Page 56 of A Sword of Shadow and Deceit

“What happens to the fighters—regardless of whether or not they win—is ultimately up to the God presiding. If it’s Maladesia, then it’s likely they’re not going to die. Were it a different God … however…” He lets the statement fall off, but it doesn’t matter. I understand what he means.

The Darkhavens seem viscerally aware of their standing amongst the Gods and the fact that they’re prisoners to their whims just like mortals. While Kalix might seem to take joy in the blood of battle, the other two understand that they can’t always be in control, and that, more than anything, pisses them off.

I was under the impression these three were simply spoiled assholes, but from this, I catch a glimpse of more than I ever expected. They care more about their fellow Mortal Gods than they let on. Well, Ruen and Theos do, at least.

We’ve all been down there at one point or another. Ruen’s statement resonates inside my head. Does that also mean, at one point or another, they’ve all had to kill to survive?

The question leaves me feeling a strange sense of unease in my chest. I reach up and press my palm between my breasts, rubbing at the sore spot. If that’s true then that means the three of them are far more like me than I care to admit.

I don’t like it. Not at all.

Chapter 25

Kiera

Ironically, the battles remind me of home. Or what home has been to me for the last decade. Opponents are given weapons—swords, bows and arrows, daggers—whatever their specialty seems to be, and then pushed into the center of the arena to fight.

Even if Maladesia isn’t as bloodthirsty as the Mortal Gods had expected of the presiding God, she doesn’t stop the fights from turning into real battles. Arrows fly—stabbing into guts and arms and sometimes even eyes. The warrior-like cries of those in the ring echo up to the stands, inciting the masses to scream in encouragement as students and Gods alike place bets on who will win.

There’s a hollow emptiness in my stomach as I watch. It’s almost as if seeing the Mortal Gods go after each other with the same intensity of weary assassins in training becomes tedious to me. I stand on my platform, hands clasped behind my back as the Darkhavens watch in near silence. The only one who makes any sort of noise is Kalix, who yells and hollers like an annoyed animal when fighters falter or slip or drop their weapons.

All around the arena, Terra stand at the ready, some with trays of drinks and others just watching the fights. Once again, I catch a glimpse of Niall standing alongside the girl from several days ago—his Mortal God, Maeryn. I blink as I finally realize the clothes she’s wearing. Gone is the ultra-feminine princess-like lady from before, and in her place sits a neutral-faced woman, dressed in a sea foam green tunic and dark trousers that mold to her lower frame.

Why? Almost as soon as I ask myself the question, I understand. She’s dressed that way in case she’s called upon to fight. That realization slams into me and causes me to jerk my head up, roving over the crowd of Mortal Gods seated in the arena. All of them, every single one, are dressed similarly. In trousers. In tunics. In clothes that will be easier to fight in. The frown that twitches at my lips is one of reluctant sympathy.

Every once in a while, Niall will flinch at something that happens within the arena—an arm getting sliced off or a spurt of blood from a fighter’s abdomen—and Maeryn will lean towards him, gently patting his hand in a way I don’t expect. He should be grateful. Of all the Mortal Gods, Niall managed to get one that seems closer to that of a mortal sympathizer than a true God’s daughter.

A horn blares, announcing the end of the latest battle, and two Terra jog out onto the now bloodied field, lifting the losing Mortal God who groans as blood pours from the open wounds on his leg and shoulder. They half carry, half drag the body away, struggling under the weight of the big-boned Mortal God. The winner, a lithe Enid, stands and holds her hands up, sword and all, with joy.

“She did well,” Ruen murmurs absently.

Without turning my head, I glance towards him out of my periphery. His brow is scrunched inward, but he blows out a breath that seems relieved. “She got lucky,” Theos replies. “Her footwork was simply better than his.”

“At least she didn’t have to kill,” Ruen reminds him.

Not this time, I silently amend. I have to admit, as much as I despise the Gods, they are clever beings. These battles are madness incarnate, but there is a method to it.

Separating their children and pitting them against one another. I can see it clearly—their reasoning for taking their half-mortal children and placing them within this very structured system. Gods develop these Mortal Gods to their specifications and allow for no outside interventions to interrupt their careful training. Then they put them into the ring and watch as their own children fight for survival.

Cruelty—thy name is Divinity.

“Terra,” Kalix calls, distracting me momentarily.

I lean forward. “Yes?”

“Get me a drink,” he says, waving a hand. “I’m bored.”

I repress my irritation and give him a smile. “Of course.” Turning towards the back of the stands, I walk up the staircase to the spread that several Terra are currently standing alongside. I grab a crystal glass from one of the Terra holding trays, offering them a bittersweet smile of sympathy at their plight. Unlike the Mortal Gods and Gods, we, the Terra, have been on our feet for hours.

When I return to the Darkhavens, I bend and offer the glass to Kalix. Instead of taking it, however, he shoves my hand away and leans forward, his eyes lighting up in a way they haven’t since the battles started.

“Sir?”

“Fuck.” Ruen’s dark curse has me jerking my head to the side as I see Maladesia turned and talking to someone behind her—someone shadowed. I stiffen immediately. Dolos?

“They’re changing the presiding Gods,” Kalix’s tone is ripe with frenzied excitement and I can see why. He’s right.

I watch as Maladesia says something and then bows her head, stepping back and allowing for Dolos to step forward. This time, however, he doesn’t release his shadow—a blessing I hate to view as such, but I don’t know if I could handle the pressure of his unshadowed presence again so soon. The glass in my hand lowers to my side, but before it can reach my hips, Theos’ hand reaches out and snatches it from my grip.

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