Page 53 of He Who Ignites The Flame
I drew closer to the bed, finding familiar lines carved into the stone above it. My heart quickened at the sight of them, and I lifted my hand to run my fingers along the grooves, the weight and meaning of every etching leaving my heart heavy—so many lines, marking an immeasurable passage of time.
Micah’s presence brushed against me as he lingered in the doorway to the cell.
Mycell.
“I didn’t know when my birthday was,” I muttered, and Micah stopped at my side, looking around, and something within me hated him seeing it all. “None of us did, so we always celebrated together. Few of us were ever allowed to go outside, so many lived their lives never to see the sun or moons. We used the fighting seasons to measure time.”
Micah’s hands balled into fists, his fury burning in our bond inked between my breasts.
“I guess it was pointless to try,” I muttered, feeling each groove, remembering each mark I’d left in a desperate attempt to not let this place swallow me whole.
19
THE GIRL WITH STORMY EYES
10 YEARS PRIOR
Stone rasped as I carved out another mark above my bed.
Exhaustion clung to my bones, the deep aches and healing wounds from yesterday’s match sapping every bit of energy I had left. My fangs throbbed, bringing forth a dull headache, and my throat was parched, desperate for a soothing rush of blood. I’d downed gulp after gulp of water, but it did nothing to quench this thirst.
I dragged my fingers over the lines carved into the stone. There had been thirty-six yesterday, and yesterday marked the start of the thirty-seventh. I would have marked it yesterday had I not collapsed with exhaustion the moment they’d thrown me back into my cell after my match. A victory hard-earned only to be rewarded with being thrown back behind bars with the promise of no rest and another match to come.
We always celebrated our birthdays on the first day of the fighting season. It gave everyone a chance to celebrate, as they weren’t guaranteed to survive to the end of it. So many fell to the beasts in The Pits—to each other.
The record wasn’t accurate; I’d missed a lot of time when I was young, thrown into training as soon as I’d been able to stand after Arden had marked me. It hadn’t been long after my training began that Arden had thrown all the children into The Pit, forcing them to fight for their lives against lesser creatures for entertainment, allowing patrons the chance to assess us and start planning favorites or prospective warriors to acquire.
I couldn’t even remember how old I had been when I’d been taken, could no longer remember my parents’ faces, their names. The only thing that remained of what life I had, was in the tattered remains of the coat the sweet boy had gifted to me, which remained on my cot. Every night was spent curled up with it, trying and failing to remember what he looked like, the only thing remaining his kindness, his warmth, his scent, which had been all but snuffed out from the coat years ago. I slipped the scrap of fabric in my pocket, praying his lingering presence might bring me good luck when they dragged me back to The Pit for my next fight.
“She had the most enchanting silver hair and became Arden’s favored for her beauty and power.”
I glanced over my shoulder to find one of the cell mothers telling stories to the children. I’d been told the same story as a child.
“Who was she?” one of the children asked.
“She was Niassa, a princess of the wyverns, taken from her home on Hesperian’s Reach as a child.”
“A wyvern?” one of them asked in awe.
The cell mother nodded, her smile warm in a way that seemed near impossible. How could someone hold onto such warmth amidst the cold of this place?
“Arden kept her here, vowing she would serve him forever, for the wyverns do not die. Their flame souls burn for eternity, and only when wyverns relinquish their flame and forsake their leathery form can they die and pass into Elysium.”
I couldn’t help but listen to the story, clinging to the only thing that had given me hope as a child.
“She gave up on ever finding the freedom she craved, to be able to take her true form and spread her wings, to take to the skies. But there was another who was held captive, one who loved Niassa. A lost love—who’d once been held captive just as she was—broke into the cells one night. He had been believed to be dead, cast out after losing a fight in The Pits when they were younger.”
The children listened in bated silence, their eyes bright with wonder and excitement.
“He found her in her cell, and he vowed to get her out. Together, they fled, fighting their way out of Nastra, but in their struggle, he was gravely wounded.”
The children gasped and broke into a mix of questions, asking what happened—if he survived.
Gruff voices echoing through the cavern cut through the story, and the cell mother and children instantly quieted as guards stormed down the walkway. My heart launched into my throat at the sight of Kish slumped in their grasp. The smell of blood reached my nose, and I shot to my feet as they tossed her limp body into our cell.
I fell to my knees at her side. “Kish!”
A soft groan of pain was her only response, and I quickly turned her over to find her covered in deep wounds and quickly-forming bruises.
