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Below our platform in the middle of the room, acolytes ushered vampires from the center and pulled back the floor to reveal the shallow, three-foot-deep fighting pit. My skin crawled at the sight of the thin floor slats, where blood would seep into the jailhouse below.

“Are you ready for the main event, little temptress?”

Antones swept into the room, gaining confidence as the voices of the attendees drowned away. He was unmasked because he was not a vampire and was not offered the same respect as the other nobles.

I feared for Ant, my old friend and the new leader of the Grimsons. He had big boots to fill with Lukain’s death, taking his role as battlemaster.

“Don’t look so scared, Sephania,” Skar murmured. “Own your schemes.”

Our source of “entertainment” to keep me safe could only be something I knew well: the fighting pit. Sure enough, the vampires in attendance moved their focus to the colorful human roaming the room, sliding between tables and cold bodies.

I had made a villainous turnaround, from hating this scene to embracing it, all for the sake of safety, power, and authority.

Yet at the same time, I had an ulterior motive.

I recalled the words of my Holdmates from the Firehold.

Antones had sought freedom and I had offered it to him with this shadowgala.

There were two fighters I had specifically handpicked for tonight because I knew their prowess firsthand. I’d also chosen their opponents.

Antones gave a sweeping bow to the room, his arms spreading wide in a flourish.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Manor Marquin, I am honored by this invitation from your eminence, Lord Skartovius Ashfen.” Ant’s eyes flicked to me as vampires around the room lightly clapped at mention of Skar.

Ant’s gaze narrowed before he spun away to attend the court.

“Tonight, I have two battles for you, pitting ragged humans against each other for the right to earn their freedom. Place your wagers, my friends!”

Antones lashed his arm out toward the back entrance of the room. A short man marched up the landing of the stairs from the jailhouse below. He was tailed by three white-robed servants.

Rirth hopped down into the pit, drawing his sword. He spun the handle in his hand, eyeing the dais and nodding to me and Skartovius. His face was a mask of concentration and discipline.

Please show the same expertise you always did in the Firehold, my friend. A third victory here means freedom for you.

Antones kept talking to introduce Rirth’s challenger in a much more subdued tone, and this was where my true wickedness shone brightest. Because the man who took position opposite Rirth was a slight, disheveled, scared sack of a man.

He hardly knew how to hold a sword. His arms shook with fright as he faced off against the shorter but much more composed Grimson.

“I give you the Coward Koylen of the Diplomats!” Antones yelled.

Murmurs swept through the crowd as gold coins were exchanged for betting purposes. The odds were clearly in Rirth’s favor.

Koylen pissing himself—a dark stain pooling between his legs—didn’t help his cause. “I-I’m not a coward, you bastard bloodies!” To his credit, he held his sword high, punching his fist at the people watching him and laughing.

In trying to find a reasonable opponent for Rirth to earn his freedom and respect, I had ordered Garroway to return to the Diplomats after he’d kidnapped Dimmon and rip sycophants like Koylen from their beds.

Koylen didn’t look so imposing or cutthroat now. Does Dimmon still “send his regards,” asshole? He seemed a scared boy. A stitch of guilt ran through me—

Just as Koylen ran at Rirth without warning, voicing a warbling battle-cry. He swung his blade in an awkward arc.

Rirth stepped aside, clapped the sword downward, and slid his blade up along Koylen’s edge to bite into his shoulder once their swords disconnected.

Koylen yelped and skittered back with blood spraying. Already the red drops trickled through the slats into the jailhouse below.

I could imagine the anxiety and energy pulsing through Koylen’s ill-equipped body. He was no fighter—he was a lackey of Dimmon’s prone to doing despicable things, if his leader was anything to go by.

My guilt flooded away, all signs of remorse leaving me.

Koylen charged the silent, sturdy Rirth again.

Rirth danced back from the clumsy swings, toying with his victim, and then went on the attack. Koylen gasped, reeling as he tried to fend off the strikes. More blood spattered.

Rirth wheeled around like a ghost, ending up behind Koylen. Vampires watching booed and hissed at the lopsided battle.

The Diplomat spun to try and meet Rirth’s blade—

Too late, as the Grimson plunged his sword into Koylen’s belly and ripped upward. The cracking of ribs and bulge at Koylen’s spine showed he was mere inches from being impaled.

When Rirth pulled his sword free from Koylen’s belly, a shower of blood and entrails spilled out.

Koylen desperately tried to grab at his steaming guts with a shriek, looking up in pale shock as he fell to his knees, then faceplanted onto the metal slats.

