Page 15 of They Call Me Blue

Instinctively, I rub at the square edges.

Even with the ossi powder, Stitchers have limitations, and sometimes our bodies reject the transplant.

It took six tries. six elves , before this operation finally took.

“No, Yaklan. This is a perfect fit. Maybe a bit too angular, but Sarvenna isn't complaining.”

Yaklan beams. “You know, she brought me an elf just this morning who has a beautiful nose… I think it would really match well with your face—”

“I like this one. My sense of smell is better with it than with any of the others I've tried.”

He lowers his voice so the others can’t hear. “Have you had a chance to test your new abdominals yet? I know the last pair . . .”

Wasted away because I haven’t been eating enough.

“Don’t worry, Yaklan. I’ll let you know if I’m having trouble.”

With a scalpel, the man is a fucking artist. He’s hand-carved each of my muscles to perfection—not just for the aesthetic but for the hunt.

And when the old muscles wasted away without warning, he didn’t ask questions, just fixed me discreetly from the privacy of his estate, my father none the wiser.

Yaklan has never asked why I only take transplants from wild-caught elves who haven’t been tortured or imprisoned.

Never pried into my ethical code of conduct.

Clearing my throat, I change topics. “Have you had any interesting surgeries this week?”

His entire demeanor changes, becoming livelier.

In big hand gestures, he discusses his most recent transplant and the complications involved.

I listen to him prattle on for far too long before the shrieking cry of a death whistle pierces the air, cutting off our conversation.

In an instant, the stadium goes quiet. Thousands of elgrew turn toward the octagonal arena where a lone mound of dirt fills the center of an empty field.

Bars of cold iron separate the lowest spectators from the fighting grounds, preventing the competitors from escaping or attacking someone in the crowd.

Matching cold-iron bars hide this year’s champions from view, storing them behind eight doors on eight sides of the arena.

A mottled gray elgrew approaches the dirt mound—one of the lead Bracers known for her grueling calisthenics and training regiments.

A clay mask with a wicked grin hides her features from view, but the way the mouth is curved amplifies her voice, projecting it loud enough so that all of us can hear it.

“Purples.” She nods to the lower class, all of whom sit at the upper levels of the arena, their mutilated violet skin marking them for what they are.

“Grays.” Her gaze drops a fraction of an inch to the middle and upper classes rich enough to afford skin transplants.

“Members of the Politic.” Her attention shifts lower, landing on our private balcony.

“I welcome you all to the nine hundred and twenty-seventh annual games.”

Cheers erupt. Hands wave high into the air, holding clay figures of this year's champions.

My stomach rumbles. My skin itches with the overwhelming need to be in that arena, fighting with them. Eight against one. All of them armed with knives and clubs. The fight would be more than fair, and I could finally fill this pit in my gut.

“Azerin says you never eat cooked meat,” Yaklan whispers, pulling me back to our conversation.

“No,” I admit. “The food in the mess hall is barely tolerable.”

He purses his lips as the announcer clears her throat.

“For the next eight days, our best fighters in Kariss will face off against one another for a chance at being crowned victor on Ring Day. Eight finalists. Eight matches. One winner.” The crowd goes wild, forcing her to pause.

“As always, there is to be no killing. When a fighter is done, they're to raise their sash in the air.”

Yeah, right.

Half the elves would sooner die than return to their Bracers—their coaches and masters—defeated.

“The betting is now closed for today,” she shouts. “Let the fighting begin.”

Thunderous applause rattles the stones beneath my feet as the Bracer rushes to take her spot in the stands, joining the other elgrew who've spent the past year—the past decade perhaps—teaching their slaves to fight. The Bracers all wear fighting leathers, the poorer ones concealing their purple and gray patchwork skin with longer sleeves than their wealthy counterparts. This event could change their lives, put them on a path toward the Politic if they trained the elf I’m meant to breed.

My fingers curl into fists. My father has told everyone I'll be choosing a myrie on Ring Day, which means I must choose.

I must.

I can't.

The iron gates lift. Eight well-fed and well-armored elves emerge from their cells with red sashes tied around their waists.

There’s only one female in today’s group—Brawler—with a bald head and thick forearms that look strange against her other, more delicate features.

Like all elves, she's pretty. If one can call chattel pretty.

I can't imagine her doing anything for my cock, though.

I keep silent, watching her long legs carry her faster than all her male counterparts.

As all eight of the elves run at each other toward the mound, she ducks and slides, kicking up a plume of dust. One minute, fists are flying, and the next, three of the eight elves are on the ground, silver blood spewing from the backs of their knees.

Brawler raises a small kitchen knife, kissing the blade as she faces the crowd. They chant her name, cheering her on, but my eyes are glued to the silver on her lips, pooling at her feet. Did she . . . bite one of them?

I can practically smell the tangy metal. My vision blurs, the hunger so great it’s hard to breathe.

I grab the sides of my ringing head and close my eyes, imagining the forest surrounding me, jumping over vines and leaves, running, feeding, losing myself to the chase. For a moment, I see Arden’s blue feet. I feel her pounding heartbeat as though it were my own.

“Lyrick, are you alright?” Yaklan’s face is nearly pressed against mine, his soft gray eyes boring into my soul. “Lyrick?”

“I'm fine,” I snap.

In the arena, all seven elves lie on the dusty ground, their sashes unknotted. Brawler beams up at the crowd, spinning in slow circles and flashing sharp, pointed teeth.

“When's the last time you had a proper meal?” Yaklan asks.

“I ate this morning.”

He puts his hand over my chest and tsks. It's only then I realize how long I must've zoned out. Neither Azerin nor Sorso are watching the match. Instead, they're watching me.

Great. Now I’ve made a scene.

“Do you know what happens when an elgrew doesn't eat?” Yaklan asks.

“We go feral.”

First, it's our bodies, then our brains. Instincts take over until we're no better than the verncats. If I don't breed someone, if I don't get out of here so I can hunt properly, there's a very real chance I may cease to exist. And no number of transplants will save me.

I cross my arms. “I'm fine. Really. It’s just a headache.”

But I think we all know that isn't true.