Page 15 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

Prenese the armorer’s eyes barely reach my chin, the hunched and wiry old woman squinting at me like I’m some puzzle she needs to sort out, her silver hair cropped close to her scalp that she rubs incessantly as though trying to wipe some memory from her mind.

“Tall but not tall,” she mutters as she thinks out loud, “broad but shapely.” I’ve never thought of myself that way, though I suppose she’s right, despite what the sailor who planned to rape me thought.

No one’s ever complained that my breasts are too small, nor my hips narrow, my waist the smallest part, usually bound tight by leather under my armor.

I don’t have my mother’s physique—or my father’s, for that matter—whatever drakonkin heritage I have from him stopping at his eyes and from her, well.

I’m much more like her mother, my grandmother, and my aunt in stature than anyone.

Comparing myself to Vivenne these days still stings, but it’s the truth, and I know better than to look away from honesty.

Prenese snaps her fingers, the small woman spinning, one shoulder hunching sideways as she hobbles quickly across the armory and lunges for something that she brings back to me.

I’ve been standing here for several minutes, entered her domain just minutes before that, already planning to tell the mistresse of this part of the arena what I need from her.

Only to be silenced immediately, grasped and pulled into the center of the room, enduring her prodding with sharp fingers, her muttering and measuring, all without being acknowledged as a person at all.

I’m a statue for all the attention she pays me, and I quickly fell quiet, bemused by her studious focus and seeming inability to register that I’m speaking.

She tries to fasten one of those ridiculous girdle belts around my waist, the ones I’ve seen some of the others wear.

It’s barely a length of thick leather with a buckle, a few more strips hanging ineffectually from it with large, metal bolts decorating the edges to hold the silly bits down.

I’m inhaling to tell her absolutely not when she tuts softly under her breath and retreats with a frown, shaking her head.

“No, no, too common,” she says, “too ordinary. You need remarkable for this one, Prenese, individual.” She turns away from me, her continuing chatter to herself including addressing herself by name, which is how I know what to call her.

I try again despite my failure previously. “I want a full suit—”

She tosses the girdle and hefts a shield before dropping it and turning toward a cabinet that she jerks open.

Out she pulls a handful of more leather, dyed dark red, like the tunic Vunoshe dressed me in, though I’ve chosen to adopt the pale, bleached fabric of the short one that was left to me in my quarters.

It barely skims mid-thigh and is open at the throat, exposing my arms completely, but I understand the reasons.

It’s hot already, despite the shade in the arena, and once the sun crests the edge of the Dome’s open roof, the interior will turn sweltering.

I have to adapt to that, too.

Prenese hurries to me, tugging on one of my feet to make me lift it, like a horse in need of a hoof trim.

I do as she instructs with a sigh and a hand toss, because she’s not going to relent, that much is obvious.

Once I’ve stepped into the leather, she slides it up my legs to my hips, settling the band at my waist, cinching it so tight I feel like Gorgon for certain, grunting at the pressure of the wide leather belt.

I’d have preferred full leggings for protection, but while these leather bottoms cut off just below my crotch, they at least form a sort of short protective layer, almost an undergarment, but thicker and sturdier.

At least I won’t be flashing my pussy to the crowd when I kick someone in the face. This is a different kind of show I’m part of, after all.

The top she forces over my arms laces at the back, pulled tighter than any corset, and I’m struggling to breathe until the leather warms and then eases its grip, molding to me.

Now I understand her methods and relax into it, though I’m still unsatisfied with the result.

How am I meant to shield my waist or lower back from stray blade edges with my midriff exposed?

And while the vest-like top cups my breasts firmly enough, it’s so low that I’ll be giving watchers a flash of my areolas if I lift my arms too high. Which I’ll be doing frequently.

“No,” I say, scowling at her as she spins me around with firm, strong hands despite her size. “this won’t—”

“She won’t hear you.” I look up in surprise to see a stranger watching. She’s tiny, the smallest warrior I’ve ever seen, barely bigger than Apple, but carries herself with an aggressive strut that she deploys when she approaches me. “Prenese is in her own little world, aren’t you, armorer?”

