Page 126 of Vicious Princess
My stomach churns, and I have to breathe through the nausea.
I have killed before.
After all, that’s who I am. A natural-born soldier, fighter,killer. I possess the gift of the gods as a Decarios with this purpose—to be lethal.
I was sixteen when I had my first-ever kill, as part of my Decarios training in Wetra.
“A Decarios is not a weapon, despite what they may lead you to believe,” Dad said, on one knee in front of me while he patched up my bloody knuckles.
“Then what are we?” I asked. “You said we were gifted by the gods so we could fight.”
“We were born to end wars. Not feed them. We fight to protect. Not because we can.”
His steady presence helped me find my center. I was in shock.
“We don’t kill for sport. We don’t kill for show. We kill only when it stops the bleeding. That is our duty.”
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck to the sides.Duty.What an empty, pompous word. My only duty in this lifetime is to claim vengeance for my family’s deaths.
I steal a glance at the platform hanging above the cage. Even from here, I can’t see the faces of the shrouded figures. The third one has joined the other two, all three thrones now occupied.
While I can’t see their faces or their eyes, I can feel them watching.
A loud whistle pierces the air, and the bald fae shouts, “Ani-ki-gacommence!”
Slowly, the ropes tense, and our targets rise into the air. All four fae thrash and scream. Nobody cares.
My hands tremble from the adrenaline that courses through my veins. I’m the last in the line, which may be a good thing. Or a very bad thing.
The first fae has a short haircut and no visible tattoos. Just a random criminal, and from the ragged clothing, he looks to be one looking for a quick way to fill his pockets.
He raises his bow, and the arrow whizzes through the air. It lands in the middle of the first target’s thigh. Slowly, blood seeps through the cloth pants they wear and pours down their leg.
I grip my bow harder and keep my mind empty of thoughts.
When the fae lands the second arrow in the forearm of the second target, then the third target’s thigh, I’m worried.
He’s damn good.
The fourth target gets an arrow into his arm, too. The crowd cheers.
The second participant, a round fae with rosy cheeks and to-die-for lashes is also damn good. He hits the first and second target right in their left shoulders.
He has a pattern.
I need to do something if I want to win and stand out in this crowd. Especially considering my damn bow might act out anytime.
Carefully, I open my senses and reach for the current archer.
His emotions are stark and bold, and he’s having the time of his life torturing these four poor fae. He’s not here for the money. He’s here for the screams and agony his arrows cause.
He lands the third arrow in the left shoulder of the third target. But before he can lift the bow for the last time, I manage to grasp a thin sliver of anger within him and pull on it until it’s brought to the surface. Right as he lets go of the arrow, the sudden surge in fury makes his hand shake.
He misses the last target by an inch.
The roar of frustration that tears through his chest sends a shiver down my back. Quickly, I close my senses and shut myself off from everything. The crowd cheers despite his failure, and I don’t miss a few mocking laughs and whistles.
Someone probably just lost a bet.
