Page 54

CHAPTER 3

A fter the welcome ceremony, all groups were taken to their own, separate wings to get ready for the games. With little less than an hour to settle in before they were expected back onto the field, they had no time to lose.

House Staljord, who had sent twelve novitiates, was taken to the first floor, which they shared with House Gaeta, the barbarians, who had sent ten. Downstairs, House Novar was taken west, making them stay right below the northerners. House Akotan was taken east, and their eight novitiates didn’t hide their relief knowing that they were closest to Novar. After all, they had mostly fought together during the war, a given that had brought them closer together.

“Where is House Darmayar staying?” Astor asked the clerk who walked in front of them. The man, who seemed to be somewhere in his forties, wore a white toga with a broad golden border, making him look more like a priest of one of the temples they had built in Nethyr, than a university clerk. Perhaps he volunteered to aid the university at the beginning of the school year in welcoming its novitiates.

“Here we are,” the man replied instead, gesturing to a slave who was waiting to open the double doors for the Novarians. The woman pushed on the wooden panels that gave way with a tired sigh, revealing a sunny, open terrace. “Theós amores,” the clerk touched his temple with both fingertips, showing where his loyalty lied. “For our champions.”

Astor took in a few steps, then halted, taking in the space they’d occupied last year. “Home, sweet home.”

“Yup, frater , we’re back,” said Fabiano. They all followed him in, crowding the large, open terrace. Once everybody had made their entrance and the door was safely shut behind them, Astor clapped in his hands. All novitiates gathered around him. Slaves took that command to move back and stand against the wall, their shoulders heavy with suitcases and other travel gear that had been brought along the journey.

Astor tipped his chin to the place where they were standing. “Everybody. Here you are in House Novar. No one else comes in here but us. Blood-red and gold reigns here, do you all understand? This is a safe place,” Astor continued, ignoring how Cosmo rolled his eyes at that, and looked at the surrounding novitiates who all nodded their heads in agreement. “And there will come a moment this year that you will remember my words. Now…”

A loud bang on the door interrupted Astor’s speech and he frowned, annoyed, before he recognized the loud voice. “Novarians, the Nomos Doulos has been accepted. You have thirty minutes before the games begin!”

Astor chuckled inwardly. Their father really was everywhere. More importantly, he had managed to force the hand into their advantage, had granted Astor’s wish. That was…something heavy pounding in the pit of his stomach, making it clench with anxiety and excitement simultaneously. It was great news, but it also meant that he had to win today’s final game. Yet if he did…

How long before you’ve got him crawling on a leash?

Blood ran south with alarming speed, making his cock rouse. Medea, this was not the right moment. He’d first need to win. Vanity was a sin the goddess knew everything about.

Clearing his throat, he gestured with his hands. “Alright everyone, we’ve heard the man. Let’s get to it. Third and fourth years, find suitable accommodation to your right. First years, go with them and pick your room after your senior has chosen theirs. Second years, come with me.”

As the majority of novitiates turned to their designated side, Astor turned to Melas. The slave’s pale cheeks were flushed from exertion as he stood waiting with the pile of luggage Astor had brought for this year. “I’ll have the first room on the left. Get my room in order please, and fill the bath. I wish to have a quick splash before we start the games.”

He watched the slave bow, nearly toppling over the entire luggage, then stepped back to the main entrance to ensure himself that no one lingered with what little time they had.

Moving toward the cast iron balustrade, Astor took in a deep breath. He gazed over the entirety of the building, which was built in two wings that met each other right across from him where the athenaeum was situated, one of the few common grounds where all four nations would frequently spend time together. Five, he corrected himself, and he kept his unblinking eyes straight ahead as he looked at the study facilities that were situated right under the library. From their rooms, they had an excellent view of those shared spaces and they’d be able to keep an eye out for one another.

A valuable advantage.

“If there isn’t anything else you need from me, I shall leave you to yourselves.” The clerk stood left by the door, and Astor had forgotten that the man was still there.

“Sisto,” Astor said, when the clerk turned to leave. A few seconds passed as the man slowly turned back over his shoulder. “You never told me where the Damaryans are staying.”

The clerk shuffled on his feet, uncomfortable. Then he coughed politely, a hand in front of his mouth.

“Surely that can’t be a secret now, can it?” Astor’s voice softened. “After all, we are all going to be one, big, happy family at the academy, aren’t we?” When the clerk didn’t answer, simply stood there, gaze dropped to his own feet, Astor chuckled. “We are one, big, happy family here, right?” Their eyes met. “I’ll hide the blood very well.” He jutted his chin toward the door. “I won’t be needing your services right now. But stay around, will you? That might just change.”

