Page 54 of They Call Me Blue

Down below, Brawler knees Big Arms in the testicles once, twice, three times before he finally relents.

The male elf collapses in on himself, sucking in air and wincing in pain, and Brawler wastes no time getting the upper hand.

She hops to her feet and smiles wide, her sharp, serrated teeth flashing in the pale moonlight.

They’ve been filed to look like ours—by Bracers or herself, I have no idea.

I half expect the creature to bite through his throat, but she stomps on him instead.

Bone crunches.

Cartilage splits as she thrusts her heel into his nose.

“Yield!” Brawler spits. He doesn’t and she stomps again, his jaw cracking, his face a gory mess on the ground. “Give up!”

But the man’s determined.

She shifts her foot to his esophagus and grinds until he’s sputtering. “Please, Fenris. I promised I’d get you home.” There’s a desperate edge to her expression. Warm tears leak down her face, creating streaks in the caked on mud.

Eyes swollen shut, Big Arms— Fenris —shudders in defeat. He reaches for the red sash around his waist and waves it in the air, surrendering to her. And then his entire body goes limp with exhaustion.

Shouts ripple through the crowd, cheering Brawler on, chanting her name.

They toss green confetti and sports paraphernalia into the ring—plushie arms, flower crowns, crochet dolls, kissy lips and coins, and at least a dozen other things I don’t recognize.

The way the spectators carry on—the fucking volume of it—makes my ears throb.

And then the sharp cry of Ryla’s death whistle pierces the air.

In an instant, everyone falls silent.

Weaving through the rock walls, Ryla arrives at Brawler’s location within seconds—a master of her own maze. The Karesai of Bracers offers the champion her hand, which she hesitates before accepting, stepping over Fenris’s unconscious form.

“Citizens of Kariss,” Ryla says—readjusting her amplification mask. “I give you our nine-hundred and twenty seventh Ring Day champion!” She intertwines their fingers and raises their joined hands in the air.

The crowd leaps to their feet—all eighty thousand of them fist-pumping and waving at the sky. Covered in blood, Brawler’s chest heaves as she squares her shoulders and grins at them, the gesture cracking open a split, swollen lip.

Once the noises settle, Ryla removes the diadem from her head and places it onto the elf’s, congratulating her on her win.

“Tradition dictates our victor be given two choices,” Ryla says, facing Brawler.

Although their gazes remain locked, she projects her voice loud enough for the entire crowd to hear.

“Name an elgrew to fight or an elf to free; it cannot be yourself.”

“Fight!” someone screams.

“Yeah! Name me! Varish of Asai.”

“Call Revin of Drannel!”

Giggles bubble up as more elgrew join in, calling out their names and the names of their friends to fight her. In good condition, Brawler could kick their asses, but as beat up as she is, almost anyone could best her. It’s why our champions never choose that option.

Brawler whispers her response, and Ryla nods.

Frowning, the Karesai of Bracers returns her attention to the crowd. “Big Arms will be released!”

Everyone boos, but it’s fucking irrelevant.

No matter how our people may feel about losing one of their best fighters, Brawler’s choice will be honored.

It’s perhaps the one thing my father can’t influence.

Come tomorrow, the betting fees will be used to compensate Big Arms’s—Fenris’s—owner for their loss, and they’ll become one of the wealthiest elgrew in the city.

Ryla jams her thumb and forefinger into her mouth.

Whistling sharp and loud, she summons two leather-clad Bracers into the arena.

Scurrying past her, they toss Big Arms over their shoulders and drag him through the muck, past one of eight doorways leading into the stadium’s underbelly.

Once they’re gone, Ryla throws her arm over Brawler’s shoulder.

“As always, our victor’s celebration will be held at the Grand Overseer’s estate,” she announces. “To honor our newest Karesai, Hunters will be given priority entry. Our champions and I look forward to seeing you there!”

The ground shakes with the force of the crowd’s applause. Clapping and stomping echo in the stands, reverberating in my eardrums as Ryla exits the arena flanked by her Bracers. Azerin says something, but I can’t quite hear it.

“What?” I ask.

He raises his voice. “Go find Ryla. She’s waiting for you in the underbelly.”

I arch a brow. Every year, the Karesai lead a parade from the stadium to the estate—champions in tow. I assumed I’d be at the front with the Hunters, not in the back, with Ryla and the other Bracers.

“I want you with your myrie,” Azerin says. “Go. I’ll meet you at the estate.”

