Page 47 of They Call Me Blue

“A Karesai’s appointment is not guaranteed.

At the inauguration, if a member of their caste finds the candidate lacking, they may challenge them in combat.

If the candidate wins, they join the Politic.

If they fail, they die. Although this tradition is long-standing, it is rarely witnessed.

Only four Karesai have been challenged before, and only one has failed. ”

—A Brief History of the Traditions and Customs in Kariss

I don’t have to be here—in this glassy, sunlit palanquin that reeks of the feminine oils Chalk used to wear.

I could be in the forest hunting Arden, sinking my teeth into her supple flesh like I did in last night’s dream.

Venom pools in the back of my throat at the prospect, my cock twitching to life. And I curse myself for it.

I’m not attracted to those creatures.

That dream meant nothing.

Our kiss wasn’t real.

But I can still taste her tangy blood on my tongue, can feel her pulse flutter at my touch. Mine . Every inch of Arden belongs to me, and fuck, were I not a better man, I might take advantage of that. Use her. Breed her. Take her as the myrie my father’s always wanted.

But I’m not a sadist. I’m not like him.

“What are you thinking about?” Azerin asks.

He sits across from me in the palanquin, on soft blue cushions the same shade as Arden’s flesh.

The warm sunlight gleams in his silver-amethyst eyes, illuminating an indigo suit that’s freshly pressed.

Like me, he wears a crown atop his head, but this one is metallic and blue, made from cold iron, extracted by the slaves he keeps.

We’re too close to one another. Sitting crisscross and face-to-face, our knees nearly brush.

“I’m thinking about the inauguration,” I lie.

He sees right through me. “Not the breeding ceremony after?”

Azerin arches a brow, and I lean back, folding my arms over my swamp dog armor—the tunic clinging to me like a second skin. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Thankfully, I sound more confident than I feel.

“Brawler is a good match for you,” he says. “And it’s just for tonight. Once she’s pregnant, you won’t have to touch her again.”

“I know.” My lips form a hard line, a vein pulsing in my jaw. Outside, orangeleaf trees rustle in the breeze. Grasses bend and flatten as Prowler weaves through them, following at our side—he’ll give up soon. My verncat never crosses the city walls.

Our palanquin dips and bobs with the slaves’ choppy movements, and I half-expect Azerin to lecture them, but he’s thoroughly distracted, staring out the glassy panes as well.

“What are you thinking about?” I counter. It’s rare to speak with him alone—no babes, or myrie, or Karesai to intrude. When I was a child, he’d always make time for me—the way he’ll no doubt make time for Tyla now—but it’s been years since we had any extended privacy.

For a long while, Azerin says nothing—the silence punctuated by the slaves’ thudding footsteps and the palanquin’s groaning metal frame.

“Sorso. He’s going to be a problem for us.

” Azerin strokes his chin in the glass’s reflection, not turning to face me as we approach the city’s towering silver walls.

Half as many Butchers as normal pace the ramparts, their arrows fixed on the forest. As predicted, my verncat halts at the portcullis, resting on his haunches as we pass through the darkened tunnel.

“Giving him Chalk was a bandage, not a solution,” Azerin adds.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “I didn’t rape his myrie—he has to know that by now.” Much to my annoyance, Colette’s made a point of telling every Karesai what happened at the training house. “Fuck, when Conrin tried to put his hands on her, I’m the one who stopped it. Sorso’s a lunatic.”

We emerge on the other side of the glittering, bloodstained walls into a city half-abandoned. Empty storefronts. Deserted sidewalks. By now, almost everyone will be in the arena, finding seats and placing bets with Bracers.

“Do you know how our species came to be?” Azerin asks.

My brows furrow. “Where are you going with this?”

“Answer the question.”

“We were originally the offspring of wood nymphs and elves. Why?”

“Because we inherited traits from both species. The bite, for example—that’s a wood nymph trait. We use it to keep tabs on our pets, but to wood nymphs, biting was seen as an intimate act between monogamous pairs—mates, they called it.”

“And what does this have to do with Sorso?”

My father lifts his hand, silencing me. “Mating pairs were incredibly rare. Yaklan’s research suggests they were drawn together like magnets.

The bite could link them emotionally, mentally, and physically.

Sometimes, we experience that too. Yaklan with Vera.