His bath was ready.

Astor gave his bedroom an appreciative glance as he stalked over the threshold and onto the carpeted floors.

“Tell the slaves to check on the horses. Not you,” he added, brushing a hand over Melas’s arm as he passed him. “You simply give them my order, then come back here. You have exactly thirty seconds. I don’t have much time before I’m needed out there.”

Once he was alone, Astor took in a deep breath. It was good to be back here. His room was luscious, yet practical—a large bed with silken, golden sheets, a desk and chair for him to study in private. The ensuite bathroom was adorned with white and golden tiles, the large bath taking up most of its size. It was filled to the brim, vaporising with heat and incense that encompassed the unmistakable earthy, spicy and slightly sweet aroma of patchouli Astor loved so much.

It reminded him of home.

Behind him, the apparent footsteps of Melas as he came back from giving his orders, the apprehension in those soft thuds as he entered the bathroom. Astor turned around to face the boy, linking a hand through his unruly curls, enjoying how Melas flinched at the touch.

“They made quite the entrance, don’t you think? Those Damaryans.” He brought the boy’s fingers to his own back, where they started to unfurl the lace strings that kept the material of his shiny, black suit together. Melas didn’t answer, just focused on the job, lips tightly pressed together from the effort. And from their closeness. Because they stood so close their chests practically touched.

Astor grinned into the silence. “You know, I never wondered where you came from. How silly of me. But seeing that little display earlier…” Grabbing the slave’s chin between two thumbs, he forced him to look up. “All this time I had my own little Damaryan sitting on my lap.” He brushed a curl from Melas’s forehead. “Go and prepare my clothes for me, then come back here.” Digging his fingers a little deeper into the boy’s flesh, Astor’s eyes flared when he caught sight of the reddening skin. He pulled him closer, enjoying how Melas trembled in fear. “It’s been too long since you’ve had a bath.”

Barely an hour later, all novitiates of House Novar rode into the arena. Their travel clothes had been replaced by short, black training pants, and for some sports, like wrestling and throwing, that was all they wore. Astor and Cosmo also wore their blood-red cape, but it was just for the show. They’d remove it later and replace it with iron protection to keep them safe from flying spears and lances. Around them, the stands were filled with noble families from the five nations, the crowd cheering in support when all students made their appearance.

Once more the clerk took his role seriously by introducing each and every House officially, a useless gesture that was purely for the show. Astor guided his party toward the front centre of the arena, where all five flags had been placed in poles, left fluttering in the afternoon breeze. The weather was warm, the dry heat burned its way through layers of silk and metal fighting gear.

They bowed extensively to the regent of Novar, who sat tall and proud in the stands, accompanied by his wife, two daughters and son. During his life, The Prianos family had crossed paths with the regent many times.

“ It’s impossible to please the man,” his father had said many times. Astor couldn’t help but grin at the ground when he caught a whiff of the flowers the ladies threw at him before they got chimed by the regent. Flowers were for the victor, and to be thrown only after the games. Looking up, he flashed a sly grin at the girls, and threw a wink at the regent’s son Phoenix. He wasn’t that hard to please. Astor grinned at the flush on the boy’s cheeks.

Once they were led to their corner, Cosmo trotted around the group on his horse, a beautiful black Arabian who went by the name of Foniás, and gave their group instructions. “The equipment needs to match. Be careful who you wish to court. Don’t give away your strength too quickly, you have three rounds for any game. Let them come first, look for their technique, let them come, then strike. The third round will decide the outcome. Alright, let’s make this a day to remember.” He held his spear high in the air, tipping up his chin as the crowd cheered for him.

Like Astor, Cosmo had grown up in the army, the son of his father’s right hand. They’d known each other for as long as they lived, and were meant to rule the army in the future. His friend was infuriating, proud and loyal, and an absolute favourite in today’s games.

Looking up to where the Novarians were seated in the stands, Astor found his brother effortlessly. Like that, with his white cloak and braided hair, he really did look like Novar’s guardian angel. Whatever had happened that day, five years ago, had been impressive enough for Fabiano to change everything he had once been.

Around them, the other corners were filling up by Akotans, Gaetans, and Staljordians. The celebrations consisted of different games played in the countries that formed the Union. Amongst those was wrestling, throwing and riding, sports that were chosen by House Novar. The final battle of the day was decisive, the winner a champion, which was a great way to start the school year. And today that winner could choose the Nomos Doulos—the claiming of another person for a chosen time.

