Page 47 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

His answering smile almost broke her heart.

Two days after his first fight in the Pits, Azriel stood in the quiet, solemn training yard, counting the heads of the survivors as he drank a ladle of water. Three did not return, though he hadn’t yet heard what happened to them. After his own victory over the lycans, he’d spent the following day unconscious in his cell, where a healing mage had been permitted to keep him from losing his arm.

A fortunate outcome. He didn’t want to match his brother.

Unfortunately, Melia’s kindness only went so far—just far enough to keep him from dying or becoming infirm. So while his arm was no longer mangled from the lycan’s jaws, his shoulder had yet to heal fully, and the wounds on his stomach were shallow enough to not pose a serious problem. As it were, none of them had yet scarred, and any sudden movement caused the scabs to reopen.

Around him, not many of the other prisoners fared much better. With the magic inhibitors on the mages and other fae, they had no way to heal themselves any more than he did, and no one walked through the yard unscathed.

Raoul hobbled from his place near the archery targets, his leg in a splint. How many injuries had the human incurred since arriving in the prison? If he had been scarred before, it was going to be nothing compared to what would become of him if he continued in the Pits. A fresh scar cut down the length of his jaw on one side of his face.

“You look like shit,” the human said and prodded at Azriel’s shoulder.

Biting back a wince, he glowered instead. “One could say the same of you.”

“The splint isn’t even necessary at this point.” Raoul pat the wood holding his leg straight. “But it allows me to sit out of training for the day without repercussions.”

Ah, yes. The punishment for not sticking to the training regiment meant having the evening meal revoked. And if that were the standard punishment, Azriel couldn’t help but note that he rarely partook in the evening meal. Neither did Sasja.

Not being able to stomach the food had already caused a degradation of his strength. Perhaps Sasja wasn’t typically as thin as she appeared within the confines of the prison. She just couldn’t eat anything without getting sick and, therefore, lost much of her muscle mass.

He had no idea how he would survive Algorath, and the Pits were the least of his concerns.

“When will you take it off?” Azriel stepped back into the narrow strip of shade provided by the awning to stave off the sun’s rays. “The Desmo won’t believe your leg is broken after the healer came through.”

Raoul chuckled. “This afternoon. Before the party.”

Stilling, Azriel frowned at him. “Party.”

“She has one every time she wins.”

His frown deepened. “She hardly won if three of her prisoners died. Is this some sort of game to her?”

Of course it was. Such a ridiculous question to be asking, but he couldn’t help himself. No sane person would consider the Pits to be a game of sorts. Not one in which they could win, anyway.

“Yes and no.” Raoul dipped the ladle into the water and brought the edge to his lips. It was a good thing Azriel had no issue with sharing, or he’d have been dead the first day after seeing how many people drank from the same damn spoon. “All the Desmos place bets on their fighters. Gods, they likely rig the matches to get their desired outcome. Whoever walks away with the most coin wins and throws a party to gloat.”

Rattan swords clacked as a pair of prisoners worked on their skills, coaching one another through different techniques and defenses. Azriel watched them for a long moment, leaning his uninjured shoulder against the wall beside him. His body ached nonetheless, particularly at the sight of one of the mages taking the rattan to his ribs with a loud crack.

Those who weren’t as injured or receiving more healing continued their training as well. A fae slumped against the outer wall in the sun, either asleep or soon-to-be dead if no one woke him up. The desert sun was as deadly as the Pits if not treated with care. Sasja kept to herself as always, with minor injuries, though one eye was swollen shut.

“Does she require us to be in attendance at these parties?” Azriel looked in the direction of the chateau as though he could see it through the awning.

Raoul scrunched his nose as he followed Azriel’s gaze and blinked into the sun. “We are her prize winners. All the Desmos like to show us off when they get the chance.”

Something oily slunk through Azriel’s gut at that. He didn’t like the idea of being surveyed like an animal at the market. And that, he was certain, would be the least of the worries. “What will she have us do?”

“Now that’s the interesting bit…” Raoul leveled a hard stare at him. “They can make us do whatever they want.”

“Are there no laws protecting us?”

Now he chuckled, though Azriel didn’t find his question amusing. Raoul sighed, his mirth fading, and said, “We’re here for breaking the law. The law no longer protects us.”

Gods. He knew being here would be awful—and it had been—but he hadn’t anticipated such moral nihilism.

If he walked into that chateau, he’d become subject to whatever Melia or one of her minions wished of him. Between his status as a prisoner and the collar around his neck, he had no rights. They could order him to do…anything…and he’d be forced to do it or face whatever consequences they desired.

For too long, he’d shoved down the memories of his time wrapped around Melia’s finger. Such thoughts belonged in a closet in the dark recesses of his mind, locked away forever. Now they broke free, and he could feel her fingers running through his hair—her lips across his skin—

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