Page 12 of Reign of Betrayal

“Lay down quickly,” she whispers to me as she jumps into her bed.

I do just that. The second I lay down a guard comes walking by doing his rounds.

Gods and goddesses, these two have everything down to a system.

When the coast is clear, we build the sack again and continue until late into the night.

* * *

The next fewweeks are the same: practice dance moves and throwing palm blades. But tonight is ring night, and it’s Elm’s turn to fight. As it looms, I’m not sure what to expect. I’ve only fought once, and Larah knocked me out embarrassingly fast.

We make our way to the ring and it is packed—over congested. People I have never seen before in their fine, luxurious clothing occupy seats, while inmates are lined up all about, anywhere a body can sit or stand. The air is thick and humid. The smell of sweat and earth cling to each intake of breath.

Close to the front of the stage, I see…her: Princess Vanna, heir to the throne of Umbrahdor. I’ve never seen her up close before, but I know it is her. She has reddish-brown hair and brown eyes, and sitting like a stick is up her ass—it is her. Even if I wasn’t sure, the presence of the royal guard surrounding her gives it away.

She is laughing and touching a male guard’s arm, leaning into his personal space. I hate her for doing this to me, to Larah, to Elm. I make myself a promise—a vow, right then and there—that I will get my revenge on Vanna.

My first night here, I found out she went after Elm. She made advances toward him, but he declined, stating he had a husband, which she already knew. Apparently, when he declined her after a dance practice, she was not pleased at all by being turned down. He and his husband were attacked later that night. Elm killed two guards and ended up in here. He still has no idea if his husband is alive or not. I couldn’t imagine that—not knowing if your loved one is alive or murdered by the royal guards.

Princess Vanna has ruined our lives and who knows how many others. There is no way I can get to her, not with that many guards around her. I don’t know what I would do if I got in front of her, but I know it wouldn’t be good.

The first match begins. Two inmates step into the ring and bloody each other until one is knocked unconscious.

The night goes on like this. Inmate after inmate, match after match. The stage is painted in smears and splatters of crimson. The metallic tang of blood drifts in the sticky, confined air as Elm takes the stage for the final fight. As he ascends the steps to the center stage, he does not tremble. He is calm, collected.

His opponent is a gorgeous man who stands almost as tall as him. I do not remember ever seeing this man around. According to Elm, the prison is massive and has multiple sectors like ours. The structure is very much like a hive, and we are only one part of it.

I watch Elm fight with dread in my stomach, yet also fascination. I have never seen someone move like Elm—the swiftness, the precision. It is enthralling, and I can’t tear my eyes away. I have never witnessed something so beautiful, yet violent. Watching Elm now makes me understand why he is making me learn dance moves first. The way he moves is both graceful and dangerous.

Within minutes Elm knocks his opponent out, and that is it, the event is over. People clear out, and inmates are sent back to their cells. The guards all have smiling faces, clutching their bags of coins from their bets.

A guard walks over to where Elm has exited the stage, toward Larah and me.

“As the winner, you get your pick of any two inmates tonight. You deserve it.” The guard jingles his pocket, making his coins clank together.

“These two.” Elm nods to us.

“Come. You two are to comply with whatever Elm wants. We will bring you to your own cell in the morning.”

The guard walks all three of us to Elm’s cell and locks us in.

Immediately, Larah begins cleaning the blood from Elm’s fists, along with the splatters on his chest and stomach.

“What is your magic?” Elm asks, turning to me.

I sit on the floor in front of him and Larah. “I don’t think I have any. I am twenty, and still no signs of magic. Pretty sure I am a Nomatrab.”

Larah dips the washcloth in the basin, ringing it out—the water cloudy with crimson. “The prison is made of marcanite. Even if you came into your magic now, the marcanite stone would hinder using any magic. It snuffs magic out completely.”

Magic usually manifests between the ages eighteen and twenty, so maybe I will have a lesser magic, but I could be a Nomatrab. It doesn’t matter anyways. I’ll never know now.

I look to Larah , then Elm, my lavender eyes wide, and curious. “What magic do you guys have?”

Elm speaks first. “I have a lesser magic, which makes me practically a Nomatrab, but I inherited a small amount of wind magic. Occasionally, I’d use it during the theater performances to blow hair and dresses around to make a dramatic effect.” Elm looks off for a second like he is lost in a memory. A hint of a smile laces his face before it disappears.

“I came from two Nomatrabs, but I have a hint of water power,” Larah adds in.

After a brief moment of silence, Elm turns to me. “Get up.”

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