Page 175 of Bloodguard

So, if I play this right, I won’t have to fight the vampire colt. I don’t know what else is in each of those crates, though. There could be something more dangerous—unlikely but possible.

This small mercy is far too suspicious for comfort, but I’ll have to take that chance. Gladiator or not, I can’t kill a vampire colt alone.

Ugeen lowers the scroll, his dick tip of a head now drenched with sweat. He wipes his brow with his sleeve and continues. “To exemplify the genius of our cherished engineers and to test the gladiator’s endurance, spinning saws will break through the sand at random.” He sniffs. “As always, best of luck to our gladiator.”

Spinning saws will break through at random?

Anger burns a hole through my chest. This isn’t a match.

It’s a death sentence.

chapter 64

Leith

I’m not given a moment to breathe before the arena erupts, demanding carnage.

I don’t know what I’m facing except the vampire colt. I can’t even be sure I’ll survive long enough to worry about it. If that stupid music stops and I don’t land in front of a crate, it’s over.

My mind wanders to Maeve. In the time we’ve spent alone, I’ve memorized her face, the way her eyes sparkle when she’s up to no good and her sweet smile when she is.

I can avenge my family today, but that is not my primary focus.

Today, I fight for Maeve. For us. For the future she gave me faith to believe in.

I crack my neck from side to side and walk to the perimeter of the circle to examine the weapons scattered in the sand. They weren’t here when I studied the arena earlier, no doubt placed—perhaps by the use of magic—during the reading of the rules.

A close-range weapon is the smartest choice. I find a dagger and slip it into my belt. No matter the situation, I can always use a dagger. I bypass a rusted helmet and a breastplate that would almost certainly take the rest of my prep time to put on. I almost walk past a partially buried sword, not wanting to waste the precious seconds it would take to dig up, but something stops me. The bit of crossguard sticking out from the sand appears old and dusty, but when I eventually wrench it free of the ground, I discover a pristine weapon, shining like a star beneath the sun.

A gasp spreads through the crowd as I raise it. Sunlight glints off the massive ruby secured to the hilt, and the crowd goesfuckingwild. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the cacophony of screams let loose by the good people of Arrow.

I recognize the ostentatious weapon from a portrait back at the manor. This is Maeve’s grandfather’s sword—that of the original king—but how? She had no idea I would battle today.

I glance up to find her standing, eyes wide, hands over her mouth, looking as surprised as I am.

Sometimes confidences must be broken to protect those we love.

Two boxes over, Caelen, grinning, salutes me as Giselle bounces up and down waving vigorously at her sister. That answers that.

I have friends who care about me. My eyes sting when I look to where Maeve continues to stand—to where Soro glances from her to me. She’s smiling, but I think she’s crying, too. And if I didn’t know I fucking loved her before, I sure as hell would know now.

She wants me to live. And dammit, for her, I will.

I find the sheath that goes with the sword and secure both to my waist. I take another look at the scattered weapons and the crates. This sword is magnificent. But no way am I going to use it to cut through the crates or those damn locks.

I hurry around the ring, well aware I’m running out of time.

It’s not until I come across a familiar battle axe that I’m sure it was smart to wait. I lift it, wondering how I know this weapon. When I glance back at Maeve and see Soro gesturing wildly as he screams at her, his ever-present ogren generals conspicuously absent, I realize who this axe belongs to. My gaze flitters to Caelen and Giselle, who are looking damn well smug.

The horn blasts. I’m out of time.

The orchestra begins to play.

At first, the melody follows a standard rhythm that I can steadily jog to without much effort. Without warning, the tempo picks up. I’m not quite to the next crate when the music abruptly stops.

The audience screams.

The only thing that saves me is the force of my jump. I leap as rows of iron spears shoot upward from the space between the crates. The eruption is fierce, and I’m plowed with a blinding spray of sand.

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