Page 12 of Bloodguard

I trip over the remains of the dwarf, falling to my knees beside a discarded sword. I use it to stand again. I need to keep moving. This isn’t over.

Sullivan and I are the only ones left. The moment I’ve dreaded is finally here.

Sullivan…

He waits a few yards from me, kneeling. At least that’s what I think he’s doing, until I realize his legs are gone and his good arm is partially eaten. I stumble to a stop in front of him, breathing hard enough to choke.

Blood pools in his mouth. “What are you waiting for?” he slurs. “Do you think I’d letyoulive?”

I sway where I stand, my eyes burning.

He’s trying to alleviate my guilt.

It doesn’t work.

The tip of my sword finds his heart and pierces it clean through as the first of his tears spills across his battered face.

Those who are scared always cry.

The crowd is on their feet. I keep still, watching Sullivan’s body bleeding out. A new bar of brutality has been raised in the arena today, and rage freezes the blood in my veins.

My gaze lifts to the audience, to the bloodthirsty crowd that cheered as I killed my friend. Some of them are horrified. Others are crying. But they make up the minority. Row after row of spectators are screaming with joy at my victory.

“Bloodguard!”they chant over and over.

They want me to celebrate with them. I won’t.

Instead, I cut away a section of Sully’s hair, clutching every strand in my fist as I stand before the crowd. I turn to the royal box, searching for the High Lord with an unspoken threat that he will one day die upon my sword as well. But my eyes latch onto the brown-haired elf’s instead. Did she come back to watch me be torn apart?

Well, too damn bad, lady.

When she bows in respect, I all but stop breathing, then mentally shake myself. I refuse to believe there’s an ounce of admiration in her cold heart. I walk right out of the arena.

Hope is the only thing that can kill a gladiator like me, and I’m not dying today.

chapter 6

Leith

I grit my teeth. After everything I endured in the arena, the tattoo the frail mage emblazons into my skin should be nothing. But since the moment the magical needle pierced my forearm, beginning to trace the lines of a sword, I understood the full meaning of pain all over again.

My body wants to pull away, every injury screaming at once for mercy. But I keep still. I’ve won my first Bloodguard match. It’s technically an honor to have this coveted symbol on my forearm. If I win the next three, I’ll be allowed to add a vine of thorns that wraps its way down the length of the blade, a rose, and a crown that circles the hilt.

When completed, the tattoo will grant me royal status and mark me as a Bloodguard—a very rich, very powerful, andverydangerous noble. I swallow the bile rising in my throat at what I had to do today to earn this mark. This symbol was once a badge of honor. Now, it serves no purpose so well as to remind the world—and myself—that I’m a killer.

Once the mage is finished, I head straight to the barn and dunk my arm in the horse’s trough. The stable boy gives me ample berth as I lean into it and splash the fresh wound with water. Nags have drunk from here for the better part of the day, and I doubt anyone has thought to clean it recently. But I won’t complain. It eases the sting and floods me with relief.

I stare at the mark. A sword, pointing downward. It’s strong and powerful and should make me feel the same. But all I can think about is Sullivan.

He wore the same symbol.

And it made no difference in the end.

I reach into my pocket to assure myself Sullivan’s hair is still where I shoved it earlier as I left the arena floor. The first chance I get, I’ll bury it someplace Sullivan would’ve liked. Not in the arena, nor in these crowded stables beneath it. And not in the dirty barracks where we sleep with our backs to the wall so no one can surprise us. That place reeks of piss and rotting flesh and all the sins we’ve committed.

Sullivan deserves better, even if those quarters were where our friendship began.

A fresh wave of pain hits me hard in the chest. The worst kind of pain. Grief. But I swallow the bitter taste before it shows on my face.

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