Page 222 of What Lies Within Blood & Heirs

Dressed in finery, Ladomyr’s prized court strolled along crystal pathways forty feet above. Like a parade, they strutted and waved, chins high as if they were the ones seeking triumphant recognition. When they each found their pavilion, covered by extravagant ceilings and draped in lounges for their bird’s-eye view of what was to come, the entire arena turned toward a high-rise balcony and the three thrones waiting.

And on that balcony … sitting center for the entire stadium and arena to see …

Stood a wooden pillar with Garrik’s wrists shackled above his head, chin to chest. They’d shoved a glassy crown on his head. Black. Sharp. Like his obsidian crown, only the shards were meant to dig into his skin. Trails of blood ran from his temple, from the shackles, soaking into the rolled sleeves of his tunic.

From where Alora stood on that cursed battleground, she witnessed his chest barely rising. Saw the slow small cadence of liquid from the wound in his shoulder still housing that knife.

Her blood went molten.

Everything inside her vowed to see the king gutted. His entrails spilled over the balcony and feasted upon by the beasts he Made.

Alora studied the stone walls. A hundred feet tall, flat-slated for no footholds. Perhaps she could climb the tallest trees, jumponto the crystal walkway, and run until she gained enough speed to launch toward that balcony.

She was prepared to do it. To run to Garrik, her mate. Alora dug her boots into the damp ground and positioned herself when Ladomyr escorted Erissa to the empty throne on the right, while the left became claimed by Kyrell.

Ladomyr’s wicked face turned to the crowd. “Masters, call on your collars,” that out-worldly growl boomed across the arena.

Before Alora could surge forward and damn the king to Firekeeper, she cried out as the metal around her neck sent shockwaves through her. Her knees hit the dirt, clawing at the wretched thing in a hopeless attempt to remove it.

A shadow eclipsed the sun above her, and that bloodthirsty voice rattled through every inch of her. “Get up.”

Silas. Standing on the walkway, turning a sapphire ring on his finger.

Alora glared from the ground, snarling, “No.”

A male wouldn’t control her.Never again.

The spymaster cocked his head—a threat—but she still didn’t move until that ring twisted and the sharp waves of electricity surged through her again. “You have no choice in the matter.”

Again. She didn’t move. She only lifted a finger and smirked.

What patience the spymaster seemed to hold tarnished.

Against her control, Alora was forced upright, not by her will but by the blaring pain radiating from her neck. Every joint and nerve and bone bent to that ring, at the unyielding power within. And Alora knew any attempt to set her mate free would be futile. The moment she sought escape …

They’re controlling the collars.She gasped on the very little breath remaining, only held upright by that starsdamned thing and the magic burning from Silas’s control.

In the distance, Ladomyr sauntered along the railing and raised his hands before metal groaned on the outskirts of thearena. And before she took her next breath, the sounds of snarling and shrieks pierced her ears.

The Hunt began.

With every step she took, Alora's heart pounded as she escaped the hole that the abyss had expelled her from. The frigid and earthy air tousled her braids, while she stumbled on dew-covered stones, venturing deeper and deeper into the ancient ruins.

That collar hadn’t stopped burning. The further she ran from Silas, the more the call back to him damned her. But she imagined they wouldn’t be parted for long. Not with the labyrinth of walkways overhead. Not with how small the arena seemed to be.

Ladomyr’s arena may as well have been the first camp outside Telldaira. Given how close the stadium walls were—there was little room to run. And with the ruins mixed within the small forests, it didn’t seem the object of this game was a drawn-out chase. More a spectacle of throwing a dagger into a barrel and seeing which fish would bleed.

Alora didn’t doubt the barbarity would be over before morning.

Perhaps sooner.

She gambled the real possibility of sharpened claws and forest-forged weapons and hurtled around a crumbling wall. Alora slammed her back against the stones, heaving in breaths, tempted to fall to her knees, but a sonic shriek in the near distance and a blood-curdling scream kept her standing. Ready to run.

The screaming—it sounded as if some poor faerie was being torn apart. Probably was, from the sound of her.

A tear slipped down Alora’s cheek, refusing to think of it—the blood—what would be left of her.

What if … what if it was… No.She refused that, too. Refused to think of …

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