Page 52 of They Call Me Blue

—A Brief History of the Settlement of Kariss, Mining Production

Stolen by General Ustas at the failed invasion of Visha.

ARDEN

A crowd of elgrew swarm me, and someone places a bony diadem atop my head—not mine, his.

They set him on a throne of cold iron that has my teeth chattering, my bones aching.

Or maybe that’s the poison. I can’t tell what’s real anymore—what’s happening to Lyrick versus what’s happening to me.

Orange leaves flutter around me, then green confetti, then orange leaves again.

The forest whirls as lumpy and twisted elgrew flash their razor-like smiles in my direction.

“Arden?” The sound of Cheevy’s voice pulls me into the moment. Groaning, I force my million-pound head to rise from the itchy grasses—or maybe it’s the dusty ground. A crease line forms between his brows, his hand brushing against my too-hot forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

I saved Lyrick. I had the chance to watch him die and I intervened. Why?

Was that even real?

Is anything?

I shake so hard I brush up against Cheevy. But as I claw my way into a crawling position, the only thing I can think about is those stupid fucking vines. “It wasn’t rylock,” I rasp, my throat burning, the taste of sweet venom washing over it. “I know my poisons.”

He doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I believe me either.

Breathlessness. Fever. Nausea. All classic symptoms of rylock poisoning.

But Cheevy at least has the grace—or maybe it’s the common sense—not to say I told you so.

Instead, he runs a cool compress over my forehead, my cheeks, the back of my neck.

But the cool water offers little relief, heating as soon as it touches my skin.

In Lyrick’s cold-iron throne, elvish slaves carry us up dozens of steps that lead to a balcony overlook, the dusty arena spraying dirt everywhere. Silver blood drains from the elves’ eyes, ears, and mouths. Their muscles wobble.

Eyes watering, I cough, hacking up blue bile onto Cheevy’s lap.

A high-pitched whistle threatens to burst my eardrums. Fuck, it hurts.

“It doesn’t matter what it was,” Cheevy says. He runs the compress underneath my eyes and it comes back splotchy blue. “Tell me what to do. Giara taught you how to forage. Tell me what Torvin and I can find that’ll help.”

Nothing. If it’s rylock, I’m fucked.

But it won’t kill me right away. I can still complete the mission so long as I can block out the pain. “You keep a stash of lavender oil,” I say. It isn’t a question. Everyone knows Sora’s supply runs out faster than all the other healers. It’s not a mystery as to why.

“Arden, that’s—”

“A painkiller,” I snap. For a moment, it’s not Cheevy staring at me, but a gray-eyed Stitcher dressed in all white, his expression kind, almost soft. That blue metal throne beneath him makes my brain feel tacky, slow.

“It’s an aphrodisiac,” Cheevy corrects. His face is his own again. All broken and scarred and missing a nose.

Sniffling, I make it into a sitting position and lean against an orangeleaf tree.

We aren’t near the riverbank anymore. There are no spine trees, no gravel, no tangly vines.

My cheeks heat with embarrassment when I realize either he or Chest Wound must’ve carried me for gods know how long.

“It doesn’t work like that for me,” I tell him. “I don’t have those parts, remember?”

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Of my anatomy?” I arch a brow. “I think I’d know.”

Uncertainty flickers in his mercury-shaded eyes, but he nods.

Unhooking one of two go-bags from his shoulder, he digs through it, procuring a thumb-sized vial of pale-yellow liquid that resembles piss.

“A drop or two won’t get you high, but I’m not sure how well it’ll treat pain, either.

When we were digging the cold iron from Torvin, we used half the bottle. ”

Uncorking the stopper, Cheevy hands the vial to me, then rummages through his bag for a glass dropper. Just enough to get me through this. One drop. Two. For half a second, I consider risking a third, but the last thing any of us needs is an incoherent asshole trying to plant explosives.

The smell is potent. The flavor is worse. Floral, minty, soap. It’s like taking a bar of lye to the inside of my tongue. I make a face, coughing at how fucking foul it is, and more blue bile sprays the grass in front of me. But it isn’t bile; it’s blood.

“Here. Take the rest,” I say, passing it back. “I’ll re-dose later if I have to.”

I wipe the slick, sheeny oil from my lips and wait for it to take effect.

“Purples, grays, members of the Politic, allow me to present to you our champions for this year’s Ring Day celebration.

” A leather-clad Bracer stands in the center of the arena, her purple hair so out of place on a body otherwise gray.

