Page 48 of They Call Me Blue

Five thrones sit in the center of the arena’s dusty field—each one filled with members of the Politic.

In front of them lies a silver ceremonial altar, a blue velvet box atop it.

Yaklan smiles at me, waving as we approach, but the other Karesai look on, their gazes fixed on the crowd.

The corner of Sorso’s lumpy, calloused mouth twitches up into a smirk—or maybe it doesn’t—the look is there and gone so fast, I can barely register it.

Still, it has my palms sweating, my spine tensing. Mate.

How would I feel if our roles were reversed? If he bit Arden? Sunk his filthy canines beneath her flesh and pinned her to the ground while she begged him to stop?

Every inch of me screams in protest, nostrils flaring, jaw clenching. And I know then, my father is right. There can be no peace between us—not as long as my mark mars his myrie’s flesh. A myrie who’s notably absent.

The palanquin dips and groans as the slaves lower it onto the ground, opening the door to the litter with bulging, bloodshot eyes.

Glittering silver liquid streams down their cheeks, mouths, and ears, but they don’t show any outward signs of pain.

The slaves avert their gazes as they offer hands to Azerin and assist him from the box.

As he exits, he makes a show of licking the blood from one of their faces, which gains a fresh wave of applause from our spectators.

My still-full stomach convulses.

This place is fucked. These people and their morals are beyond saving.

A slave offers me their hand, but I slap it away.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, climbing out on my own.

The dust and dirt swirl up around me, and my military boots slip on the shifting ground.

Blinking the grit from my eyes, I fight the urge to slink beside Yaklan and straighten my shoulders instead, joining my father at the gleaming silver altar.

Wordlessly, Azerin holds out his hand, and a Bracer scurries onto the field, passing him a sound amplification mask. With a bow, she exits, taking the slaves with her.

“Welcome to our nine hundred and twenty-seventh Ring Day celebration!” Azerin booms, affixing the brightly painted wooden mask to his face.

It resembles a verncat head, its sabretooth jaws opened wide.

Sharp whistles and a round of thunderous applause pierce my ears from every direction.

Azerin waits for the crowd to settle before continuing.

“Before the games begin, you all have the honor of witnessing the inauguration of our newest Karesai of Hunters,” he says, voice radiating authority.

“I give you Lyrick of Kariss, my eldest son. Four hundred and thirteen captures. Over two hundred kills. He has led dozens of successful hunting parties. I can think of no one more qualified—and the Politic agrees.”

Behind me, someone snorts. I can only guess it’s Sorso, but the clapping drowns him out—the crowd oblivious to the inner turmoil within my father’s council.

Azerin clasps both of my shoulders and pulls me close. For a moment, there is no arena, no crowd, no Karesai. Just us. “This is the happiest day of my life,” he whispers, throat bobbing, eyes glassy. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted for you.”

He smiles at me like I’m not a disgrace to my species. Like I’m worthy . And for the first time in my life, I start to believe it.

“Lyrick, do you swear allegiance to Kariss and to all the elgrew within it?” he asks, projecting his voice once more.

“I do.”

“Do you swear to—”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Sorso says.

A shiver runs down my spine despite the heat.

Slowly, the Karesai of Butchers rises from his cold-iron throne—blue metal creaking.

His lumpy thighs jiggle with each step toward the altar and the ground quakes beneath him.

The crowd goes deadly silent—so silent we could hear a pin drop as Sorso leans over the altar, black apron fluttering in the breeze, black suit dusty brown from the arena’s floor.

And then that smirk is back. Bigger this time. Bolder. His clubbed lip looks like it’s trying to tear free of his mouth.

Rifling through his apron pockets, Sorso procures his own amplification mask—the face of a screaming elf, silver bloodstains streaming from its eyeholes.

He straps it to his face and clears his throat.

“Tradition dictates before an inauguration, the candidate’s worthiness must be tested against the opinions of his peers.

Hunters, I ask, do you find him worthy? Lyrick of Kariss is Talin’s sole apprentice—put to death for treason.

Will you follow the orders of a traitor’s pupil? ”

Beside me, my father’s hands curl into fists. “This is highly inappropriate,” he hisses. “No one has challenged an appointment in almost a century.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Sorso murmurs.

Everyone in the arena glances back and forth at one another, waiting, watching. It’s too crowded to recognize anyone from my caste, but I know they’re there. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.

My stomach drops when the arena gate yawns open and a familiar face steps forward. “I watched your uncle burn. Now, I’ll watch you too. I will challenge the appointment.”

Standing in front of me is Morcai, and behind him, his son— Conrin .