Page 4 of Bloodguard

The next few minutes will decide if I have a chance to live—or die.

The High Lord’s bet maker, a short human with round spectacles on the tip of his nose and a scarcity of white hair fluffed out over his ears, glances at each of us and then weighs our fates on his ledger.

With a flourish, he hands the parchment to High Lord Vitor, the ruling Regent of Arrow, who is sitting in the first row, as his status demands. The High Lord glances down at the sheet, his thick, dark hair gathered in a wide braid that starts on the top of his head and snakes down his back, a sharp contrast against the pale skin of his pointed ears. He looks no more than forty years old, but elves tend to live hundreds of years, so there’s no telling how old he really is. He’s wearing the traditional elven garb of flowing silk pants and vest—in gold silk, of course—but something tells me it’s to showcase his rather un-elvishly muscular frame than anything else.

Everything this man does screams intentional.

The High Lord turns to his son next to him, and they stare at each other for a beat. No words are spoken, but it’s clear there’s a battle brewing between the two men before the High Lord gives a quick nod of his head and turns back to the bet maker. He says something to the short man and shoves the ledger at him. The bet maker’s white brows reach into his hairline as he takes the parchment, but then he makes a few sweeping lines with his quill and begins to scribble again.

Something in the High Lord’s tight jaw has the hairs on the back of my neck lifting.

He turns left and snaps something I can’t quite hear at his son. General Soro, who looks like a watered-down version of his father, is playing dress-up today in full military regalia, a slew of round, gold medals shaped like buttons decorating both sides of his structured navy tunic. Of course, the “general” has never served a day in the military, the title being self-proclaimed and as worthless as the man.

Father and son exchange sharp words—clearly no love lost there—before the High Lord’s attention shifts to his bet maker again, his son clearly dismissed from his thoughts. Soro’s jaw tightens, and his gaze catches mine, a cruel twist edging up one corner of his mouth as though he can’t wait to cheer on my death in particular.

Sullivan nudges me, pulling my attention from the royal box, and I drop my hand. He motions with his head at the other gladiators in line with us and murmurs, “I have a good feeling about whoever they pair me with today.”

Apparently, he’s missed the exchange between Vitor and his son and instead spent his time sizing up the other competitors. The dwarf woman is thick-limbed, tough-skinned, and strong, but they tend to lack speed. The others aren’t as ruthless, not like Sullivan and me. He’s right. Weshouldmake it through to the next round. Even as sick as he is, he’s stubborn and lethal. He’s also the only gladiator I dare call a friend.

Since we first met, we’ve shared an unspoken pledge not to turn on each other unless we’re pitted against one another in a match. So far, that hasn’t happened. Likely because of the coin lost to the House if the wrong one of us were to win. But I know the day is coming when the betting outweighs the risk. I just hope it’s not today.

As I glance around at the other gladiators, I can’t help but hopeanyof them die on my blade today instead of Sully.

A giant bell clangs, signaling a call for last bets and time for us to get back into the wagon, head to the stables, and await our paired matches.

“You ready, Leith?” Sullivan asks.

Ready to die? Or ready to kill? I nod regardless.

The dwarf stands tall, roaring and beating her chest, while a couple of elves from my homeland wave to the crowd, their thin, elegant arms swaying like reeds in the breeze. I need to keep my eyes on them. Elves are deceptively strong. The newer competitors, a minotaur and a wolverine shifter, join them and bulge their muscles. They’re all trying to persuade the crowd to bet more, thinking they’ll earn more that way.

Good luck with that.

Most rewards for fighters died right around the same time they started adding convicted criminals to the competitor lists.

Sullivan and I don’t pander to the crowd. He cracks his neck from side to side. I stretch out my hands. The stab wound through my left palm burns, and so does the axe injury across my left shoulder blade.

I feel Soro’s interest return, and I look up, expecting a glare for daring to watch his father dismiss him. Instead, he holds my gaze assessingly as a young human lord beside him laughs at something he said. I don’t recall seeing this lord before, his green hair spiked with colorful jewels on the tips like some fluffed-up peacock, but it’s clear he is thrilled to be in the royal box today and coveting Soro’s attention. He gestures to the two lines of fighters below him, and the pair shares another laugh, making me consider my idea to set the box on fire again.

To Lord Peacock’s left is an empty seat and then two more lords, one who’s older with gray hair and dark-brown skin and one around my age with long, black braids, the sides of his head shaved close—a style favored by the military here. They’re not cheering or laughing like the others. They’re not even rushing to place bets. Why?

Suddenly, all four men’s heads swivel to watch an elegant elf with light-brown skin and high cheekbones make her way toward them.

She’s tall and generously curved, her strides as smooth as water as she walks along the first row and enters the royal box. If it wasn’t for the way she carries herself, I’d mistake her for a member of the Middling. A plain black hooded cape is draped over her shoulders atop a well-made blue dress, tastelessly unadorned by royal standards.

As she sits gracefully in the empty seat beside Lord Peacock, the older elf to her left reaches out, capturing her in a warm embrace. As she settles, she removes her hood and shoves her wavy brown hair behind one pointed ear. This woman is poised, regal, and…scarred.

Small, raised burn marks start directly below her jawline, thickening and branching out as they slope down her throat. My guess is there’s more damage along her chest, but the way she clutches her cloak against her body makes it too hard to tell.

Elves are long-lived and heal at a rapid pace. I’veneverseen one’s skin marred so severely.

Lord Peacock shakes his head, openly chastising her as he lifts her hood back over her hair and attempts to further shield her scars. She removes her hood again, glaring at him, but says nothing.

Soro leans around Lord Peacock to say something to her, and the elf grits her jaw and crosses her arms, as if it’s taking everything she has not to pummel both of them. A satisfied smirk turns up a corner of Soro’s mouth, whatever barb he intended obviously hitting its mark, and he leans back in his seat.

I watch as she carefully smooths her cotton gown over her knees, her focus just above our heads as though she doesn’t want to make eye contact with those beneath her station. Fuck that. I straighten to my full height, my fists clenching and eyes narrowing on hers, demanding she seeme.

Like she can hear my thoughts, her head tilts lower, and our gazes collide.

---