Page 12 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

I’d agreed. Of course, I had. Fighting made sense to me then, still does. Just not weighted down by chains like I am. I might be mostly recovered, but I’m still healing. How is it I’m supposed to fight, and whom?

A young woman steps into the ring, answering part of that question, a pair of swords in her hands.

She’s grinning at me, vicious and eager, her dark hair shorn from one side of her head where a nasty scar tells a tale of a terrible wound that once scalped her.

But she’s lithe and fit, and she’s absolutely planning to kill me.

I have other plans.

She’s fast, I’ll give her that, faster than anyone I’ve faced in some time.

But she has a tell, a shift of one foot, before she launches herself at me with a flurry of sword-strokes, and I’m already dipping under her first, the chains my only weapons swinging forward from my hands as I clasp my fingers together and swing the full weight like a whip.

I clip her knee, making her stagger, but she recovers, coming at me again with that same impressive-looking barrage of sword strokes.

Ineffective, however, and meant to look the part rather than getting the job done.

I’m disgusted when I spin and again use the chain against her, the end coiling around her right wrist with a snap that breaks the bone before I jerk hard on her and bring her face-first into the sand.

She chokes on the grit, tries to push herself up, but I’m on her, knee in the small of her back, the chain now around her neck, tightening enough to cut off her breath. She claws at it with her one useful hand, wriggling and squirming for freedom.

Relentlessness is a weapon I’ve had beaten into me since childhood, and I will not give her a chance to try to kill me again.

When she drops, it’s at the edge of death, but not over the line of it.

I’ve had more than enough experience to know the difference.

It’s a calculated choice, but one I choose thanks to Onu and Carrigan’s explanations of this process, pressing hard with my knee instead.

The force pushes the last of her air out, encouraging her body to recoil.

When I stand, her lungs expand in a gasp to bring her back to life, if unconscious from the chokehold.

All the while, I’ve held Romouth’s eyes, since I knelt and chose not to kill, and now I do something I haven’t in a very long time. Not since I was young and challenged my mother after such a bout. It’s an old memory, something she used to do, laugh about, that her father taught her.

I stomp one foot in the sand and lower my chin, snorting through wide nostrils like a warhorse would.

“Next,” I snarl, that bit added on all my own.

Bring it fucking on .

Vunoshe’s beaming at me, turning toward Romouth. “There, you see?” He clasps his hands under his chin. “Isn’t she perfection ?”

“How much?” The woman’s tone hasn’t changed, but she’s no longer looking at me with curiosity, but with acquisitiveness.

If she’s impressed by that ridiculous show, this might be easier than I thought.

I pity the girl at my feet who’s just coming around.

Whoever trained her taught her to pretend to be a fighter, to show off.

She spent so much time proving she could fight to everyone around us that she fell too fast to someone with nothing to lose.

This might, in fact, turn out better than I hoped.

“A thousand gold ranan ,” Lhanin says.

Vunoshe gasps, turning toward the captain who’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the warrior woman. Her face has settled into mild astonishment, and it takes her a moment to reply.

“No one,” she says quietly, “not even the Sun God Himself, has paid so much for a gladatte .” She laughs then, deep and low, shaking her head. “I’m afraid, despite her skill, the Rae would not pay such a price.”

“Nor should she,” Vunoshe says, spinning on the captain. “It’s ridiculous .”

Lhanin is clearly trying to interfere with this deal. Why? Does he have his own in mind? “A thousand,” he insists, staring the slave masterre down. “Firm.” He shrugs. “I’d rather sell her for pennies to a brothel than take less.”

No, he has no other deal. He fully intends to do just that. He’s going to squander me, the money I could make him, all for vengeance and retribution.

Because this has nothing to do with me. He hates Vunoshe, blames him for more than just the treatment I’ve witnessed. Their animosity is mutual, and Lhanin appears to have finally found the means to strike where it will hurt Vunoshe the most.

