Page 56 of They Call Me Blue

S kin sizzles as the Karesai of Bracers drives a hexagonal brand into Big Arm’s—Fenris’s—chest, directly over his heart.

The elf groans in agony but otherwise remains perfectly still as she pulls the glowing orange rod away.

Steam fills the arena’s armory, and water hisses as Ryla plunges the rod into a metal bucket near her feet.

The room is small and empty save for the three of us. It reminds me of a prison cell, with barred iron doors on either side—one leading into the stadium’s underbelly, the other leading up to the fighting pit. Stone benches line the walls. Fenris sits on one of them, head lolling.

“Have you ever found a freed elf before?” Ryla asks, taking a step back to admire her handiwork.

Covered in blood and dirt, I can’t make out anything besides the elf’s bubbling scorch marks.

Silver liquid gushes from Big Arm’s mushy, broken nose, and each breath comes out a whistle. It’s a wonder he’s still conscious.

“I’ve caught them a few times,” I admit, “but it’s rare.”

Ryla hums a response. Rummaging through her pockets, she procures a metal implement that’s shaped a bit like a mouth, with screws attached to the hinges. She grabs a fistful of Fenris’s short silver hair and yanks, dragging his gaze to the ceiling.

“Open up,” Ryla says, wedging the implement between his teeth.

His mouth stretches, a split lip cracking open.

“Lyrick, would you hold his head for me? It’ll go easier with help.”

A lead ball settles in my gut. It would do no good to refuse her—whatever she’s about to do will be done with or without me, and I can’t risk alienating another member of the Politic. Not if I have to work with her for the next few centuries. Throat dry, I nod, wedging myself between them.

“One hand on either side of his temples,” she says. “He’ll jerk, so you’ll need to keep a firm grip.”

Tears leak from the elf’s swollen eyes. He moans, drool seeping down his chin as Ryla tightens the screws on either side of the implement, stretching his mouth as wide as it’ll go.

I shimmy my wrist from its sling and rotate it, checking the bone’s in one piece before placing my hands where instructed.

Warm, sticky blood coats my fingers; my stomach growls and churns in equal measure.

Ryla retrieves the blade sheathed to her thigh and sprinkles powder on it until it glows fiery orange.

Then she reaches into Fenris’s mouth and withdraws his wet tongue.

His eyes flash in realization. Screaming, he bucks against us, and my grip tightens to hold him in place, the bones in my wrist grinding together.

The knife slices through dark gray flesh, and his tongue tumbles to the floor, landing in a pool of drool and blood.

Unintelligible words spill from Fenris’s mouth. Full-bodied sobs shake him.

I close my eyes and avert my head as Ryla unscrews the implements and plops her knife into the hissing water bucket.

“We’ve started removing their tongues if they speak too much Elgrew or belong to grays,” Ryla explains. “It’s a liability not to.”

She whistles, and a pair of Bracers emerge from the hallway—the same ones who carted Fenris in after the final match. The metal door creaks as they unlock and open it.

“Set it loose near the Aegis,” she tells them.

“Aren’t you going to heal him first?” I ask.

“Why waste the ossi dust? He’s free. Not my problem anymore.

” Ryla wipes her hands on her thighs, smearing silver blood over the well-worn leather.

White lines and patched knife holes mar almost every part of it.

I wonder how many of those tears were caused by elgrew or elves. She’s spent her life training both.

It’s a shame none of them pierced all the way through.

The Bracers say nothing as they heave Fenris from the bench, draping his arms over their shoulders. They drag him down a darkened staircase—the sound of his moaning and their receding bootsteps echoing off the stonework.

“Do you ever wonder where they go?” Ryla asks, staring down the corridor, her tone pensive.

“I don’t follow.” My mind feels sluggish. I barely remember what we’d been talking about before the cutting. “The freed elves,” she clarifies. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Not really.” I lean against the wall and return my wrist to its sling, letting it rest a bit more before the party. “Hunters can’t sell them, so it’s hardly worth our time.”

The law dictates a freed elf can’t be bought—not as food or as pets—and the punishments for breaking it are severe. Since we make our livelihoods trading elves, it’s never made sense to care about what the freed ones did.

“Shame.” Ryla sits on the bloody bench, toying with the metal implement that had been in Big Arm’s mouth. Drool glimmers on her fingertips. “Everyone says you’re the best tracker in Kariss. Maybe next year you can find them for me. Tail the one we let loose.”