Rirth whipped his blade toward the ground, slashing blood off the edge, and sheathed it. He turned, faced me and Skar, and gave a small bow.

Skartovius stood. “You have earned your freedom, Grimson. Court? Bring the dead man to the table.”

Within minutes, Koylen was a splayed, broken-open feast for the vampires. Just like Kemini had been.

I did not look over, and tried not to worry myself with the outcome of the quick match. The Diplomats deserve this. Anyone who willingly associates themselves with Dimmon Plank deserves this fate!

I sang the mantra in my mind, even as Antones called forth the second battle. I sensed the vampires hoped for a more competitive outcome.

Not that they cared. Blood was blood, and now they were gorging themselves with slippery sounds and slurping from Koylen’s corpse at the corner table.

Tall, crude Culiar came next into the arena. He was my second champion, and I gave Rirth’s lover and brother-in-arms a tilted smile—a quick flash of acknowledgment—as he drew his sword and waited.

My smile disappeared, features hardening when his opponent came to stand in front of him in the pit, moving languidly and with a sneer on his scarred face.

Peltos of the Diplomats flared his nostrils at the dais, spat on the floor, and drew his sword. “You masked fuckin’ bloodies. And you call us cowards?”

Many vampires voiced their anger, yelling he should be flayed for his disrespect toward Lord Ashfen and the rest of the court.

Skar simply held his hand up to silence the crowd. “Let it be decided in the arena.”

Peltos’ jaw was misshapen from when I’d broken it years ago. I wondered if he was feeling as high and mighty as he had when Garroway and I met him to deliver explosives.

Unlike Koylen, he didn’t look scared—just righteously angry.

Championing my rape at Dimmon’s hands; doing the awful deed to a girl before Lukain sent him to his death on the Floorboards.

Please finish him fast, Culiar, so I don’t have to look at his ugly, despicable mug ever again.

Garroway should have done the honors years ago.

The battle was much more entertaining for our guests than Rirth’s match. Their blades clanged, sparked, and Peltos showed a surprising amount of resilience against the taller, more-skilled Culiar.

Their swords met in an X, faces inches apart, and Culiar reeled back with his longer legs to kick Peltos in the stomach.

I pumped my fist silently against my leg, watching Peltos stumble back. Culiar was on him instantly, giving his older former Holdmate no quarter as he waylaid into Peltos and earned a few deep nicks in the bastard’s arm.

Peltos spun out of the way, brought his sword down toward Culiar’s side, and I gasped—

Before Culiar twisted his body, effortlessly contorting his shape to avoid being skewered, and slapped Peltos’ sword away.

Their back and forth lasted three minutes. The boys grew tired. Peltos had more experience and skill than I’d given him credit for. I forgot he was once a Grimson as well—only a mere gutterboy Diplomat once he had nowhere else to turn.

My anxiety rose. Peltos was clearly tiring faster than Culiar because Cul had frequent training and more experience than his opponent.

A spurt of blood sprayed from Peltos, now a second wound showing on his arm from a quick flick of Culiar’s wrist and sword, to test his mettle. Peltos snarled and provoked Culiar with a gesture of his hand.

Culiar smirked, bent his knees, and lunged forward—

Wincing as his boot slid across a slick of blood on the floor from Koylen’s corpse.

Peltos took his chance, watching Culiar stumble. My former Holdmate and friend tried to correct his footing, aborting his charge—

But Peltos was on him. It sent Culiar sprawling onto his back. He stared up with wide eyes, seeing the blade descending, and rolled away—

Directly into the descending path of Peltos’ sword.

The grunt Culiar let out was from deep in his punctured lungs—a pained whimper mixed with a hiss of anger. Peltos let out a bellow of satisfaction as his sword drove through Culiar’s chest, past the slats, embedding in the floor.

Culiar’s eyes went wide, his mouth agape in shock. His body fell limp as his sword clanked onto the floor next to him. His head turned to the side, wide eyes gray and unseeing.

“NO!” Rirth screamed, breaking the silence in the room. He rushed forward from the edge of the pit—

Antones caught him by the waist and pulled back.

I jolted to my feet, stunned, unable to stop myself.

Skar joined me in standing, if for no other reason than to show solidarity. His hand slid behind my back, gripping tightly, as if warning me not to make a scene.

Peltos stumbled to his feet, wiped his sweaty face with a bleeding arm, and tossed his sword onto Culiar’s body. Slowly, he faced the dais. “Well? I’ve earned my freedom as well, have I not, bloodsuckers?”