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His eyes flicked over to one side, and all he could see was the blurred shapes behind a pane of glass. They were talking in hushed voices, words he didn't understand. They were not his kind. They were otherkin.

His eyes narrowed, a low growl bubbling in his chest.

The pane slid back, and the faces he loathed looked down at him. Their beady eyes studied him. His nightmare was real.

He tried to jerk and struggle in his binds but found he couldn't move. They circled him and held out sharp tools. They cut him and peeled parts of his skin, and he wanted to scream, to thrash, to kill.

The little pieces of his skin they took were stored away. Then they left him.

A nightmare.

They turned off the light and left him in the dark. All he felt was the hum of the ship at his back. He saw the faces of many in the dark, but he couldn't recognize who they were. Couldn't tell friend from foe. Could hardly remember who he was. Memories were scattered ever since he had escaped. Ever since he had failedher.

He saw her in the dark too. The queen he had served. She was nothing now but a skeleton. Nothing but black bones and red eyes.

He had no sense of time, only keeping track of the moments when the otherkin came to study him. They would talk in front of him, in their hushed tones, looking at him, poking and prodding him. This happened several times while they flew to wherever they were taking him. Because they were taking him somewhere, that much he knew.

He knew after a time they were drawing close to this unseen place when they moved him from his immovable cage to another. A thick metal box with vents for air. Dumping him inside and locking the door. Shutting him away like an animal.

He'd show them an animal.

Whatever drug they had pumped him with was already fading. They talked and talked beside his cage, and he heard one sound repeated many times. He'd gathered in his seething silence as he listened that it was a word that meant something. Something important. A name.

Kingsway.

CHAPTERONE

Ophilia

The day was already growing hot, and the sun had barely peeked over the jagged red mountains in the distance. There were few clouds in the sky, meaning it was going to be dry and unbearable. Just like yesterday and the day before. Only when the sun sank and maybe an hour or two after did it start to cool, then quickly the night would turn freezing cold. Hardly any reprieve.

It was her poor animals she worried about. She was lucky enough to live in the main house where the temperatures were regulated. Except for the family rooms where they could change it to whatever they liked. Even in the lower quarters where she stayed, it was far better than any of the outdoor pens, where they got little more than heatlights at night and fans and shadeboxes in the day.

Ophilia slipped outside through the side entrance, her shirt and pants billowing out from the hot breeze, thin fabric in the color of red with purple trim, the house colors. On her left arm was the patch of the spitting cat with twin daggers crossed under its chin and three suns over its head representing the three male heads of the family. Father and two sons. The crest of House Salimar.

As she crossed the courtyard and the small eastern gardens, a slender red and black cat shot out from a nearby bush, almost making her trip. It hissed at her before it bolted away.

Ophilia took a moment to collect herself before—carefully now—making her way to the outdoor pens. Injure one of the prized house cats and that was twenty lashings. Kill one and you lost a hand. Disrespect one in front of a family member and you spent a day in the glasshouse.

She passed one of the main gates into the outer yards, nodding at the guards who talked nearby. They watched her pass but didn't nod back. As usual.

Down a set of stairs, she went by the small orchard, where workers were already up in the trees, picking off the early spring crop, blood-red sunfruit the size of her palm.

Passing one last smaller gate, she was in the training barracks. She didn't dare glance over at the rows of units where, beyond the barred windows and doors, the house's fighters were kept. Meandering in the dark of their rooms. Their cells. A few hissed at her like the cat had as she passed. Some growled deep. Others remained silent. Hendrik—the house's head trainer—wouldn't be around till midday. He always slept in, usually hungover. Only a few of the boys under his apprenticeship would bother to feed the fighters. Most times, they forgot.

Ophilia got up earlier than usual so that she could do the feeding and change out the water tanks. But recently she had been scolded over it and was forced to stop. Hendrik liked using her for help but only when he wanted it. She wasn't one of his apprentices, thank the heavens, but she was a trainer and keeper for the house's exotic pets. Somehow Hendrik decided that fighters and pets were one and the same. So, if he needed her assistance, she couldn't disobey.

Her heart sank as she got to the end of the cells, coming to the last. She almost stopped but forced herself not to, knowing the guards watched from the wall nearby. The last cell was empty, cleaned out several days ago.

Tajia had been sick for some time. Their prized fighter had gotten an infection from a knife wound in the arena, and it hadn't been properly tended to. Still, they forced him to finish the games, but the massive yet gentle lygin hadn't gotten far, collapsing in the final rounds. They brought him home and let him suffer for his loss.

That had been several months ago now, and they had left his cell unkept and uncleaned. Until now.

Which only meant they had found a new potential fighter. One that would have to be trained until the next season started.

Ophilia drifted away from the training quarters and started for the pens which were tucked into an enclosed area alongside tall borsa trees, similar to palm trees on Earth but with longer, fatter leaves with orange stripes. They gave little shade to the beasts in their pens, but they were better than nothing at all. She checked the water tanks and filters, then went for the small storage house to one side that kept their food. She prepared the day's meals, then set them each in a bin and placed the bins in a cart connected to a four-wheeler.

She drove along the dirt path, stopping at each station where a pen was housed. Some were nothing more than large cages while others were more open. It all depended on the species. The terfins for example were like large scaly birds whose billed horns could pierce straight through your skull. Their cries were awful, like grating metal. But the long-necked killi deer were gentle and hardly ever escaped their enclosure.