Page 51 of They Call Me Blue

“All Karesai are imbued with the ichor of life , separating and elevating them from the rest of their caste. Origins unknown, the substance interferes with our species’ senses, stripping the Karesai of their chemical cues and heat signatures.

Additionally, it is known to heighten the potency of their venom, creating a temporary but often euphoric effect in the elves they Claim.

To be bestowed the ichor is a great honor—one that comes with a lifetime promise to serve and protect our city.

Those who abandon their posts are swiftly executed. ”

—A Brief History of the Traditions and Customs of Kariss

“ T his might hurt a bit.” Yaklan grabs my wrist and twists, resetting the bone with a nasty crunch. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out, but a groan still slips free. “It should be functional by the party tonight, but be gentle with it over the next few days. Keep it in a sling if you can.”

I know how broken bones work. I bite back the retort, knowing Yaklan is neither the cause of my ire nor does he deserve to be a recipient of it.

Bent over me, he fastens a silk sling around my shoulder and tightens it, securing the broken bone to my chest. We’re not like elves—they take weeks, sometimes months to recover from an injury like this.

So long as I don’t do anything stupid, I’ll be back to full fighting shape by the end of the week. Maybe sooner.

From his white apron pocket, Yaklan procures a needle and spool of silver thread. “I’ll fix the minor injuries before any scar tissue can form, but you’ll need to visit me later to skin graft the rest.”

With nimble fingers, he gets to work, shoving that needle deep beneath the flesh.

I wince but say nothing as he tugs the skin back into place—first at my temples, then my hands.

In my periphery, Azerin’s slaves struggle to clean up Morcai’s body—rather, what remains of it.

They roll the muscly, oozing lump onto an ornate blanket far nicer than anything that bastard deserves and scoop the blood-dirt slurry from the ground with a duster and a broom.

Plumes of dirt conceal Azerin’s and Sorso’s faces from view as they whisper-argue with one another, too quiet to be heard above the chattering buzz of arena spectators.

Yaklan pauses, following my line of sight to the both of them. “You’ll still be initiated,” he says. “Sorso is a man of his word—I’m going to treat the bigger wounds as best I can. I’m sorry it’ll look so crude, but my skills are limited outside of the surgery centers.”

He stuffs the spool away and switches it for a pouch of ossi dust. Touch gentle, Yaklan smooths the ashy substance over my face, palms, and neck—any part of exposed flesh Morcai’s metal spurs shredded.

The smaller cuts—the ones he managed to stitch—tighten into the seamless patchwork that covers the rest of me.

The larger ones don’t. Purple skin sprouts from gaping sections of exposed muscle, and I curl my lip at how fucking hideous it is.

I look no better than the peasants.

Yaklan apologizes again—like he’s the cause of these disgusting fucking injuries. “I’ll get you into the center tomorrow. I’m certain I can find an elf that matches the rest.”

I sigh—long and deep. Tomorrow is a long fucking time to look like this. Any length of time is. I haven’t had to see my natural flesh in years, and it makes my hackles rise. Pushing down my anger, I shoo him away. “It’s fine.”

Standing, he dusts his apron off, but it does no good.

Both it and his matching white suit are speckled with amethyst blood.

As if realizing this himself, Yaklan frowns down at the outfit before claiming his throne beside me—made of cold iron like all the others.

Colette and Ryla lean over their armrests, chattering away to one another, making grand gestures with their hands and smiling, completely oblivious to the argument Sorso and Azerin are locked in.

As the slaves heft Morcai’s corpse from the ground, a dozen Bracers follow them out of the arena gate, toward the exit. Conrin’s no longer standing at the railing, though I never saw him leave.

“We continue as planned,” Azerin says, returning to the four of us. Sorso’s nostrils flare, the metal throne groaning as he plants himself atop it. But he doesn’t argue, just glares at me with those dark violet eyes, as if doing so could turn me to dust.

I flash him a toothy grin and a crude gesture. “Your myrie put up a bigger fight against me.”

My father pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to guess what he’s thinking. Why are you like this?

I repress the chuckle bubbling up my throat and lean back in my seat as Sorso dark-knuckles his armrests.

Reaching into his suit jacket, Azerin retrieves the small blue-velvet box that had been on the altar before my challenge.

He returns it there—though it lies unevenly on the fist-sized dent Morcai left behind.

Returning the amplification mask to his face, my father addresses the crowd once more, facing away from us.

“Does anyone else wish to challenge Lyrick of Kariss?”

The arena falls deadly silent.

A moment passes.

Two.

No one looks at one another this time. They’re all afraid of me.

As they should be.

I can’t stop the smug smirk from curling my face, the pride burgeoning in my chest. It’ll take more than a few hundred pounds of muscle to take me out. And now anyone who tries knows what consequences they risk.

“Very well,” Azerin says. “Lyrick, please join me once more at the altar.”

I stand from my seat, my sweat-soaked clothing crunching in the spots it dried. Exhausted, my knees threaten to buckle, but I force myself forward, head held high. Once again, Azerin clasps my shoulders, and once again we begin reciting the vows.

“Do you swear allegiance to Kariss and to all the elgrew within it?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to represent your caste fairly and honestly? To uphold the traditions of the Karesai who have come before you?”

“I do.”

Azerin glances to the crowd then back to me, his silver-violet eyes as serious as they’ve ever been. “Are you aware that this is a lifetime appointment and that the punishment for abandoning your duties or breaking your oaths is death?”

For the first time today, a wave of unease, uncertainty , washes over me.

But this is what Talin would have wanted.

It’s what my father and Yaklan want. It’s the only way to right the wrongs of my caste.

