Page 19

Farron

T he chains are heavy on my arms, and I strain at the bindings. Cheers grow in intensity, and I know Dayton must be stepping onto the sand.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was I thinking, chaining myself to the wall? The only way out of this cell is closed now. If he falls in combat, there won’t be just one princely death.

I hear the clang of metal and more shouts as the battle outside begins. Closing my eyes, I listen to the sounds of the fight. I picture Dayton, the way he moved across the sands in that Sun Colosseum, his hair flying in golden waves. The grin spreading over his face as he swipes his sword.

Every cry from the crowd has my whole body shaking. I try to analyze what each cheer means. Surely, they must be rooting for their prince.

The blood rushes through my head and limbs, so hot I can barely think.

My wrists burn, my arms ache. The chains are welded to the wall, and no amount of struggle will tear them loose.

It happens so quickly, I almost don’t register it.

There’s a roar from the crowd that’s different from all the others, and then chanting, but I can’t make out the name from the ringing in my ears.

No… No.

My stomach twists. A stream of blood trickles through the crack in the wall and drips upon the floor.

I heave in great, gasping breaths. He has to be okay. He has to be…

Suddenly, the stones shift, and there is a silhouette standing there. And for one wild moment, I think it’s Aeneas, the first High Prince of Summer, for he looks so mighty. A prince of the arena.

But he steps forward, and the warm line of light illuminates Dayton’s face. His chest is splattered with blood.

He’s won.

And he didn’t wait a moment to bask in his victory on the sands.

He came to me.