Page 118 of A City of Flames

“Link don’t move, she might break our hands next,” Rydan whispers and I draw back, swatting his arm. “So vicious, Ambrose,” he teases and I half laugh, shaking my head.

“So,” Link draws out the word, looking over my shoulder. “Freya is a half witch.”

I glance behind me as Freya’s curls cover half her face and her lashes flicker each time she breathes. “I guess she is.” I’m not entirely sure what she thought of it herself, but I know that when she is ready to talk about it, I’m here.

Link mentions how I need rest, and both he and Rydan agree to vacate our chambers. As I bid my goodnight to them, I close the door and take a deep breath, leaning the back of my head against it.

The only source of light is the moon gleaming through the open window of our room, it splashes across the beds and chest of drawers.

You’ll figure this out, you’ll figure it all out.

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I focus on the crescent in my hand. A new day has surfaced, meaning another sleepless night. At least Freya awoke in good spirits, focusing on new hobbies she wants to try as she plaits a few thin strands of my hair at the front while the rest lies loose.

Meanwhile, I’ve not stopped thinking about Lorcan. Had I been too harsh yesterday? I’d not gone to speak with him when I said I would, partly because I didn’t know what I would have gotten out of it.

A frustrated breath ripples out of me as Freya comes out of the bath chambers, clad in her venator armor before a burst of the door slams it against the walls.

Link, practically gasping for air, stretches his hand across the door as he looks at me, then Freya.

Alarmed, I stand. “Link, what is it?”

Wide blue eyes blink at me. “You need to come with me now.”

“Why?” Freya asks and Link sighs heavily, his gaze turning worrisome.

“Because,” he says, “they’ve put the Golden Thief up for fighting at the Arena.”

* * *

I force myself through the boisterous crowd. My elbows hit the backs of others, feet trample upon feet and many swear at me while Freya and Link apologize from behind. In normal circumstances, I’d yell back at them, but this is no normal circumstance.

“Where’s Rydan?” I shout, shoving a drunken man to the side. I search around the arena, stepping down the stone stairs. If I can get any closer, perhaps I can find something, anything. I don’t know how or what, I didn’t have much time other than to race out of the barracks.

“He tried to flirt with Lorcan first, that failed so then he tried to convince the general to put someone else up for the fight.”

Let me guess, that failed too. “Where is Rydan now?” I stop and turn to them once we near the front.

Link holds up one finger, taking deep breaths as his golden-brown hair sticks to his forehead. “The general put him on patrolling duty that’s why I rushed to you.” He frowns. “Although I must say I am still confused. I know you’re on the shifter’s side, but I thought you hated the Golden Thief either way?”

The question hits me like a tree trunk to the face. “I do,” I say, and Freya looks at me skeptically. “Well, most of the time I do, I—it’s complicated.” I dislike Darius for a lot of reasons, first his arrogance then his inability to care about the consequences of what he does or says, he always manages to aggravate me by just breathing. But our time at the den... the argument... the kiss.

“Nara,” Link exhales, shaking me from my vivid memories. “You should know he’s fighting—”

The cheers increase as a creak of the gates rumbles the entire arena. I whirl back around, and my stomach turns as Darius steps out from the darkened passageways. No shirt and no boots cover him, nothing but ripped pants. I’ve always been so used to seeing him in all black that I swallow a sharp breath as my gaze wanders the tanned muscled torso and the narrow lines indenting his abdomen. Sleek, tight and irritating enough for him to rightfully have that huge ego I was met with at the jewelers.

A chain around his ankle drags against the sanded pit as he walks to the center of it. Lashes across his back look to be healing and I shake off the vision of how the general spoke of having flogged him. My face screws in distress but for Darius. If he is in any pain, he doesn’t show it. His eyes narrow at the people jeering, and a sense of amusement radiates from him in waves.

Then the crowd goes silent, and I raise my head toward the balcony on the opposite side of the arena. Sarilyn, with all her cruel and manipulating smiles, drops her palm to her side. The general, just like the first fight I attended, sits beside her, drumming his fingers against his knee in boredom.

“This might possibly be the greatest outcome we’ve had since the arena fights began,” Sarilyn says, and indeed she is right, I’d go as far as to think the entire population of Emberwell are here.

I ground my feet to the floor before I manage to do something utterly stupid—such as jumping into the pit.

“You’re quite popular, Darius,” she says his name like a tease, letting the last letter linger on her tongue.

Darius’s answer isn’t verbal, but from the shift in the queen’s expression, I assume he must have shot her one of his mocking smiles.

Sarilyn’s eyes slit and she purses her lips before a fake smirk appears. “Well,” she drawls. “Shall we see how you fare after today?” Jerking her chin toward the left of her, another set of gates crack and screech.

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