Saying I have no choice—while it wouldn’t be correct—certainly feels that way.

I was born to rule, trained for it because I’m the only one strong enough, brave enough, and smart enough to fix things.

“I am.” My mouth turns to sandpaper, the finality of my decision creeping in.

Swallowing, I rub my slick palms against my swamp dog slacks.

The action stings, and I’m all but certain there’s metal splinters still wedged beneath the skin.

It’ll take weeks for my pores to excise them, and until then, everything’s going to be painfully sore.

Azerin smiles at me. “Very well.”

He reaches for the velvet box and unhooks the latch, throwing it open to reveal a glass syringe filled with metallic black liquid.

The substance swirls. Faint tints of purple and green then blue and red appear, then vanish into the mix.

Azerin lifts the syringe from the box and flashes it to the crowd.

“This is the ichor of the gods . With it, we shall initiate him into the Politic. Lyrick, please take a seat.”

He pats the altar, and I struggle atop it, my broken ribs aching in protest. I stare at the strange liquid, transfixed. Its origins are as much a mystery to me as they are to the spectators. Perhaps the only one who knows what it is and where it comes from is Azerin himself.

“This will sting,” he warns.

Azerin rolls my flexible, long-sleeved armor up to the bicep.

Withdrawing a rubber string from his pocket, he ties it around my upper arm and pulls tight, pinching the skin until my pulse throbs.

Then he grabs the syringe, points the giant fucking needle in the air, and flicks the sides of the glass to check for air bubbles.

Once he’s certain there are none, he depresses the plunger until a small amount of that viscous black liquid oozes out.

It smells like liquid smoke, except sweeter—with hidden notes of sour fruit and decaying tree bark.

Under normal circumstances, putting that inside me would be a nonstarter.

But all Karesai undergo the ritual, and I’m all too aware of the power it bestows.

No heat signatures. No chemical cues. The ability to slip through the night, unseen by our species’ pit organs.

A thick purple vein throbs at the juncture of my forearm. Azerin jabs the needle in and pours the liquid inside me. There’s a sharp pinch, followed by the sensation of heavy sludge crawling through my veins. It’s uncomfortable, but not as bad as I thought it would—

Shit.

Icy heat spreads everywhere.

It scorches everything.

I stave off a scream as fire licks through my ribcage and curls around my heart, squeezing, burning.

Black dots flicker at the edges of my vision and salty liquid rolls down my cheeks.

As Azerin removes the syringe and sets it on the altar beside me, he whispers low in my ear, “Do not cry out. You are a Hunter. You will endure.”

“Lyrick? What’s happening?” Arden’s voice again.

I push her out, unable to answer, unable to explain.

Clenching my hands into tight fists, I writhe in silence as the white-hot pain consumes me.

Everything that I am is being stripped away, replaced with something else, something other.

There’s not enough ya’esen in the world to drown this feeling out.

My teeth vibrate as venom drains to the back of my throat—the taste sweeter than normal, the texture thicker.

My muscles spasm involuntarily, twitching with an unseen electric current.

Minutes pass—or maybe it’s seconds—but it feels like an eternity before the intensity ebbs, leaving behind veins and muscle and sinew that have been stripped raw.

It’s all I can do to hold my head up, to keep it from lolling.

“How do you feel?” Azerin asks, still too low for the spectators to hear.

“Like someone pulled all the veins from my body and made me jump rope with them.”

He chuckles. “Focus. Breathe.”

I wipe the moisture from my eyes and do as he says, breathing slowly, deeply. When I glance out into the arena, everything looks . . . Fuck. It’s so godsdamned beautiful.

The world is sharper, clearer. I can smell everything.

Wet ink from the Bracers’ betting slips.

The crisp paper it’s written on. Smoked meats from food carts just outside the arena—savory and sweet, covered in a creamy curry sauce.

A block away, a sharp chemical stench lingers outside what can only be the surgery center.

Miles from that, must and rain crawl from the rainforest as if the orangeleaf trees press right against my nose.

It’s . . . incredible. It’s overwhelming.

“Now, open your pit organs,” Azerin commands.

I hesitate. There’s a reason we don’t use our pit organs during the day. They don’t work—at least, not very well. The ambient air is too hot, making everything appear the same shade of bright white. It’s a fucking tripping hazard.

Still, I oblige him.

The tiny pores near my tear ducts expand, and like usual, the stadium, the sky, the dirt in front of me become indistinguishably pale—almost invisible.

But then I see what he’s talking about. In place of the arena spectators are glowing auras—all different, all unique—with shades of color I’ve never seen before.

Without ever having to bite them, I can distinguish each person from the next in a way that goes beyond sight or smell or temperature.

The only elgrew who remain a blank slate are the other members of the Politic.

My skull throbs at the sensory overload, and I force my pit organs shut, head drooping, sweat sticking the hair to my face.

When Azerin offers me his hand, I take it.

No sooner does he yank me to my feet that his arm’s slung over my shoulders as he addresses the crowd.

“Citizens of Kariss, I present to you your Karesai of Hunters!”

In the stands, the Bracers, Trainers, and Stitchers bow in unison. But the Hunters raise their blades and slash them across their palms in a show of respect. It’s an ancient custom to signal that they would do anything for me—bleed for me, die for me—I need only say the word.

It’s a giddy feeling, having so much power.

A broad smile spreads across my cheeks. I unsheathe the ceremonial dagger at my side and repeat the gesture back to my people. Because they are my people, flaws and all, and I meant my oaths. Most of them, anyway.

Cheering breaks out amongst the crowd. They shred green betting slips into tiny squares and toss them into the air, littering the aisles with confetti. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I belong.