Page 49 of They Call Me Blue

—A Brief History of the Traditions and Customs in Kariss: An Addendum.

F uck. Me.

I gaze up, and up, and up at the behemoth of a man in front of me.

Morcai is all but unrecognizable save for his face.

Muscles stack on top of muscles until he more closely resembles a mountain than a gray.

But he is gray. No purple scars. No missing flesh.

Someone’s surgically enhanced him into this . . . thing.

Shirtless, Morcai’s biceps ripple as he folds his arms over his chest, smirking down at me like I’m a puny insect about to be squashed. Conrin mirrors his father’s movements and peers out from behind him—arms crossed, jaw set, choice made. Whatever remained of our friendship is no more.

“I see you visited the Stitchers,” I say, swallowing to keep my voice steady. A Karesai shows no fear, especially not to lowlife scum like Morcai. “Shame you couldn’t pay me when I came to collect.”

Morcai’s grin widens, exposing his serrated teeth. Sharp cold-iron caps cover them, barbs protruding from the surface. “Shame you couldn’t burn with your uncle.”

Fingers flexing, I narrow my eyes at him, and my father steps between us.

If Azerin’s worried for me, his expression doesn’t show it.

He remains the ever-confident leader, the unflappable, untouchable god our people know him to be.

Smoothing down his suit jacket, he turns to Morcai, his wooden amplification mask still intact.

“As tradition dictates, all challenges are to the death. Lyrick is armed and armored. We can provide you with—”

“I don’t need shit.” Morcai makes a point to crack each of his knuckles, then his neck.

His newly bald scalp gleams with sweat. No hair to latch onto, to yank back.

Mine blows in the wind, unbound, and it feels like a godsdamned death sentence.

A set of ceremonial daggers and a thin layer of swamp dog hide isn’t going to protect me against him, and we both know it.

My father clasps his hands behind his back. “Very well. We’ll clear the field.”

On cue, the Karesai exit the arena single file.

Colette doesn’t speak to me; she humphs instead, holding her nose in the air like this is all beneath her.

Yaklan clasps my shoulder and wishes me luck, but luck won’t save me here.

I’m not sure anything will. How the Stitchers did this is beyond me.

They must’ve found the strongest elves in all of Kariss to dissect, perhaps arena champions themselves.

It would have cost a fortune—more than anything Conrin or Morcai or any Hunter could afford.

“Do you like it?” Sorso whispers, lifting his mask so we’re staring face-to-face.

His breath is rancid, and I nearly vomit at the stench of rotting meat.

“After your little stunt at the gambling hall, Morcai was more than happy to let my friends experiment with him. Yaklan may command the Stitchers, but I control their debts.”

Of course.

Scrunching my nose, I stare him down. “Morcai’s out of shape, Sorso. He hasn’t hunted anything in almost two decades. You can’t replace skill with brawn.”

It sounds like false bravado because it is.

“See his knuckles?” Sorso asks. “Those are cold-iron spikes fused to his bones. One punch is all it’ll take. I like my odds.”

My gaze shifts to Morcai’s hands and nausea knots my stomach.

Sure enough, blue metal protrudes from the skin—barbed just like his tooth caps.

Now that I’m looking for it, small metal spikes jut from other places as well.

Forearms. Clavicles. Back. Most of them are needle-thin—almost invisible if they didn’t glint in the afternoon sun.

Touching him anywhere will shred my skin. It’s an impossible fucking fight.

“Seems your appointment will be even shorter lived than Korun or Tenok’s.

” And with that, Sorso joins Colette, linking arms with her just outside the cold-iron gate.

Conrin marches after them, kicking up dust and dirt with every step.

His eyes are steely, his thin lips pressed into a hard line as he leans over the railing in rapt attention.

In full sight of the crowd, Azerin pulls me to the side and cups my cheeks. The face mask hangs from a belt at his hips. “You will not die today. Do you understand me?”

“Dad, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growls. “Figure it out. You’re smarter than Morcai and Sorso. If anyone can best them, it’s you.”

And then he shakes my hand, squeezing my palm and wrist in a two-handed embrace—the closest form of affection a man like him can offer me in public. He leans in close and whispers so lowly, I have to strain my ears to hear, “You’re all I have left of her.”

