Page 21 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

My small satchel of belongings barely fills the gap under the bench where I sit, Brem on my right, Hloraine and Morinthi across from me as the wagon sways over the roadway beneath us.

I’ve earned a few trinkets and one substantial sum that had Romouth divvying up the extra to the rest of the fighters, kissing me softly on the forehead like a beloved daughter before handing me the pouch of ranan .

Ten gold coins, a fortune, I imagine, secreted away inside the satchel, shared with both Brem and the two fighters who have become a part of my days as much as my nights, for what need do I have for funds?

I might, when the time comes. But if Brem is correct, when I win—there is no if —and I’m free, I’ll be gifted with more than enough ranan to make my way home.

My deepest concern is the lack of contact with the dragon’s mind.

I feel her there sometimes, hear her humming in the background, but she doesn’t respond when I reach for her.

I grit my teeth against this feeling that she’s abandoned me to my fate.

She can’t help me now. What I do from here, I must do alone, and only when I’m free am I of use to her.

While maybe that’s unfair of me to lay at the base of her shadow, it’s hard not to let resentment bubble.

I instead lean into the now tight and terrible stable I’ve trained, their ease and confidence, while not entirely unfounded, likely going to get some of them killed.

I’ll deal with it before we go into battle, but for now, I let them have their renewed exuberance, their sense of camaraderie with one another.

The drama has faded into the past, their back-biting and complaints and petty squabbling no longer relevant.

And that is the true gift, I think, in all of this, that I leave behind.

I am grateful for the chance to do so.

They are no longer alone. They are an army of their own, and no matter what comes, they have learned that taking care of one another is vastly more important and in their best interest than turning on each other.

I’m tired of the forced inactivity, the end of our second day already a drain on my energy. I’ve spent most of it in a form of meditation, and though Brem might weep to know it, my main goal the last two days has been to reach Atlas and Zenthris so many miles away from me.

Failure will not break me, but it comes close.

We’ve plodded the cattle’s determined way through more fields of yellow crops, past small villages as colorful as the town we just left, stopping the first night at an arena designed almost exactly like ours, the masterre greeting Romouth with a hug and kiss she kept brief.

We were fed and housed in their spaces, though many of the men who called that place their home found themselves firmly rejected by the women of my stable.

In fact, when one tried to sneak into the room I shared with Brem, Hloraine, and Morinthi, he staggered off right after having his balls slapped so hard he could barely breathe through puking.

It didn’t help that we all laughed at him at his retreat.

Brem gently elbows me and nods over my shoulder, grinning as she does. “Look,” she says. “We’re here.”

I turn to observe our entry to this latest wonder, not expecting to be impressed.

I’d been so with the Overking’s capital of Winderose, but only because I’d been underexposed to such a large collection of buildings and people prior to that.

So, whatever this king who thinks he’s a god has in store for me can’t be all that different.

Brem anticipated my hanging jaw, my wide stare, her hand reaching up to close my mouth, my teeth snapping together as I realize just how wrong I am.

We’ve come around a bend, a shallow valley spreading out before the wagon, the road again running parallel to the river waters, that heavy greenery and humidity familiar by now.

But the collection of buildings and even the massive central structure of the Citadel at Winderose is little more than an attempt at grandeur compared to the vast, sprawling, and colorful world that stretches past the end of the road to the horizon.

“Welcome to the City of the Sun,” Brem says, giggling. “The Dominae of the Sun God.” She lets out a happy little sigh. “I knew you’d love it, Remi.”

Love is not the word I’d choose, my gut tightening into a knot. Overwhelmed, yes. Intimidated, absolutely. In love, well.

We’ll wait and see. But one thing is certain as we join a line of wagons heading for the perimeter of the first set of buildings that mark this strange, wonderful place, I’m playing too small.

If I’m going to win my freedom, I might have to rethink who I am if anyone is going to take notice amid this incredible and indulgent display of riches.

The scent of kurrie and other spices assaults me immediately, along with the heady fresh flatbread that goes with it, endless stalls selling all kinds of dishes lining the streets we pass.

This outer edge of the Dominae maintains the colorful choices of other towns and villages I’ve been through, though their embellishments are hammered copper and shining silver, while the periphery makes do with steel and tin.

Even the streets are golden, the stones beneath the pair of cattle who pull us perfectly fitted, swept clean of dust and debris, the main thoroughfare wider even than the one that leads to the parade at the Citadel.

The sounds, at least, are the same, so many people in such small spaces, talking and laughing and shouting and going on about their lives, overtaking me the same way Winderose did.

But there’s a joy here that I didn’t sense in the headland of the Overkingdom, an ease of being that my home lacks.

I know, of course, why it is that this city feels different from Gyster’s seat.

There is no stolen dragon magic tainting the very air, the soil and water and each and every soul, forcing a history that never happened.

I have to believe that same magic seeps some of the happiness from those it controls, because there’s no other explanation for why the Sunnish citizens feel free.

Especially when they are clearly not. I see more than enough proof of that on the ride to the center of the city as well, open slave markets in mid-bid, crowds coming and going around the offering of human beings for sale.

But when I observe a young woman being bartered over, I note the lift of her head, the proudness in her stance, and how she examines the man trying to buy her as much as he her before the sale is complete.

