Page 25 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

I’m anxious to fight, far more so than I thought I would be, but I know very quickly why it is Romouth holds me in reserve, doing the same for Brem, too. The initial battles are a multitude of small skirmishes that take out the weakest fighters in a free-for-all that turns ugly very quickly.

I already know if I were in the middle of it, I’d be mowing through the fighters who desperately fight for their lives, shortening the show too much. As it stands, the hundred or so fighters who battle one another do so with unhindered aggression, and the sands are quickly bathed in blood.

The scent catches me off guard, as familiar as it is, the coppery tang in the air mixing with the sour bile spilled as gutted opponents spill their entrails on the ground.

More than a few of the combatants lose limbs in the first few moments of the headlong skirmish that breaks out when the announcer calls for them to fight, the tension of anticipation broken by a roar, while the men and women throw themselves into death and killing.

Even without the most skilled on the sand, it takes a surprisingly short time for them to whittle down to the top twenty or so, all of whom are declared safe and pulled out to fight again.

The crowd’s cheering shifts to chatter as the Dome’s workers come forward with small hand carts and shovels to load up the dead like so much cut wood or discarded stone.

When the sand’s been turned over again, the last of the blood vanished under the golden surface, only the stink of death remains to remind me that eighty people just died for the glory of the fucking Sun God.

I need to fight before I lose my mind.

That need is so great that I almost miss Kasha’s return, one of our fighters a survivor of the first skirmish. She hugs me, panting and sweating, blood on her face, but she’s unharmed.

“Made it,” she says to Brem.

“Well done.” Our leader nods to her with a grim smile. “Get food and drink and take rest while you can.”

Kasha nods, her silver front teeth flashing, before she hurries away to be hugged by the others.

“Death spared us this round,” Brem says.

Morinthi and Hloraine are in the next set of bouts, though this fight is smaller, the pair joining another four against six chosen by some grand design I’m not part of, and that Brem doesn’t explain to me.

Not that it matters. I can tell right away that our two are far superior and take the field easily, emerging victorious with two others, four survivors of twelve allowed to leave the sand.

The cleanup is repeated, faster than before, with only a handful of bodies to remove, and then another twelve are called up. Each time I watch our women fight, and each time they persevere, returning to us victorious.

I spot Romouth in the stands at the front, off to one side, with some of the other Dome masterre and mistresse , though the massive seating box at the front of the arena is still empty, the sun throne devoid of its god.

It’s not until the first full round of fighting is done, the bulk of all stables come together to cull them down, that trumpets herald the arrival of the ruler.

My position presents me with a good view of him, though again from a distance, his simple white robe trimmed in gold nothing special, the young woman and young man with him again.

He sits in the center throne, dark hair and skin matching the pair who sit flanking him, beneath him in height, gold climbing from all three seats like rays of the sun reaching for the heavens.

“Now the fighting really starts,” Brem says. “We’ll be called out soon.”

Because the fire forbid the Sun God waste his time on the death of a hundred and fifty warriors.

I’m going to be sick.

But I have to choke back my disgust. This is necessary. I haven’t come this far to fail. And the women I fight beside deserve my best, even if I’m already done and I haven’t even begun.

When Brem is called up to fight, she’s with three others, and I’m suddenly terrified for her. I needn’t be, of course. She’s magnificent, as ever, and when the fight is done, she stands alone on the sand, the crowd cheering her acrobatics and the death she’s delivered.

I’m next, I’m sure of it, though there’s a long pause when the announcer calls out the bout. I hear three names I don’t know, from places I’ve never been to my knowledge, before that hesitation is followed by, “Facing Remalla, Princes of Heald, War Queen’s daughter!”

My feet are moving without my consent, and I cross the sand to meet the other three fighters who are looking at me and each other in confusion.

The crowd has gone quiet, or is it just me?

My ears feel muffled, thick, tension in my head building.

And then the watchers roar, cresting in their screams at me, seeing the crown on my head, I suppose, the one etched on my chest.

I barely hear the order to fight, but I don’t need it, spotting my far opponent’s move long before he makes it.

He falls under my right sword, the woman on my left going down with that blade in her throat.

