Hello dear readers and thank you for checking out the first chapter of my latest story! I hope you enjoy your first look at a new hero and an old favorite. :)
I was born the unwanted daughter to an unwanted king.
It's never a surprise to find out that powerful leaders satisfy their cravings with whatever female or male attracts their attention—capital cities are filled with them truth be told—but it's quite another to be the only child to a tyrant.
My mother had the unfortunate honor of being an attractive female guard in the king's personal household and it was only a matter of time before someone took notice of her. Rumor had it that she was even one of the king's favorites, though it didn't mean she was spared from his cruelty.
When she learned she was pregnant, it was clear that she would no longer be safe in the capital city. Decisions must be made and my mother made hers the night she took me and ran for the mountains at the edge of our lands.
Turns out, cold and hungry is a much more appealing sensation than cold and dead.
Unfortunately for my mother, that choice was taken from her the day she had the misfortune to brush past a merchant carrying more than just his wares and fell victim to a plague following on the heels of the defeated army.
That army became the first chance I had to get out of that Cauldron forsaken village and see what Prythian and Hybern had to offer. Of course, after being defeated by the combined might of Prythian's High Lords and their human allies, Hybern's army was little more than a shell of the mighty force it once was. Our king returned to his castle after the infamous Wall was erected and locked himself away with his closest allies to plot the day he could get his revenge.
A defeated villain to be forgotten by a new generation.
His army was now little more than glorified scavengers, picking apart the villages and cities of our island for food and supplies in between raids on Prythian's coast. Officially it was still under the control of generals like Brannagh and her twin Dagdan and Amarantha, but they didn't care if their soldiers spilled innocent blood-just that they were prepared for battle at all times.
After years of abuse, our king finally took notice of the violence against his people when trade began to suffer and ordered his generals to do something about it.
And so the Arenas were created.
The premise was simple: instead of unleashing the pent-up frustrations and rage of a weakened and defeated army on civilians, the generals turned our aggression against one another. It started with a few wooden walls cobbled together around a dirt floor and evolved into dedicated stadiums with sand floors to help soak up the blood and viscera.
Anyone who wanted to challenge their rank or the rank of another could battle it out on the bloodied sands of the pits to decide their fates. Winner received the rank and goods of the fallen.
The loser died.
Simple rules for a violent obsession.
It was a brilliant solution to the issue with violence in Hybern and served a dual purpose of ensuring that each commander or ranking officer was more than capable of meteing out brutal violence when commanded. The perfect killing machines for a hidden, despotic ruler and his pets.
Rising up in the ranks outside of the Arena, took years of training and careful cultivation of countless political allies-unfortunately I've never been known for my patience, so I chose a more direct route.
Beginning in the lowest levels, I clawed my way up from a lowly serving girl and messenger into a commander of a legion of my own, carefully chosen soldiers. In between matches, I trained daily, seeking out soldiers with odd fighting styles not taught by the crown's trainers. A rolling dodge from a pickpocket from Jeva. Where to strike to make limbs go numb and muscles stop from a former monk born in the eastern arpellegio.
Then I chose my victims.
It was easy to be underestimated when you're female in a predominantly male army and I wasn't above using that to my advantage. I chose fae with a reputation for violence and torture. Ones that were avoided even by other ranking fae for fear of their infamous tempers.
Then I killed them, slowly when it suited me. Took everything they owned and left them to bleed out in the sands.
They called me cursed. A witch come to murder and maim any who stood against her.
They were right.
When it came time to create a legion of my own, hundreds of soldiers pledged to fight under my banner, but I turned them away. I had no interest in leading my own crowd of whimpering cowards waiting for the day to bring me to my own end one day. I needed soldiers who were as desperate to survive as I was.
Instead of looking to the training rings and battlefield counts for new members, I went back to where I began. I watched for the slaves with fury in their eyes. The broken. The chained. I gave them the tools to claim their freedom.
To fight.
We accepted only the most dangerous, most bloody missions and assignments and proved our skill each time we returned victorious. Each time we proved we were more than victims. Each time we proved that survival wasn't enough.
We would have vengeance.
In between rank bouts in the Arena, slaves and captives were marched out for painfully brutal battles that were little more than demonstrations to cow the rest of the prisoners into obedience. Each was given a rusty weapon or cudgel and instructed to kill their opponents for extra food or occasionally freedom. If they displayed talent, they could be recruited into whatever band bought them from their owners.