We’re going slowly enough that I am able to see her nod and accept him, even offering him a shy look after money changes hands.

So strange, this land, in its methods and beliefs, but I’m not here to judge them for their ways of living. I’m only here for one reason.

And that reason isn’t talking to me.

I’ve sufficiently absorbed the pulse and cacophony of the city’s edges by the time we clear the colorful buildings and enter a wealthier section, all of these tall, wide spaces cascading with greenery as though gardens grow from the very rooftops.

I note there are long pipes of clay and cement that run up the outside of some of them, emerging from the ground, and when we pass a sort of square, I see the same piping leading to a fountain that spews water into the air by some incredible feat of engineering I will likely never understand.

The squealing, mostly naked children who run through the spray don’t seem to care if they ever do or not, so I suppose it matters little.

Except that Atlas would be fascinated, and I’m sad I can’t share it with him. The mist that drifts over us from it is a welcome moment of cooling, and I’m smiling even as I fight tears at the same time.

Such dichotomy, Remalla.

There’s a large structure ahead, curved but open to the sun like the Dome of Women, if massive in comparison, so much so that we’re still a long way from it and it already dominates the view, towering over the golden city beneath it, squatting like a benevolent giant in the fading sun.

Here, everything is decorated with gold, though I doubt it’s real, likely some trick of paint or light.

Then again, for all I know, the Sun God really is that excessive and extravagant.

Were this Heald, the populace would have scraped the value from every crevice by now and laughed at my mother for her ridiculous choice in the process.

They honored her, yes, but this level of waste would have had her run out of Heald with her braids shorn from her head and her swords broken in dishonor.

We’re noticed as we rumble past, and when the first young man rushes forward, throwing something at the cage, I’m half-standing, reaching for a sword I don’t have access to, the habit of arming myself at the sight of a threat impossible to break.

Brem pulls me down as Kasha catches the bouquet of flowers, making a big deal of smelling them before blowing the young man a kiss.

He swoons into his friends, who all laugh and wave, and then we’re past them, more bunches of colorful, fragrant blossoms begin to rain down on us from overhead as well as from eager watchers on the street.

“They’re excited to see us fight,” Brem assures me with an easy grin, taking a flower herself from a brave woman who rushes forward and presses it against the cage.

My friend sniffs it before offering the full, purple bloom to me.

It’s sweet, almost cloyingly so, the pollen making my nose tickle.

“We’ll gain many favors over the next few days. ” She shrugs. “As long as we…”

Live. She doesn’t finish that because it’s an unspoken truth. All of the training and fighting and laughter, the mock battles and competitions we’ve endured against the few stables who’ve come to fight us, are only preparation for what’s really coming.

Death. Death is coming, and probably for many of the women I’ve come to call my family.

It’s no different than riding into battle, from the uncertainty of war.

I’ve done so year after year, campaign seemingly unending, lost friends and soldiers and whole companies to ensure victory.

This feels unlike riding off under the banner of Heald, though.

My army is so small, and each of them must stand alone, in the end.

I can’t dwell on it. It’s too painful to contemplate. And while it means I’m softer of heart, weaker in emotion if not in body than I was at the beginning of this whole adventure I find myself on, I don’t mind so much if it means I’m turning into someone worthy of the fate I’m told awaits me.

All I can do is fight. Death will not claim me, not here.

I will not allow it. But it does mean that it’s time to step up and claim my truth to ensure the best chance I have at winning.

I’m thinking about how best to approach that idea when we ride through gates into the massive arena, the layout uninspiringly similar to our own, if on a vast scale.

I can see there are tiers of fighting quarters, other warriors lining the balconies of the residential section on the far right, watching us as we pull in.

This place must house hundreds, and the arena itself will seat thousands, the size finally shutting down my ability to think as I look up and around and realize that I’ve underestimated the intimidation after all.

But not of the city itself. Of the thought of stepping out into that sandy arena under the scrutiny of all of the people who will fill the benches with their screaming, cheering and booing, and I shudder at the very idea.

Brem’s hand squeezes mine, nodding to me silently when I meet her eyes. She knows, she feels it, too, even if it’s clear to me she’s been here before.

And survived. We don’t all have to die, but they will have to concede or be spared to fight another day. I have no idea what to expect and brace myself for far too much loss, just like riding to war.

“You’re going to shine like a star,” Brem says to me, voice cracking a little as she blinks tears. “They’ll love you, Remi.”

They will. I must make sure of it.

Before we’re even stopped, I’m on my feet, heading for the end of the wagon and the cage’s exit. Romouth raises an eyebrow at me when I nod to her.

“I need to speak to you, mistresse ,” I say.

She leads me with her while the others are guided to the residences, Brem hesitant but going with the others while I stand in the shade of the massive walls and address Romouth.

“I haven’t been completely honest,” I say. “There are truths in my past that might be of use to us here.”

“You’re a soldier,” she says. “But more than that. I’m aware. You were a general, then, of the Healdian army?”

I shake my head at her, jaw aching from clenching my jaw. “I am Remalla, the War Queen’s daughter, true heir to the throne of Heald, and if they want a show, I’ll fucking give it to them.”

***