Except, he’s getting in my way, too. And I won’t have it.

I don’t think about the consequences of my actions. There’s no contemplation of anything past the results. All I know is that the plan I have is the best option available to me, and the only person in my way has had this coming since we met.

My toe hooks the hilt of the girl’s closest sword and flips it up toward my hand, the spray of sand an arc that hasn’t reached the ground again before I’m leaning back, the well-balanced weapon launched toward the captain.

The point cuts through his throat with a sucking sound, the force of my throw driving it halfway up the blade.

He spins and stares at me, eyes wide, mouth open as though to protest this new development. But the thin stream of blood that spills over his bottom lip, staining the ring there before dribbling down into his beard, is all that answers his gurgle.

When he falls, it’s a slow and graceful collapse, straight down as his knees give way.

He’s dead before he hits the ground, the blade sticking out of the back of his neck propping his torso up when the point digs into the dirt.

He’s a broken puppet with his strings cut, limp and lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.

I exhale slowly, straightening from my throw, letting my arm fall to my side. It aches, but it shouldn’t, my muscles still weak. Not that I show it. Instead, I again stomp my foot, snort.

“Next,” I say.

Vunoshe stares at me with huge eyes. And now anxiety punches me in the chest. I’ve just killed one of my captors, murdered him in front of all of these witnesses. I was brought here to fight, but have I stepped over some line I didn’t know I shouldn’t cross?

Have I just signed my own death into being with that throw?

To the fire with it. My jaw tightens as I slowly twist the balls of my feet into the sand to ground myself deeper. If so, I’ll go down fighting.

“Vengeance claimed,” Vunoshe says abruptly. “Rendered on order.”

No one argues. I think he just saved my life.

“You intend to be less unreasonable,” Romouth says quietly in the silence of the circle’s watching crowd.

“Of course,” Vunoshe says, perking as though he hadn’t just been staring at me. “A mere four hundred gold ranan , mistresse . As you can see, she’s more than worth that price.”

He told Hanso he’d get as much. I don’t look away as she pays him without complaint or counter barter. Surely, that bodes well.

At least they don’t plan to kill me for the death of the captain. Vunoshe approaches me, two men coming forward to drag the poor girl I fought out of the circle of sand, the slave masterre beaming again.

“You’ve done me a great service today,” he says.

“Two, in fact. Not only did you just command the highest price of any gladatte ever sold, you took care of my other problem.” Two more men who look like guards are dealing with Lhanin’s body.

I don’t bother to spare the captain a glance.

“I was happy to return the favor.” So, he did save me.

But only for the payout, not for any debt owed me, regardless of what he claims. “Fare you well, my dear. I know you’re destined for greatness. ”

I lean toward him before he can retreat, smiling, and kiss his cheek. He’s surprised by the gesture, and when I pull back again, he’s staring with those wide, dark eyes again, fingers touching the place my lips landed.

“You might regret your choice,” I say. “I’ll see you again, Vunoshe.”

And smile at his terror. I make no move as he staggers away, hurrying off, looking back over his shoulder at me before he disappears into the crowd. I meant what I said, and I will see him again.

I’ll be the last thing he sees.

For now, I have other matters to attend. Like the giant woman who’s crossed the sand to me and observes me with a small frown.

“Either I’ve made the purchase of my career,” she says, “or the Rae is going to send me back to the sands for this. A gladatte who kills an owner, whether under order or not…” She sighs and tosses her hands. “I take it you had good cause?”

I nod. “I didn’t want to be a whore.”

She smiles. “You still are, though,” she says. “Of another kind.” Her dark eyes are my mother’s. “Your name?”

“Remi,” I say, surprised she asked.

“Come, Remi,” Romouth says, clearly having made some choice about me that satisfies her. “Time to begin your new life.”

It’s hard not to be hopeful despite the often false allure of that feeling, as I follow her out of the ring.

***