My myrie. The words alone are enough to make me gag.

Something smooth slides into my arm sling.

Brows furrowed, I pull it out and find an unlabeled vial of red liquid.

Beside me, Colette peers into the stadium below, careful not to meet my gaze.

She lowers her voice. “The last one wasn’t meant to act as a paralytic, but everyone responds differently. I’ve modified this one.”

I clench my fist and the glass crunches. Sticky liquid and blood dribbles onto the balcony, but I barely feel it through my white-hot rage. “You can take your potions and—”

On the other side of me, Azerin cups my shoulder. “Go find Ryla.”

I clench my jaw, a vein throbbing near my temple. The overwhelming urge to curse at both of them nearly wins out, but I hold my tongue at the last second. I chose this. I’m here because I want to be, and that means behaving. Enduring. Making friends.

I can do this.

“I’ll see you at home,” I grind out. Then I exit into the crowd.

ARDEN

Fenris. Giara. My heart squeezes for them as I work to separate my thoughts from Lyrick’s.

Orange leaves smack against my face and tangle in my hair.

Elsewhere, mud squelches beneath the thick soles of my military boots, and the arena’s metallic gates click open.

Groaning, I clutch the sides of my head, my thoughts and his a discombobulated jumble.

“We can’t send her down there,” Cheevy says.

“We have to,” Chest Wound snaps. “It’s the only night—”

“We’re out of time and she’s too fucking sick. What’s your Marr-damn problem?”

They’re talking about me.

I blink. For the first time in hours, the brain fog clears long enough for me to realize where we are—the canopy near Azerin’s estate.

Glittering silver ramparts peek through the orange foliage.

The walls are at least sixty feet tall, with lookout towers posted in even intervals.

I cough my throat to clear it, and it feels like daggers slashing through my esophagus.

“I need my binoculars,” I croak.

A branch below me, Cheevy and Chest Wound whisper-argue. They stop mid-conversation to peer up at me. “You’re awake.” Chest Wound rummages through my go-bag and passes me a pair of bronze binoculars. Twine attaches to the ends of it, letting it serve as a rudimentary necklace when not in use.

I pull them over my head and peer at the parapet, clammy sweat dripping from my brow.

Magnified, the cracks in the wall become apparent.

They’re not made from metal, but sandstone painted in elves’ blood.

I think of Giara and Fenris, the arena, the fucking breeding ceremony Lyrick has planned, and rage hazes my vision.

The need to kill every last one of them is so overpowering, my hands shake. The elgrew deserve everything that’s coming to them—Azerin, Lyrick, Ryla— all of them. Some creatures are born evil, and the only cure is extermination.

I concentrate on my still-throbbing bite mark, vision flitting between a dank metal cell and the musty rainforest. Digging deep within myself, I cut the connection to Lyrick, bury it, and focus on the task at hand. Cheevy’s right about one thing— we’re out of fucking time.

Shivering, I aim my binoculars at the guard towers.

They’re empty. A single Butcher paces the walkways, the silver moonlight glinting off his dark purple skin.

He’s not watching the jungle, but staring at his feet—bored.

In the history of Kariss, no elf has ever attacked here.

He probably thinks this is a waste of time.

That he should be out with the others, celebrating.

If we don’t kill him, Azerin will for his incompetence.

“Bow,” I demand, holding out my hand. Cheevy stares at me, brows pinched together like I’m some kind of psychopath. “Bow,” I repeat, more insistent this time, snapping my fingers.

Chest Wound unhooks his from his back and hands it up, careful to avoid the spiny tips that protrude from its limbs.

My hands curl around it, and Marr-damn, it weighs so much more than I remember.

I collapse face-first onto the branch, cheek smushing against rough bark.

Panic blossoms in my chest, heart thundering.

Why can’t I lift it?

“Here, I’ll take it back.” Cheevy offers his hand, and I see the pity there.

Fuck him. “I’m fine.”

Gripping the wood tighter, I force myself back to an upright position, my muscles straining in protest, weaker than they’ve ever been before—not that I was strong to begin with. With sheer determination, I lift the bow and hold it steady. “Arrow.”

One appears in my outstretched hand, and I line it up to the sight, my biceps burning from the strain. Sweat trails down my neck, soaking through my breastwrap, catching in my dripping hair. “I did not poison myself,” I say. “I’m not sick.”

The Butcher stares up into the sky. Too easy. I draw my bowstring and—