At her announcement, eight cold-iron gates yawn open and eight elvish slaves emerge from somewhere deep beneath the stadium. My heart clenches.

Giara.

Fenris.

They’re both there, fighting for the elgrews’ entertainment.

And gods, how I want to make Azerin suffer for it.

A sharp pain spears my stomach when I stand, bark digging into my palms as I use the tree to prop myself up.

I sweep the moist hair from my face, my breathing rapid, and a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to send me toppling.

“How far are we from the Grand Overseer’s estate? ”

“Two clicks. Maybe closer,” Cheevy says.

I glance down at my unarmored body, not sure I have the strength to put on the hide cuirass or vambraces, let alone carry the extra weight that far. “My sawgrass overlayer. I need it.”

He shakes his head. “It’s in the bag but . . . I can’t carry you with it on.”

“I don’t need you to—” But that isn’t true, as much as I despise it. Reluctantly, I nod. “Okay. Just the daggers, then.”

He shrugs the other bag off—my duffle, I realize—and begins tossing blades onto the forest floor.

Metal clangs and clanks until all fifteen daggers lay in a glinting pile.

Bandoliers join them, then thigh straps and sheathes.

I try to put them on, but my hands and fingers shake, cramping up like there’s something wrong with the joints.

“I’ve got you,” Cheevy says, buckling me in. Straps click and tighten across my chest, my thighs, the leather digging into bare skin. A hide breastwrap and thin shorts offer little protection in a fight, but shit, if I have to fight someone like this, we’re all fucked, anyway.

I rub my hands against my biceps, shivering harder than leaves in the wind. Salty water drips from my brow and stings my eyes. I clamp them shut as if doing so can will this sickness away. It’s not rylock. I’m not that fucking incompetent.

“Kill him!”

“Go left!”

Elgrew roar inside my ears. I blink and the Grand Overseer cups my shoulder, every bit as terrifying as he was the first time I saw him, when he had Tenok executed.

He’s gone in a blur of colors, the world flipping upside down as Cheevy swings me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

I open my mouth to protest, then whimper instead.

The bones in my body throb as if trying to break free of my flesh.

Behind us, Chest Wound now holds all three bags, his face pallid with . . . Fear? Anxiety?

For a moment, we just stare at one another, and then the lavender oil washes over me, turning my legs comfortably leaden.

The pain ebbs ever-so-slightly, and the forest disintegrates into silver-stained concrete and eighty-thousand monsters all cheering for my oldest and longest friends to slaughter one another.

LYRICK

It feels surreal—sitting amongst the Politic, being one of them.

Platters of meat lay in a spread before us, carried up by the city’s Butchers who refuse to meet my gaze.

Each of us has food befitting our castes’ preferences: cooked cubes for Yaklan and Colette, covered in sweet spices and drizzled in honey, skinned but not deboned cuts of meat for Azerin, with a tray of curry sauces in varying shades of red, yellow, and orange, still bleeding thigh quarters for Ryla and me—though the sight makes my stomach queasy.

Sorso’s section of the buffet table is the only one that remains empty because he’s nowhere to be found.

He left after the inauguration. No doubt to sulk.

With my good arm, I reach past the meats for one of the many, many chalices of ya’esen on the table and take a swig, leaning back in my throne to watch the match.

Alcohol makes the “entertainment” tolerable—albeit barely—and numbs the pain of my injuries.

A few seats down, Ryla excuses herself from the balcony to announce the grand finale, and I drink deeper—not quite drunk enough to convince myself that breeding one of those creatures won’t be that bad.

As soon as Ryla leaves, Colette glares at me from two thrones over, her lilac eyes narrowed into thin slits.

“She’ll come around,” Yaklan whispers, placing a hand on my armrest. “Colette pulled you off her elves before you could damage the bodies. My Stitchers tell me she recuperated most of the training fees by selling them at the surgery centers.”

Because that’s what matters. The cost.

I grunt a response, careful not to watch as Yaklan pops the meat squares into his mouth.

The girls’blood is on Colette’s hands as much as it’s on mine.

If I could kill her, I would. Not just for the drugs or the attempted rape, but for putting me in a situation where I had to . . . where Azerin made me . . .

The table’s meaty smells wash over me and bile rises to my throat, my still-full belly squirming in protest. Decades of control gone in an instant.

All my morals, all my grandstanding rendered moot by that bitch.

Death would be too good for her. Perhaps skinning her like I did Morcai would be the justice she deserves.