Page 6 of Reign of Betrayal

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, letting the silence settle between us for a moment.

Pain shoots through my side, making me wince. One of the guards must’ve bruised one of my ribs, and the ache refuses to let up. Larah gets to her feet and offers me a clean gray tunic and pants.

“Change into these. I’ll help you wash the ones you are wearing.”

I hesitate, suspicion gnawing at me, and my curiosity getting the best of me. “Why… why would you be nice to me? Why give me your tunic and a pair pants?”

Larah chuckles softly. “First off, I am not giving them to you. You can use them until you win a few matches in the ring and earn your own second pair. Second…” she pauses, as if weighing her words, “I wish someone had helped me when I first got here. You will get used to this place—eventually.”

Gods and Goddesses… How does anyone get used to this?

I stand, stripping off my clothes off as discretely as I can. As I dress, Larah busies herself at the wash basin, scrubbing the bloodstained garments with soap.

“So, I take it you have never fought before?” she asks without looking up from where she’s squatting on the floor, cleaning the bloody garments. I let the sloshing of the water be the only sound for just a moment before answering her question.

“Not until last night,” I shrug, trying to sound indifferent, though the memory still stings.

She glances at my arms, her gaze sharp. “Those bruises… they’re old. Some real old. The husband do those?”

Instinctively, I cover my arms.

Hells, she’s observant.

“Yeah,” I admit, my voice low. I’m not used to people noticing—or caring. In the Drifts, we just tried to survive. No one had time to worry about a few bruises.

As ashamed as I am, I have nothing else to lose. I have desperately needed a friend these last few years, since I was forced to marry him at age seventeen. My mother got sick and was dying. She left so I didn’t have to see her pass. I could only hope she was peaceful in her final moments.

I didn’t want to talk about how I was left with a total stranger to be my husband. He was from the double hells himself, as handsome as he was, that was all he had going for him. He was a devil with a pretty mask and a strong backhand, along with a drinking, gambling, and infidelity problem. What a perfect concoction for a human. I would have been better off surviving in the Drifts alone. He was the one who taught me that real love does not exist, and that I should always guard my heart.

The Drifts—it wasn’t much, but it was mine. It was a dilapidated slum on the border of Umbrahdor and Valrum, where the sand from Valrum’s dunes drifted into every corner. It is full of Nomatrabs, weak magic-wielders, and the poor. The Drifts were rough, but it was still home.

I sigh and rub a hand down my face. Just thinking of my home makes me miss it and realize what my life has become.

“Well,” Larah says, “you’ll need to learn how to fight if you want to survive here. The guards run fighting rings at least once a month—or whenever they’re bored. Elm will help too. He’s in the hole now, but he’ll be out soon.”

“Elm? The hole?” I ask, confused.

“Elm’s another inmate. He took me under his wing,” Larah explains. “He helped me a little after I first got here. He’s got a soft spot for the defenseless.”

She frowns, her expression darkening. “The hole is... well, it’s exactly what it sounds like: a pit in the stone. No light, damp as hell, and they leave you there for days. Sometimes they drip water on you, sometimes they starve you—whatever it takes to break you.”

I can’t contain my gasp. How am I going to survive this place? How can anyone survive... this place?

Just then, three guards appear across the open center of the prison, visible through the gaps that let us see the levels above and below. They drag a filthy, beaten man to a cell opposite ours and shove him inside.

As soon as the guards walk away, the man turns toward us. A wide grin spreads across his dirty face, and he waves—not at me, but at Larah.

“Again!” I shout at the royal guards. There’s a troupe of them surrounding me in the expansive training room, a space lined with deadly weapons and training circuits.

The room stretches the length of the palace, adorned with every type of weapon and target imaginable. Vaulted ceilings soar to the heavens, leaving plenty of space to spar with magic without collapsing the roof. This room is my sanctuary. Some people find solace in prayers at temples, but I find it in the clash of steel and the rhythm of combat.

Wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, I grip my sword tighter.

All four guards attack at once. I summon my powers—shadows, thick and menacing, spill from me, curling around two of the guards. I twist, clashing swords with the other two. They’re fast and strong, but not enough to beat me. A grin creeps across my face.

One of the captured guards, a wind wielder, blasts a gust of air toward me, trying to knock me off my feet. Predictable—too predictable. He has used that same move each round, and I notice everything. I calculate everything—every possible scenario, every move. It is my job to. I snuff it out before he even blinks.

The water wielder is trickier. As I spin toward him, a sphere of water splashes into my face, forcing me to stumble.

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