up, deliver one of my own. My closed fist slams directly into his chin, knuckles screaming, and he stumbles back. His arms reach blindly, searching for me, and I avoid them as I drive a kick into his stomach, one that sends his back slamming into the stone wall.
Debris fall off the sides, landing on him, and he snarls while brushing off the bits from his shoulders. Someone hollers my name, a young woman who paid to see me win, and I clench my hand into a fist to keep from waving at her. Professional, Binx told me. Behave like a soldier and a warrior. Not a showman.
In my split second of distraction, the man takes me out at the waist. My back hits the sand and a sweat-drenched, foul-smelling weight presses against me. Someone gasps, and I assume Binx has his eyes covered to block out what will happen next. The entire tavern holds their breath as I claw at his skin, digging in my nails wherever they're allowed.
Blood draws but that appears to do nothing as the man sits on me, taking away my air. This is it. My foolishness, my carelessness with this new power, will be the end of me. And the king went through all that trouble to help. I will have let him down.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