An ancient tradition that hadn’t been put in practice for a long time.

“We only have three sign-ups for wrestling, and the Staljordians are good in that department,” said Oreon, as they stood next to each other, watching the event slowly roll out.

“I can take Gaeta and the northerners in throwing, but I’ll probably lose against the Akotans,” Cosmo predicted. Astor hummed and stared ahead. “The rest shouldn’t be much of a problem, we’ll make sure of it.”

Before they could continue their conversation, two heralds rose and played their trumpets. The honking sound echoed through the entire arena, silencing the crowd and the novitiates, their nervous chatter dimmed in an instant.

There was an official welcome by all five country representatives, followed by an applause. Then the trumpets blazed once more, marking an end to all formalities, and the games officially began.

As predicted, Novar triumphed in the first round of wrestling, but had to accept defeat in the next two rounds. Unlike traditional rules, here at the academy they didn’t fight until death. Nor did they accept potential serious injuries, such as breaking joints or choking. Like everything else in the arena, from the way the family members in the tribune were dressed up in their nation's traditional clothes, rich with jewels and ink both on faces and body, everything was prepared for entertainment. A show. Its goal: to see and be seen. To hear and be heard.

To capture all the unspoken words.

From his seat on the wooden bench in the corner of House Novar, Astor observed the arena, evaluating the new Novarian novitiates and assessing their opponents. Multiple games were played at once, and the playfield was filled with horses and students, with balls and wooden bats.

They represented blue and yellow, black and silver, blood-red and gold, and muddy brown. Astor’s gaze turned toward the other corner of the stadium, diagonally opposite from theirs. The green and metallic flag fluttered lonely in the wind, the bench empty. Once more, Darmayar hadn’t shown up, or they had decided to come late. Regardless, the compartment in the stands on their side was void of people, the seats empty. It seemed no one had come from the country of the mystical forest on the horizon. It made him feel strangely disappointed.

On their own side, the crowd was rowdy. Novarian noble families who resided in Nethyr had shown up in full ornate, wearing blood-red and golden capes, feathers and short skirts and open tops. They were an idle nation who spent a great deal of their time scarcely dressed. It was tradition.

Astor turned over his shoulder and peered up to glance at his fellow countrymen, chest tightening with pride. They really were a superior nation, the men adorned with richly decorated capes and brooches, the women with gowns that emphasized shapely legs and generous chests. Jewellery flicked in the September sunlight, and slaves hurried around, serving refreshments on large platters. Bowls of freshly cut fruit and decanters with the typical fruity rosé Novarians liked to drink during festivities, were being served. Other slaves were kneeled in front of their owners, used for pleasure or simply to pose drinks on.

A first year Novarian threw his spear in the middle of the large round target, claiming his throwing victory. People raised from their seats like a fan being pulled out, throwing up their hands in the air as they waved their blood-red handkerchiefs in praise.

“ Iteres Novares !” They shouted. It was a phrase that would be heard many more times in the hours to follow, because they also won the second part. Time went on, and it was on their side—but from experience, the hardest part was still to come. The Akotans might have been good with boats, but they missed the speed and flexibility Novarians had in most of the games. Astor was practically sure that they’d only signed up for the spearing contest after having noticed how many first year Novarians participated at the game. No real competition, they’d thought. He glanced up at the two remaining Staljordian novitiates who were still seated on their horses, their silvery armour shining in the brilliant sunlight as they let their horse trot back to their side of the tribune, shoulders slumped.

He wanted to tell them that there was no shame in losing to Novarian nobles. That they would have lost regardless, because Novarian victory was written in the sky.

It had been decided by the gods.

But that would be a lie. Because they hadn’t won that day, five years ago, when the barbarians brutally invaded their territory, leaving a trail of violence and despair as their army crawled up through the Kyknos , the deserted sands of Novar. As if it happened yesterday, he remembered how those two messengers had arrived at the gates of Grerachi, Novar’s capital city, on that, early morning. Covered in fine dust, their once black suits faded into the daylight. Somehow, they had escaped the attack that had taken place in the south, where an army the size of 30,000 soldiers had invaded their lands. The barbarians had killed the small delegation of soldiers who had served as land posts, marking the beginning of Novar. Being stationed all the way south was a disgrace for any soldier, the task usually given to those who had badly violated the rules.