I arch a brow. “Why?”

There’s an awkward pause as she considers her words, flipping the implement over and turning the screws. “You may not be curious, but I am. I want to know where they vanish to.”

“It’s hardly a mystery,” I say, voice flippant. “The tribes don’t like to harbor marked elves, but they will when it suits them. Look at Sorso’s myrie. She took refuge with the A’sow Tribe.”

“Did she?” Ryla hums, and I press my lips together, considering.

“You think she was living somewhere else?”

Ryla sets her toy aside. “I think she escaped, barely knowing the words bend over and spread your legs. Now she tracks our conversations. Someone taught her Elgrew and a lot of it—hence the new precautions.”

Doubling over, she dunks her hand into the water bucket and retrieves her knife—the metal now faded to black.

It clanks as she sets it on the bench. “I checked with the hunting party who exterminated the A’sow Tribe.

There were no freed elves amongst them, which means our language has either become so prevalent any elf can speak it or . . .”

“Or she was staying somewhere else.”

I can’t help but think of Arden, who spoke to me in fluent Elgrew as well.

But I keep those thoughts to myself, not knowing how she connects to all this.

Not wanting to give our history or bond away.

Still, it is peculiar. In my entire life, only a handful of wild elves have ever been intelligent enough to communicate with me.

Why is she so good at it?

“Perhaps it’s not my place to tell you, but there are rumors of a militia gathering in the jungle,” Ryla says. “There have been attacks. Losses. I’m certain your father will fill you in on the details tomorrow once your official duties start.”

“That’s not possible.”

Hunters know every section of the rainforest. We keep tabs on the tribes, razing their canopies when the communities get too large.

To organize anything bigger than a handful of insurgents would require secrecy, privacy, a place to train where we aren’t—and we’re everywhere.

Elves aren’t clever enough to pull that off.

Excluding Arden, they’re barely smarter than our verncats.

But then I remember that dream. That tree. The underground cave.

Even if those images were a product of our combined imaginations, Arden showered once surrounded by rock walls, and that’s a fact.I caught glimpses of it in the apartment.

They could be hiding below the dirt and we’d never know it.

I’m about to say as much when the crowd outside whistles and applauds, effectively cutting off our conversation.

I squint past the barred doors into the blinding torchlight where a pair of fighters enter the arena, clubs in hand.

They’ll fight like this until morning—in smaller, lower-stakes matches that’ll give the illegitimates and purples a way to occupy their time that isn’t at Azerin’s estate.

“We should go,” Ryla says. “The parade will start soon, and by now the Stitchers should be done patching up your myrie. We’ll talk more about this at breakfast tomorrow.”

She pats her knees and stands. Halfway to the door, Ryla’s attention catches on Fenris’s swollen tongue. She plucks it off the ground and plops it into her mouth, moaning as she chews. Smacking her lips together, Ryla sucks the blood from her fingers, then flashes me a serrated smile.

“Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

Underneath the stadium, Ryla leads me single file through a series of interconnected tunnels.

A contiguous mural decorates the walls, depicting a thousand years of champions mid-combat.

The colors are vibrant and bright—emerald skies, golden sunlight, and silver blood dripping from axes and knives.

To my right, one of the immortalized elves stands on her opponent’s headless carcass, grinning as she holds the missing head like a trophy.

“We’re almost there,” Ryla says, not bothering to glance at me. I have no idea where there is.

Above us, the crowd stomps, and the ceiling shakes with the force of it, swaying kerosene chandeliers. Debris rains and pale light scatters in every direction, the floor quaking so hard it vibrates my bones.

“Is it always like this?” I ask.

She chuckles. “You should have seen it during the final match. My Bracers thought the roof was going to collapse. The arena desperately needs to be reinforced.”

A pair of Stitchers dart past us, carrying medical bags, buckets, and spools of gauze—their nervous energy palpable.

We pass several palatial bedrooms with the doors wide open.

Inside, elven occupants bleed out onto plush carpets and fine linen.

Elgrew buzz around the injured, silver staining their white aprons as they perform impromptu surgeries.

“I didn’t realize your pets lived down here,” I say.

“Only the champions.”

More Stitchers rush past. A moan echoes off the walls.

“They’re spoiled assholes, too,” she adds. “One of them sprains an ankle and suddenly, it’s the end of the godsdamned world. It’ll be nice to see Brawler humbled for a change.”