The hunched older woman ignores us both, standing back to observe me before hustling away again, rooting around for more things to drape about my person in this ridiculous farce.

“How do I get proper armor, then?” I ask that with more forceful annoyance than perhaps is wise, but I’m frustrated now.

The small woman shrugs, heading for a rack at the far end of the room.

She casually discards her tunic, nakedness quickly covered with a short, leather dress, her long, black hair bound by a length of dark cloth.

She ties it off, her hands fast and sure, draping a portion of it over her shoulder.

Despite her small size, she’s superbly muscled and proportioned, and I’ll choose not to underestimate her when we face off in the ring outside.

“If you find out,” she grimaces at me as she carries on dressing, “do let me know. I’m Brem of Olshed.”

“Remi of Heald,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest when Prenese rushes at me with more leather in her hands. “No,” I snap, glaring. “No.”

She blinks at me in surprise, stopping in her tracks. Looks at me for the first time. “Yes,” she says, holding the pieces up. I have no idea what they are for, but she’s not going to take my no for an answer and lunges for me yet again.

Brem giggles, an oddly youthful sound, binding her footwear to her feet with those long, leather straps. “Told you,” she says.

It turns out the bits are meant to wrap around my biceps in brutally tight and winding decoration, and when she forces me to stand on the soles and straps me into them, I’m complete, I guess, because Prenese turns her back on me and goes back to the hammering, cutting and sorting she was doing when I first entered.

I splutter at her because this is ridiculous, but Brem’s tight grin has me sighing. “I can’t fight like this,” I say, flapping my arms, the straps flailing around.

“You look pretty,” she says with a shrug.

“Any good opponent would use these to pull me off balance.” I tug on the ties.

Brem’s low laugh has my attention. “You’re too worried about it, I think,” she says, dark eyes twinkling. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the others. Then we’ll see what happens.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Fine. But I don’t have to like it.

It’s clear when I enter the ring that I’m not the only one who’s been forced into this indignity, though everyone else—including the women I met last night—fared little better than I have, if not worse.

It was Morinthi who I’d seen yesterday when I’d arrived, dressed in that fluttering nonsense the so-called armorer tried to dress me in first, though it looks good on her, if offering zero protection whatsoever.

I’m sour thinking they most likely dress the men in more appropriate attire, and now I’m really ready for a fight.

Partly too because I’m not unconscious of the watchful looks of the other women, how they observe my approach with Brem, the mix of careful observation and outright distrust a sign of that drama that Hloraine had brought up.

I don’t need them to be friendly. I just need them to stay out of my way, and the mood I’m in should tell them that just from the look on my face.

“This is Remi,” Brem says, gesturing at me before carrying on past the others, heading for the far end of the ring. “Play nice.”

I follow in her footsteps, nodding to the two women from the night before who fall in next to me, letting everyone else trail after us.

I’d guessed correctly that the dozen of us make up the full complement of the Rae’s stable, though I wasn’t expecting to find the smallest and least impressive-looking of the group is the leader.

Brem is that, no question, handing out weapons from a large wooden chest she flips open with one hand.

I step aside and let everyone else receive theirs first, wanting to know what I’m up against. I’m trained in dual longswords, but I’m hardly restricted to that kind of combat, eyeing the long whip that Morinthi favors, a good choice for her height, though I wonder why she chooses to pair it with a tall spear with a wickedly curved blade at the tip and a weighted, blunt ball on the other.

Hloraine hefts a short, wide-bladed axe, a long, narrow shield bound to her left arm, two daggers, one for each leg, tucked into the calf straps.

Others choose short swords, another a net and a short spear, the woven material weighted with chain links and barbed spikes on the four corners.

I do note there are no distance weapons, but what we could throw of the hand-to-hand offerings, which makes sense.

The crowd no doubt would be at risk even if one of the gladatte didn’t try to kill them, a stray arrow lost control of in the middle of a fight a death sentence.