Page 7 of Bloodguard

The air around us shifts, growing thick with dread.

Sullivan and I exchange one final glance. We know what it is long before it lands.

Webbed wings the size of ship sails stretch out as talons the length of my arms slam against the arena floor. The brown dragon chuffs, the fire brewing in its belly hot enough to shoot steam from its nostrils. The elf rider on its back is covered with enchanted leather that protects his flesh from the heat. The dragon’s body is the length of three moon horses. Not as large as they come, but large enough to easily squash us.

My mouth goes dry. This dragon is a young male—I can see the pair of claspers under the base of his tail as he thrashes. The only thing more ravenous than an old dragon is a young male. They need more energy to fuel their rapid growth spurts.

“Only one will rise,” Vitor shouts over the gasps of the crowd. His smile takes on a malicious edge. “Will it be gladiator—or shall it be beast?”

The dragon roars once more, and the final betting bell is barely audible above the crowd’s screams and cheers.

We all shift around to face the pile of weapons as fast as we can.

Sully breaks away from me. He crouches and shakes out his hands.

We don’t exchange farewells. After three years of watching out for each other, it all comes down to this.

I lean forward and get ready to run, my focus on the pile of weapons and not on the man who was—dammit,is—my friend.

The moment the horn blasts, I charge.

chapter 4

Maeve

I can’t believe this.

My leather slippers slap against the cool marble hallway that leads out of the arena with every furious step I take away from that horrible place and over to an alcove in the tunnel. This is the first time I’ve been to the coliseum in years, and I only came today for the formality of announcing the wedding banns. It was supposed to be easy—show up, allow the royal courts to see me and my betrothed together, say a few words to honor my grandmother’s memory, and leave.

Preferably with our damn heads still attached.

Filip, bless his heart, couldn’t even manage that.

Did I want to marry an egotistical, entitled oaf who had no qualms about telling me to “keep my neck covered”? No.

But I’m the daughter of “the Queen Killer.” In the wake of my father’s purported crimes, I’ve become a political pariah. While Filip wasn’t the brightest torch in the cave, hewasthe only marriageable person from one of the five noble houses who was willing to overlook my father’s imprisonment and my scars—and, more importantly, he wasn’t afraid of Soro.

So, I’d made a bargain.

“Leave ruling the kingdom to me, and I’ll leave the whoring to you,” I’d said. And Filip—again, bless his heart—was fine with it.

We weredaysfrom marrying.

I should have focused onthatwhen I was in the arena. The future. My imprisoned father. My brokenhearted second father. Instead, my mind—and eyes—had wandered to that gladiator. Menace cloaked him as though the arena had taken everything from him but his pride. And his rage.

He’s young. No more than four or five years my senior—which means he likely volunteered for the arena at twenty-two, the minimum age of eligibility. It makes sense, given how embittered he seemed.

I could have kicked myself when Soro and Filip caught me gawking. Filip was already overly sensitive about our engagement—especially with Soro waiting in the wings, eager to marry me himself. So off Filip went into the arena…and off went his head across the sand.

My stomach twists as I pace and wait. I demanded to speak to High Lord Vitor, but my demands aren’t always met, princess or not.

The crowd’s excitement builds loud enough to echo against the stone walls.

“Where are you going, Maeve?” a singsong voice asks from behind me, then laughs.

I mask my expression as I turn.

Aisling, a heartless mage I’ve known since childhood, with lavender hair and eyes but no kind soul to match, must have followed me out of the arena.

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