I tended to avoid these matches whenever possible. Something about the desperation in the eyes of each slave struggling for life felt a little too similar to my own problems. I left scouting new members to Jace and Ifrit whenever possible.
Today I was on a hunt of my own.
A broad shouldered male strode out to the center of the sandy arena to the howls and stomps of the crowd. He grinned, gesturing for them to increase their volume until it felt like the makeshift viewing platforms would collapse under the weight of it.
"Soldiers!" He cried gleefully, "Heroes of Hybern! I have prepared quite the showcase for you today!"
The crowd roared their approval and I sighed, pulling up the hood of my cloak to try to block some of the smell of alcohol and sweat. My eyes tracked over to the largest of the viewing platforms where a group of fae sat watching the announcer with gleaming eyes. If I looked closely I could make out the sigils that marked them as leaders of some of the most powerful legions stationed at this outpost.
A snarling dog. The hissing coils of a nested viper. And finally, the hulking figure of a bear, inscribed in intricate detail to the armor of an equally massive male in the middle of the commanders.
Crissen was the pride of the king's army trainers. Like the icon of his legion, he was known for his ferocity and bloodlust on the battlefield. He was also one of the reasons why the other legion commanders were so hell bent on destroying everything I'd built.
For that alone, he deserved to die.
But Crissen was infamous even in Hybern's army for the way he brutally massacred any and every one of the survivors of hIs raids. "Females and children are just assassins in training," he'd once told her before sinking his blade deep into the gut of a weeping woman.
I watched his scarred and rough hewn face tilt back in a laugh at something one of his flunkies said and scowled. Crissen was a classic bully and was happiest when he was surrounded by weaker fae. All the better to stroke his ego.
Problem was, he really was a powerful warrior. And, more importantly, not an opponent I could risk underestimating when it was time to finally challenge him.
The crowd began to boo and hiss around me so I let my attention return to the ring. Instead of the usual emaciated human slaves or would-be fae heroes, a lone male fae was dragged into the arena by four guards.
He was dirty, covered in the warded chains they reserved for the prisoners Brannagh and Dagdan 'questioned.' And furious. I could practically see the waves of his wrath curling around his body and something in me twisted at the sight of his struggle against the arena guards.
"Today we have a special treat for you ladies and fine sirs," The ringmaster crowed and the soldiers cackled with laughter. "Today, you'll witness justice!"
The male was forcibly moved to the center of the pit where a scarred wooden post was mounted. At one point, he managed to get an arm free long enough to slam the heavy cuff against the nose of one of his captors and I watched the blood spray with a satisfaction that was short lived. His chains were attached to sturdy metal links embedded in the wood and tightened until his front was pressed tightly to the post with his arms stretched out to the sides. Quickly, the guards ripped the thin fabric of his shirt away to expose his muscular back to the ringmaster's whip and the audience.
The crowd was practically in a frenzy now, their bloodlust rising with each of his feeble attempts to break free from the whipping post. My mouth twisted in disgust-there was no honor in this kind of exhibition.
"This Prythian coward attempted to kill one of our glorious generals and now he will receive the king's justice!"
I looked at the chained male with more interest-just who did he attempt to off all by himself?
Almost gleefully, the ringmaster unfurled the leather whip that was mounted at the base of the commander's viewing platform in a place of honor. Or pain-depending on what side of the whip you were on. Metal was braided into the stained leather to ensure the victim's flesh split easily beneath it.
I shifted slightly in my seat, wishing I were anywhere but here. This was why I avoided the minor bouts and exhibitions. This was not a battle-it was a bloodbath.
Despite myself, I found myself staring down at the chain male, hoping that one of the other legions might step in. Claim him for a foot soldier or archer perhaps. He looked fit enough, even with the bruises left from his time in the stocks.
Dark, matted hair clung to his head as he slowly lifted his face to the crowd in silent rebellion and I found myself leaning forward to see more of this strange assassin. The guards had beaten his face black and blue, swelling one eye almost completely shut beside his newly broken nose. Despite this, his expression was defiant as the whip rose and fell for the first time.