I’ve forgotten that I need to make a show of it and finally attempt it, offering up a flip as I double-blade my way through the final fighter in my way, landing on the sand with my swords dripping.

Their screaming deafens me as much as their silence did, and I salute them, blood droplets arching from the tips of my swords when I do.

I’m glad I got to fight in the Dome of Women, to experience this before I came here, to bear the weight that is their judgement, their praise, because I’ve already adapted.

As I take a moment, like Brem did, to accept their shrieking approval, I know that Vivenne would be so disappointed by this showy display I’ve adopted. She would hate the arena, the spectacle of it, school me to stay on target.

My mother… well, I’d already established what my mother would think, especially seeing me like this, crowned and flaunting it.

Somewhere, my mother is cheering .

I return to my stable, who are screaming themselves, hugging me, taking my blades to clean them for me, while other fighters take center sand and kill one another to the roaring of the crowd. Brem makes me drink, and I do, though lightly, and I refuse food, watching the battles instead.

There are four more bouts before Morinthi is called again, and while it’s a close thing, she wins her round, limping when she returns to us.

“I’m pulling you out,” Brem says, grim and shaking her head at the deep cut in Morinthi’s leg.

“I can still fight,” she wails. “I won’t dishonor us.”

“You did us great honor,” Brem says, squeezing her shoulder. “Dying would be worse.”

I agree and nod, kissing her to calm her before Hloraine hugs her, the others murmuring their agreement. Morinthi limps off with one of the young women to be doctored and watch the rest of the fighting from safety.

“I didn’t know that was an option,” I told Brem, though didn’t Onu suggest such?

“We don’t have to die,” she says with a hint of pride in her voice. “Wounding is a reason to exit honorably.”

And now I’m relieved, because it means that more of my found family might survive after all. Unless I’ve given them just enough skills to fight to the death.

I have to let go of this anxiety before it gets in the way of my victory.

Hloraine fights like a she-demon, no doubt in fury over Morinthi’s injury, and when she slices through a huge man wielding a heavy staff from neck to crotch, she barely pauses to accept the crowd’s adoration for her success before she retreats to us, ducking out to check on her partner.

All along, the Sun God seems uninterested in what’s happening in the arena, barely paying attention.

I can’t stop staring, fury rising in me when he samples tidbits of food and drinks from a cup that’s never empty, talking with people who come and go, important folk in expensive robes, one of them I recognize as Yiratille Rae.

While good men and women die beneath him, bleed and scream and breathe their last for his birthing day.

And he can’t even fucking pay attention.

I see Carrigan win his bout and salute him, though I note that Onu is clutching his side when he finds his own victory, the small warrior who stuck him with a dagger enough to make him concede. At least, I hope so, because I don’t want to watch the big man die.

I don’t want to watch any of them die.

Brem catches my hand, squeezing it, and I look down at her, knowing she’s going to chastise me for my anger. But she’s not looking at me, she’s staring out into the sand, and when I shift my gaze to where she stares, I’m too late.

Kasha is already going down. I catch a glimpse of her silver teeth flashing in the sunlight as her head spins away from her body, clean separation from a perfect slice through her throat sending her head spinning, vortex of blood flying out from the stump.

The slow, almost graceful arc ends in a thud, her body hitting the ground a second later—

— she’s laughing when the first bolt pierces her throat, cutting off the sound, blood pouring from the wound, one of her dark eyes punctured by the second, more blood running down her face as she falls slowly to the marble floor —

I jerk out of memory, Brem’s hand tight on my wrist, and I realize I’m lunging for the sand. But there’s nothing I can do for Kasha, for my mother, either. The fight is over, the carts come to take her away, a boy collecting her head and tossing it in with the rest.

“Remi.” I look down, but I’m shaking now, chest tight, stomach a knot. Brem squeezes my hand so hard my bones grind together. “Remi.”

I nod, swallowing the bile that rises, look away. “I’m all right,” I say. I’m not, though. Because my gaze goes to the man on the throne and finds him laughing.

Laughing, while Kasha died.

I know then and there, if I ever get the chance, I’m going to fucking eviscerate the Sun God, and let’s just see if the piece of shit reincarnates or not.