Before I can interpret what he said, let alone summon a response, Azerin separates himself from me and joins the others at the railing, leaving me alone in the arena with Morcai and Ryla—the Karesai of Bracers.

This is her domain, not my father’s. She alone commands the fighting pits.

I’ve never spoken to Ryla one-on-one. Fuck, I’ve never even seen her without Colette at her side, so I can only guess who she’s rooting for here.

Unlike the other Bracers, Ryla dresses in purple fighting leathers, not brown.

Strapped to her back is a pair of throwing axes ready to be wielded at a moment’s notice.

Though her skin is mottled gray like Sarvenna’s, her hair is a natural shade of lilac—pin straight and shiny in the sun.

It’s barely long enough to brush her shoulders.

She walks to the center of the field—or perhaps swagger is a better word for it.

Ryla is all confidence as she fastens an amplification mask to her face and addresses the crowd.

The mask is bright white, covered in charcoal glyphs that only Bracers can understand.

“You’re in for a rare treat today,” she says.

“Our candidate for Karesai has been challenged. In the aisles, my Bracers will be coming around with betting slips. Make sure you flag them before the fight begins.”

A fucking money grab. For the love of—

“There will be a single round of combat. As always, biting remains a capital offense. All else is fair game. The fight ends only when one of you is dead. Try not to die.” Ryla winks at me in this flirty, almost playful way, like my life doesn’t hang in the fucking balance.

I want to rip that eye from her skull and shove it down her fucking throat.

I grit my teeth instead.

“Both of you, come to the center of the field.”

The ground shudders with Morcai’s movements, his bare feet leaving imprints in the dust. Wind whips my long hair into my eyes, my mouth, and I have to spit it out. Dry dirt sticks to my tongue as I sweep my hair back, then tilt my head to stare into the violet eyes of my opponent.

Something slips into my palm.

When I glance down, I see that Ryla has offered me a leather thong.

She acts oblivious as I tie my hair into a bun—it’s not much, but at least it’ll keep me from getting blinded in the fight.

I’m not stupid enough to thank her—to draw attention to her act of kindness.

The last thing she needs is Sorso as an enemy too.

But I nod in appreciation and she nods back, the action infinitesimally small.

Unnoticeable to anyone not looking for it.

“Wait until I’ve exited the field. You’ll begin when you hear my death whistle.” Ryla rummages through her cuirass and procures the skull-shaped whistle, then she backs away—but not before snatching the crown from my head and taking it with her.

More dust billows around us, stinging my eyes, but I don’t blink.

Looking away, losing focus for just a second, is all it’ll take to get me killed.

But I’m fucked regardless. A million fighting strategies and sparring sessions roll through my head, each one nonviable.

He’s too big. It’s too easy for him to rip me apart.

I’m going to die before I ever get to see her again.

Arden. Mine.

Suddenly, I’m back beneath that glowing tree, her lips parting for me. Don’t stop.

Maybe it’s better this way. I don’t know if I could stop if I found her in person. After all, my morals meant nothing last night when I saw her for the first time in years, felt her softness, smelled her heat. I’ve never been attracted to elves before, but Arden—

The death whistle shrieks—shrill and sharp—catching me off guard.

I roll out of the way of Morcai as he barrels toward me, then I dive for the metal altar.

His fists are a blur as they fly through the air.

Back flush against the hard, unforgiving frame, I shift a second before he slams home.

Metal groans. A giant head-shaped indent appears on the altar’s surface where my body was just moments before.

Shit.

Fuck.

Too godsdamned close.

Pushing Arden from my mind, I reassess. He’s big but slow, weighed down by muscles he doesn’t know how to use yet.

I can gut him if I can get close enough.

Unsheathing a blade at my hip, I charge forward, angling it toward his thick abdominals.

The man catches me by the wrist and squeezes.

Something crunches. The dagger clatters to the ground as I hiss in pain, clutching at a wrist that’s bent at an unnatural angle.

Morcai throws his head back and laughs, deep and throaty.

Then, he kicks my dagger out of the way.

It goes sliding toward the railing, lost somewhere in the dust piles.

My boots slip as I scurry away from another hit, barely dodging it in time.

I unsheathe my other dagger, switching to my offhand, letting the broken one dangle uselessly at my side.

Block the pain. Focus on the fight.

It’s easier said than done, but I manage to avoid two more blows.