People said that down there, everything turned to sand. Your vision, your thoughts, even a man’s hearing. There was nothing but the blowing sand, the eternal plaything of the breeze. And silence.

Astor had wondered what it must have been like for those outcasts of society to have been stationed there, senses muffled by sand, only to catch sight of an uprising army on the horizon.

His gaze drifted to their southern neighbours. Gaetans had absolutely no taste. Their men kept their heads shaved, their shiny skulls a disgrace for the pleasant late summer weather, their clothing a pallet of dull brown and orange. The women wore their short hair hidden under capes, their faces void of any paint. They carried that, unfavourable, shapeless garment and managed to stand out against the colourful elegance that was Nethyr.

By the time the sun was slipping further south, they’d nearly reached the end of the day. The barbarian novitiates looked worn out, with some of them even going as far as sagging forward onto their horse, visibly waiting for the competition to finish. They had played well, even Astor had to admit that. Still, his fingers itched to fight them, to hurt them. He wanted to raise his shield and lance and breach the defence of their jousting knight.

They wouldn’t though, he knew by now. Joust. They didn’t sign up for the decisive game of the celebrations. Probably because they knew they didn’t have what it took to beat Astor. The useless cowards. And since these games were labelled as friendly matches, signing up was entirely voluntarily.

“We’ll make them pay one way or the other,” Oreon muttered, eyes caught in the same direction as Astor. He always seemed to know what went on in Astor’s mind. “Once their kin leave south and the doors to the basement open, they’ll be ours.”

Astor didn’t reply, lips pursed into a fine line. How he hated them.

“Ready?” Cosmo approached on his stallion, a beautiful black hothead that matched his owner’s character.

“You already done for today?” Oreon pointed at his clothing. Oreon had already changed his fighting suit for the traditional Novarian warrior gear. His bare chest glimmered in the light, as did the golden brooch that kept the sides together on his right shoulder. His hair was a dark wave of curls, brushed back and tied in lint, and his eyes flashed mischievously. “I’ve come to watch the show. I heard it’s going to be a good one.”

Astor snorted, but it was Oreon asked, “What do you mean?”

Cosmo shrugged, but the mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away when he said, “I’ve heard that Akotan won’t joust.”

“They won’t?” Astor pinched his eyes in confusion. Around them, the audience got more cheerful and louder, a clear result of impatience infused by alcohol. He suddenly realized that the games were being delayed, that the gentle breeze and the change of colour in the sky were both an indication that it was getting late. They should have started by now.

“If Akotan doesn’t joust, then who does?” Across from them, the barbarians had dismounted their horses, and as they used wet cloths to wash their sweaty heads and faces, their stable boys tended to the horses. They were clearly done for the day. Astor grimaced at the sight, huffing out a grumble when Cosmo let out a laugh.

“They’re disgusting,” he groaned, yet somehow he couldn’t take his eyes off of them. Couldn’t understand how on earth this nation had been able to draw their swords against Novar and had managed to cause such grief.

“Astor—” Oreon began, but it was Cosmo who finished the phrase.

“Remember how I did you a favour by bedding Astrid when you were too…busy with other things?”

Oreon snorted, but Astor’s gaze turned sharp. He remembered. “Yes?”

“I am asking you that favour in return today.”

Astor noticed how his friend’s lips were pressed tight and his eyes narrowed. He looked nervous. “Which is?”

“The Nomos Doulos.”

“The…” Astor halted, puzzled. “Why?”

Cosmo swung his head around, curls bouncing across his square jaw until his eyes landed on Melas, who stood against the stone wall with cast-down eyes, his transparent, light garment a stark contrast to the darkened wall of the arena.

“It’s only your own fault that your own father wouldn’t allow you to bring your pleasure slave here,” Oreon chuckled. “You practically broke the poor guy. Now you want Astor’s?”

Cosmo ignored him, his pleading puppy eyes on Astor. It was difficult not to laugh. They were best friends, Astor would do anything for him, and Cosmo knew it. Still, Astor felt like he had missed something here. When no unspoken questions were answered, he shrugged.

Cosmo’s smile turned wider. “Is that a yes? Please say it’s a yes. It’s not Melas I want.”

“Who is it that you want then?” Astor asked, but when Cosmo begged him with those puppy eyes, he huffed out a laugh. “ D’acc . I win, and you do the claiming. And I will get to ask you countless favours this year.” He wiggled his brows at Oreon, who snorted.

