The plain exterior of our carriage was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it rendered us indistinguishable from the other traffic clogging the roads; on the other, it offered us no special privileges. What could have been a short, half-hour trip to the coliseum had dragged into a three-hour crawl, thanks to foot traffic and a stream of carriages bound for the same destination.
I had tried closing my eyes, hoping to pass the time more quickly, but I suppose life couldn't be that convenient for me. Letting out a soft sigh, I shifted my attention to Thorne. His prodigious girth monopolized the entire seat across from me, and I found myself wondering, yet again, what he meant to my father. Being a champion might be impressive, but it was hardly more than a well-bred dog winning a show—nothing deserving the king's personal favor, in my estimation.
His eyes were closed, so I couldn't be sure if he was asleep, but as I examined him, I noticed the absence of any hint of his former life. No scars, no blemishes from the arena—no visible muscle to speak of, for that matter, though he must have some to support that bulk. I studied the gaudy assortment of gems and finery he wore, far more ostentatious than my own wardrobe. One thing did catch my eye, though: the edge of some kind of tattoo or marking, half-concealed beneath his layers of jewelry.
As I leaned forward slightly to get a better look, I felt the weight of someone's gaze upon me. Glancing up, I realized Thorne was watching me. His brown eyes were no longer the mildly sarcastic, aloof eyes of a pampered noble. In that moment, they reminded me of a wild animal—perhaps a killer. But I'd stared down that kind of look my whole life; it didn't faze me. I let my practiced smile slip into place and angled my head.
"Oh, you're awake, Noble Thorne," I said in my most pleasant, womanly tone. "Did you sleep well?"
His eyes shifted, returning to their previous, detached amusement. "No, but that's all right, Princess. Just… old memories coming back to me."
He sounded sincere for once, rather than sarcastic. Intriguing—perhaps I could learn something. "Would you mind sharing, since we seem to have ample time before we arrive?" I asked, hoping he might reveal something that would explain his importance to Father.
"Hmm. I don't mind," he began. "I was just reliving some moments in the arena—"
He broke off as the carriage gave a sudden lurch, jerking us both. Peering out the window, he offered me a small, resigned smile. "Ah, it seems we've actually arrived. Time flew past us, indeed. Shall we disembark, Princess?"
And with that, whatever secrets might have lingered in his memories stayed locked behind his cool veneer.
We both disembarked, and while Thorne strode ahead, I lingered for a moment to take in the surroundings. It wasn't my first time here, but the sight never failed to excite me. The colossal walls of the colosseum towered overhead, forcing me to crane my neck just to glimpse the top. At ground level, I could see rows upon rows of people queued to enter, guards checking them for contraband. Vendors hawked their wares—everything from roasted meats and vegetables to cheap trinkets and gaudy jewelry.
Before I could observe more, my entourage arrived. The bulk of their armor formed a wall around me, shielding me from the masses. I started forward, making my way into the viewing chambers along a path I knew well by now. It didn't take long to reach my usual spot.
I settled onto my seat, scanning the area out of habit. My father and a few other nobles were already present, deep in conversation. They didn't acknowledge me, which likely meant it was an important matter—one they felt no need to share with me.
Looking down into the arena, I noticed two groups of fighters: one dressed in the style of our own military from a few years back, and the other decked out like the mutts of Emberlain. I was about to settle into my chair when the announcer's voice boomed across the stands. I tuned him out at first—until my father cut him off mid-sentence.
I wasn't sure what Father said exactly, but the announcer soon continued, announcing that the winners would earn a meeting with me. The declaration made me feel like a whore for a fleeting moment. Yet, after a beat of reflection, I realized it might actually simplify my task of picking out the best fighters. So, I let it go.
Looking down into the arena, it appeared leaders had emerged on both teams, each barking orders to coordinate their fighters—a typical display for this sort of competition. I also noticed a few new additions this year: some manner of dog-like creature and a small, green, childlike monster. Their presence seemed to force the combatants to think more carefully about their actions, which I found more engaging to watch.
Scanning the fighters for anyone of note, I struggled to pick out true standouts at first. One warrior wielding a two-handed sword caught my eye when he swiftly bisected one of those little green beasts. More interesting, though, was a fighter on the Caldrithy side who dispatched several Emberlain adversaries and even one of those dog creatures with apparent ease. I mentally marked him as a potential choice.
My attention then drifted to various other clashes breaking out. Archers from both sides fired down on their enemies, and one woman with a bow on the Emberlain team stood out for her accuracy. She appeared to have at least one, possibly two, fighters defending her—an impressive display of teamwork that suggested they, too, could be worth considering.
As I returned my focus to the Caldrithy side, I noticed that their formation suddenly surged forward, rushing into the opposing team. They had the numbers advantage, so I couldn't fathom why they'd risk such a maneuver so early. Perhaps there was some strategy behind it, but from my vantage, it seemed reckless. Nonetheless, it made for a more thrilling spectacle—just the sort of excitement the crowd loved.
The melee that followed was truly a spectacle. People were torn apart by the roaming beasts, while a dazzling array of fighting styles clashed in every corner of the arena. My gaze darted among three separate battles before locking onto someone in particular—the same fighter wielding a two-handed sword I'd noticed earlier. This time, he was outnumbered, fending off a spearman and a one-handed swordsman armed with a small shield. It looked like a losing matchup.
I watched him swing his enormous blade, only to abort the motion halfway to parry the spearman's thrust. He backstepped again and again, dodging or blocking as needed, but never managing to go on the offensive. Then I caught sight of a dark blur streaking toward him, striking the side of his helmet. He staggered, leaving an opening for the spearman to lunge forward, impaling him somewhere on his torso—I couldn't discern exactly where from my vantage point.
I nearly switched my attention elsewhere, convinced he was finished. But then he dropped his sword and tore off his helmet with a single motion, his other hand gripping the spear's shaft. Twisting his body, he yanked the spearman off-balance and, with swift brutality, slammed his helmet repeatedly into the man's head. The swordsman tried to intervene, but the youth used the spearman's body as a shield. After five or so jarring blows, the spearman slumped to the ground, clearly in no condition to continue.
With the spear now free, the teenager leveled its point at the swordsman. I found myself leaning forward in my seat, my pulse quickening. The raw ferocity of his counterattack was as captivating as it was vicious. I found myself cheering.