His back bowed and white teeth flashed as he bared them in a near-silent hiss. Slowly, I stood, pushing my way to the edge of the crowd and clenched my hands against the rough wood barrier separating us.
Don't let them break you, I whispered in my mind. Don't let them win.
Green eyes like the leaves from the trees that surrounded the home I was raised in met mine and my lungs struggled to fill against the tide of helpless rage lurking there. This, this was no victim.
The ringmasters whip cracked through the air once more and I was moving before the decision could register. My arm flung out in a controlled burst of magic that shifted the leather mid air so it wrapped around my forearm instead of the broken body behind me. We were both breathing heavily now and I resisted the urge to look back at the male I sheltered with my body.
"I challenge for ownership," I snapped in the silence left by a stunned crowd.
"You—you can't do that!" The ringmaster blustered and I narrowed my eyes at him.
"Failure to accept a challenge means you lose your rank in camp. Do you accept these terms?"
Mottled red broke out over his face and I wondered if he would pass out or manage to form the words that would decide how this confrontation ended. He eyed the glaive strapped to my back and finally summoned up his courage. And a massive axe that was easily as long as my leg.
"When I'm done with you," he promised with a lecherous grin, "I'm gonna get you a pretty little collar so you'll learn your place, bitch."
"I do love jewelry," I remarked with a mocking smile.
He growled as the crowd laughed, his face growing impossibly redder. I didn't bother to draw my sword, just watched the muscles of his arms and face for the tell tale twitch of impending movement. Finally he lunged forward, the axe coming within a hair's breadth of my neck to bury itself in the ground at the foot of the wooden block the slave was still tied to.
Tsking, I shook my head. "You'll have to do better than that, precious. Come on, give it another try."
Roaring his fury, the idiot did just that—only this time I didn't just step out of harm's way. Moving into him, I ducked the swing of his arm and slammed the edge of my hand into his throat. The male coughed, gasping for air through his newly collapsed windpipe and reached for me with his free hand.
I gave him a broken thumb for his trouble and enjoyed the way his screams blended with the cheers of the crowd.
"They are a fickle audience, aren't they?" I purred as I prowled behind my opponent. He struggled to get to his feet, dropping the axe in favor of using his unbroken hand.
Not that it mattered anymore.
Using my strength for the first time, I slammed my joined fists into the back of his neck, sending him tumbling into the dirt. The ringmaster gave a bleating cry of panic and began to crawl towards the exit of the arena, weapon forgotten in the sands.
I picked up the massive axe and sighed, "You should have accepted my offer."
Crying out in terror, he scrambled faster towards the tantalizing safety of the arena gates to the boos of the crowd. Stalking behind him, I raised the axe and left it fall.
The crowd howled it's pleasure as blood sprayed and bone crunched. I ignored them in favor of returning to my newest slave.
He stared at me, one eye nearly swollen shut, and made a show of looking over my blood stained hands and clothes before smirking slightly. I bared my teeth at him, feeling ill tempered at the way this scouting mission had gone. I was supposed to be preparing to battle Crissen and instead I'd picked up another half starved, beat to hell slave.
Thankfully the slave kept his mouth shut as I led him out of the arena by the long length of chain still attached to his manacled wrists. Ignoring the catcalls and jeers from the soldiers we passed, I threaded my way out of the main camp towards the close of trees where the rest of my crew was waiting.
A tall, olive skinned human stepped out of one of the larger tents and frowned at me as I approached. "I thought we weren't recruiting anymore members."
"I changed my mind."
Jace grinned at my irritated tone and followed me to the healer's tent. "I hope this one can at least fight," he said, giving a doubtful look at the bloodied male. "He doesn't look like much."
"They have him doped with fae bane so he's got to have some kind of useful magic—which we could use. It's the only reason I bothered with him."
The lie slipped off my tongue easily and Jace eyed him with new interest. I still wasn't ready to admit why I'd bothered saving yet another broken recruit.
Pushing the thought away, I handed the chain to my second in command. "Get him healed up and clear the faebane out of his system, then bring him to me."
I turned to leave, but paused when a rough voice called out, "Wait."
Pivoting back, I eyed the fae slave. "What?"
"Why did you save me?"
Those eyes drifted over my face, searching for reassurance or answers. Both of which I wouldn't—couldn't—provide. "Move it, Jace," I said instead and this time, I didn't turn back.
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