“Choose wisely, because Astor’s father made this happen and his honour is on the line with all the noble families present today,” Oreon added with his usual serious tone. “Oh, and—” He grabbed Cosmo’s shoulder before he could ride away. “For the love of Medea, bring them back in one piece. We have a reputation to uphold here.”

“ Si .” Cosmo gave him his boyish smile, making Astor grumble, as his horse Foniás bristled and scraped one of his legs into the sand with that similar, unmistakable arrogance before they trotted toward their side of the arena.

“We will now start with our final and most important game,” said the herald at last, and he took out their flag. “Of House Novar, we present Astor Prianos, our current champion both on and off the battlefield!” The statement was met with loud applause as, once more, Novarians raised like an unfurling palm leaf, blood-red and fluttering in the tensening air.

“Good luck, champion,” Oreon called out, but Astor ignored him. It was time. Closing his eyes, he inhaled sharply, feeling his chest expand. Surrounding noises dimmed as his own awareness grew. Despite the growing inner peace, his stomach coiled with anticipation, an unfamiliar sensation he both cherished and loathed.

Focus.

Determination.

Confidence.

He could practically hear his father bark the words.

He brushed Kallisto’s head, and mumbled, “Let’s do this, baby girl.” Pressing his knees into the flanks of the mare, they came prancing forward. They made their way toward the center of the arena, where a stable boy passed him his golden helmet. Astor put it on, clicking the visor shut before taking hold of the shield that was blood-red with gold. The sound resonated through his thudding heart, and he could feel the puff of his breath within the restrained metal space, together with the steady pace of his chest. His fist gripped tightly around the lance and he let the mare move to an elegant piaffe. Standing in one place, she raised her front legs high, a sight cast in perfect harmony when Astor raised his own hand and pointed his lance toward the sky.

“ Iteres Novares !” House Novar cheered for their champion—an amazing feeling, though gone too fast, replaced by a silence that turned expectant the longer it drew out. Something was missing. They were in their finest clothes, were seated in the arena, had their refreshments, their champion. But there was no one there to fight him.

Astor looked around, and his mare was becoming restless, most certainly catching on to his own agitation that radiated out.

The bright blue sky had been replaced by a darker shade, and though it was far from sunset, they had passed the bright afternoon light.

There. Finally, there was movement. And a sound, warm and rusty, like a horn that was blown, the notes not exactly hit. It was brief, but caused people to stop in their tracks and lean in, curiosity peaked.

Through the tunnel came a lonely rider, dressed in green and metal. His horse was white, the reins a smooth caramel colour that matched the insignias that were carved into the shiny material around the rider’s throat. He was too far for Astor to read what they said. Still, he astonished himself by wanting to catch sight of it in the first place.

Around the rider’s slender shoulders waved a white, furred cloak that reached to his knees, smoothly blending in with the white colour of the horse.

When he reached the stable boy, the rider shimmied out of the garment with a graceful shrug and exchanged it for the golden helmet.

With a single click, the visor shut. He didn’t put it on. Instead, he grabbed the lance, approaching in a lazy stride, until he reached the centre of the arena.

Astor swallowed. His rattling heart confirmed what he’d thought. It was the boy from before. The one who’d stood in the middle during their introduction. The one he’d locked eyes with.

Something thundered inside him at the sight of that glorious, golden sweep of hair and that intangible face.

Beautiful, he was so beautiful.

“Frater,” came his nickname from the stands. Voice clear as a bell, an appearance that matched that purity, and he looked up to his baby brother.

Angelus est Albus.

I’ll fight for you all, he thought. I’ll win the fight we should have won five long years ago.

Astor cleared his throat, his mind swiftly back to that spot of mindfulness his father had so carefully drilled into his younger self.

Focus.

Determination.

Confidence.

This was a show to expose supremacy. To show their entire world who would rule again, never ever to falter again, in the future.

“Fighting for House Damayar, is Illias Mothvora.” The silence that followed was so thick that even the wind couldn’t blow it away. It lasted for two, three seconds. Then he added, “Right now, gentlemen, the stage is yours. You have three rounds. May the best knight win.”

The crowd erupted.

Astor tipped his chin to the crowd, dipping his metal gaze in acknowledgment when the daughters of the regent threw more flowers his way.

At your service.

“The crowd wants some real entertainment!” Someone called out, the shout followed by more cheers. Cosmo, that fucker.

Kallisto whinnied in reply and Astor pulled the reins, lifting his lance one last time in a visible challenge toward his opponent. Taken by the rush of the moment, he tilted his head and eyed the clear sky. “Let’s show this crowd some real entertainment!”