Me with your incubator. Sorso with Spirit.

It’s not romantic. It’s possessive and consuming and clouds our judgment. ”

I swallow. Mate. Arden. Mine.

It feels so right. Like an answer to a question that I didn’t know to ask.

The words threaten to flow out of me, but I hold them back and wait for my father to finish parsing through his thoughts.

No one ever speaks of the wood nymphs—not since we exterminated them a millennium ago.

And I know, without him ever having to say it, this is a conversation that can’t be repeated outside of the Politic.

Somehow, for some reason, they’ve managed to hide the existence of these bonds from the general public.

“It’s difficult to explain a mate to someone who hasn’t had one before, but when someone else touches them—marks them—it’s unforgivable. Sorso will keep coming for you, and you need to be prepared for that. I’m concerned he’ll have something planned for the inauguration.”

I snort. “Sorso’s not a Hunter. He can’t challenge me in the arena. And he’s not stupid enough to plot an assassination.”

“Don’t underestimate him, Lyrick. He’s a dangerous enemy to have.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.”

The unwashed masses gather outside the arena for blocks, the crowds overflowing onto rooftops, alleyways, and the main thoroughfare.

Most are purple skinned, but a few grays try to elbow their way to the entrances and get shoved back like anybody else.

On Ring Day, arena seats are first come, first serve—no longer divvied up by caste.

Unlike the Gambling Block, the crowd parts for our palanquin—for the Grand Overseer.

My father basks in the attention, waving to his subjects and grinning wide.

They cheer for him, perhaps for me as well, and a nervous lump settles in my gut.

Still, I force the obligatory smile to my face and mirror my father.

They’re my subjects too, whether I want it or not.

Dirty, deformed faces smush against the glass, trying to get a better look at us.

Children’s lumpy hands press up to mine, smudging the panes in snot and gods know what else.

All around us, green confetti floats from the sky—remnants of betting slips that land on the litter, on the pavement, and on the slaves who carry our palanquin.

Our elves are the only elves in sight—all the others will be in daycare centers at the Butcher’s Block, so spectators can take the day off without risking an uprising.

We keep a slow but steady pace toward the arena’s entrances, giving everyone a chance to greet us.

Mixed-skinned Bracers pace along the perimeter, clad in fighting leathers, hefting wicker baskets filled to the brim with betting slips.

Peasants approach them, shoving more in, losing even more money to my father’s rigged game.

Idiots.

“You should enjoy this,” Azerin says through his smile—serrated teeth on full display. “This is the perk of being a leader. They worship you.”

But I don’t want to be worshipped. I want to be free.

I keep those thoughts to myself as we pass beneath one of the arena’s grand arches.

The Butchers guarding it, holding back the crowd, part for us without so much as a command.

My father rarely needs to order anything.

They anticipate his movements. They exalt him as if he were a god.

Three hundred years of leadership and he might as well be one.

Generations of elgrew have come and gone, but my father remains as young and powerful as ever, thanks to the Stitchers.

The purples will be lucky to survive to forty.

A consequence of their malformed bodies and failing organs.

“Talin would be proud of you,” Azerin whispers, low enough to be unheard above the roar of the crowd. “I wish he could be here to see it.”

I try to swallow the ball of emotion wedged inside my throat but can’t. Me too.

Head held high, I remind myself of the crown I’m wearing and who I took it from. Korun is dead, and now I’m in charge. A fanatic. A heretic. For the first time all morning, a genuine smile spreads from ear to ear. Talin would be proud—of that, I’m absolutely certain.

“A-zer-in! A-zer-in! A-zer-in!” The arena booms with the force of our people’s chanting.

Eighty thousand elgrew fill every seat, the heat of the afternoon sun boring down on them, baking their skins until they’re sheeny with sweat.

Malformed children wave sports paraphernalia high into the air—plushies shaped like biceps, flower crowns made from kissy lips, ceramic teeth, and a dozen other objects to represent their favorite fighters.

There are so many purples, I have to squint to find the grays.

Our slaves carry us to the heart of the arena through a cold-iron gate that has their muscles quivering and the box rattling, but they don’t let us drop—not even when their eyes bleed.

Well trained, just like all my father’s pets.

I don’t want to think about what would happen to them if they failed him, especially in public like this.