So. I just realized that I am an idiot and I've uploaded the wrong chapter.

Oops.

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Chapter Eighteen: The Price of Freedom

Lance didn't return to Blackthorn. Instead, he made his way to ring of dead trees deep in the heart of Blackthorn Forest. It was said only a fool would enter the forest alone, but he was a fool of a different sort – a blind fool. One who had never questioned all the lies told, and now he sought the truth from the very creatures he had been taught to hate and fear.

He didn't cover much ground when he noticed animal prints on the ground. Dropping to his knees, he examined the path. Wolf prints. The path took him on a journey along a narrow route through moss fallen logs and low hanging branches. Typically, the forest would be filled with birdsong, but even nature sensed there was something unnatural here. All he could hear were his own footsteps crunching the leaf litter on the soil. He continued to move, hand resting on his sword, as if expecting an ambush. Every step brought him closer to his destination.

He stepped over another fallen long. This one was covered in small black spiders no bigger than a thumb. On the opposite side of the log, he noticed a small thorn bush nearby. Clumps of grey wolf hair clung to the thorns. He was getting closer. He was half expecting to find a carcass somewhere. Did wolves eat other animals in their wolf form? How did that affect them when they turned back to human? It dawned on him that even though he hunted wolves he didn't really understand them.

Coming to a brief halt, he sniffed the air, picking up the scent of a decomposing carcass. Following the scent, he soon came across a young deer at the base of a gnarled tree. Most of the meat had been consumed except for the animal's head which remained intact. The hooves and the horns had been left untouched. Black empty eyes stared up at him. "Poor creature," he mumbled, staring down at it. Its death would've been swift and brutal.

"I knew we would meet again someday, but I didn't think I'd find you within our territory so soon."

Lance spun around, withdrawing his sword, pointing the tip at the man. Brawley. The man wasn't alone this time – he was accompanied by another wolf. These men weren't soldiers, but Lance knew even the toughest of normal men would struggle to win a fight. He thought of Jacob. If given the chance, a wolf could easily break his arm with little effort. They didn't need weapons. "Brawley."

"You remember me. Good."

"He's the one who killed our brother," Brawley's companion said, pointing a finger at him. His arms and legs were as thick as tree trunks and there was a mean look in his steel blue eyes. "No one has slain one of our brothers in almost two decades."

Brawley stuck out his arm. "We can't hurt him, Wikstrom."

"Fuck the orders! He killed one of us!"

"And he is one of us!" Brawley growled, his eyes flashing yellow.

Wikstrom shook his head. "We have no proof! He is a wolf slayer! A traitor!"

Lance snarled, unable to restrain himself. "I was attacked! I had to defend myself!"

The larger man turned to face him, throwing his chest out to appear bigger. "You killed a young pup, but if you are so eager to test your mettle, then I will gladly fight you and avenge him."

"Enough!" Brawley demanded, stepping in between them, his arms raised. "Wikstrom! We have discussed this. I am your leader, and you will stand down. Lance is not to be harmed. We do not harm our own."

Lance tightened his jaw. So, Brawley already knew the truth. Was that why he had sniffed him back at the Lake of Rage? Jacob had done the same. "I'm looking for answers."

"He's here to cause trouble," Wikstrom said, spitting at his feet.

"I don't want trouble. Just answers," Lance replied, raising his hands in a submissive manner.

"Not here to cause trouble? If not for your bloody king, we wouldn't even be fighting! But the damn man is too much of a blind fool to see the true threat. Your people are the monsters here. The vile slave trade and the hatred of those born different," he said, kicking his foot at the dirt.

"You're talking about my grandfather. The king," Lance replied, his tone low.

"And I'd ring his bloody neck if I could get close enough. You don't see it because you are blind yourself," Wikstrom said, his brows furrowed, hands balling into fists. Brawley laid a hand on the taller man's shoulder, but Wikstrom shrugged him off. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, his cold eyes fixed on his face.

Lance didn't flinch. He held his ground, meeting the man's gaze with his own steady stare. "I'm not afraid of you."

Wikstrom spat in his face. "You just follow orders. You don't think for yourself. You believe what others tell you and you probably consider yourself a good man."

"And aren't you wolves just the same? You follow Brawley, your pack leader. How are you any different from me? We both live to serve."

A muscle jerked in the man's jaw and his eyes flashed yellow. That seemed to touch a nerve. It happened so quickly – one moment he was at eye level with Wikstrom and the next second he found himself lying down on the ground with a painful left jaw. He swore he heard a crack, but his jaw still functioned normally, and his teeth were intact.

Brawley was quick to react. He turned on Wikstrom and growled. The man backed down, but the smug smirk on his face remained. "I told you to back down!"

Lance remained on the ground, his fingers clutching at blades of grass. His head throbbed. His face felt numb. He could even taste blood, but somehow none of his teeth had been knocked out of place. Suppressing a groan, he drew in a deep breath, as if that would somehow make the pain subside. It was as if the man's hand had been made of steel.

"How pathetic," he heard Wikstrom say. "Is this the one who will decide our future?"

"Wikstrom. Leave now. I won't warn you twice."

The man snorted. "Fine. He's all yours. I'm going for a hunt."

Lance heard footsteps retreating, the crunching sound of leaves filling the silence. The pain in his jaw was subsiding and he could already feel the numbness fading.

"I can't say you didn't deserve that," Brawley said, peering down at him. "But he will be punished for harming you. I will do it myself." He extended a hand.

Lance took it and helped himself to his feet. "And I should trust you?"

"No, you shouldn't. I'm the alpha. Not Wikstrom."

Before Lance could react, the man grabbed his shoulders then brought his knee forward, ramming it into his stomach. It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him and immediately, he dropped to the ground, once more familiarizing himself with the dirt. He struggled to breathe – every intake of air stung – and instinctively he brought his knees close to his chest.

"I'm sorry, really I am. But you must understand."

Darkness consumed him.

.

The past week had been tough. Even after a few short days Jasmine was already showing signs of the hard labour she had endured. All day long she picked up stones and loaded them onto the oxen carts. Many of the stones were equal to her weight, but she had to carry them or face punishment. The sun only made her work much more strenuous, but she couldn't stop.

Her master, Surge, wasn't a pleasant man. He was the kingdom's blacksmith, and he was pleasant to everyone but the slaves, especially the women. He seemed to think he was entitled to their bodies and no one seemed to care. Surge had two moods of both extremes – when he was in a happy mood, he allowed her to sit at the table and eat food. He would smile at her and commend her on a job well done. If he were in his foul mood, he would use her as an outlet of his anger. Sometimes she found herself on her knees being forced to pleasure him; other times she was deprived of basic food and water for no more than two days. It was senseless cruelty, but Surge could do whatever he pleased.

He wasn't a gentle man. He treated her like he was one of his tools at the blacksmith as if she had no sense of pain. Usually, he was in a foul mood after returning from the tavern. The man had a short temper. It was a mystery to her how he even became the kingdom's blacksmith. Didn't the king know about the crueller dark side of the man or did he simply not care if a job was well done?

The door swung open, and Jasmine immediately dropped to her knees and bowed her head before him. This was how he liked to be greeted. She wasn't allowed to lift her head until he gave permission. Sniffing the air, she caught the scent of alcohol. Although he was a large man with a solid physique, his tolerance for alcohol was low. It would only take a single mug for the man to lose all sense of understanding of the world he lived in.

Surge staggered inside slamming the door behind him then sauntered over to the kitchen table. He grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room. One of the legs snapped off. She winced but didn't dare to speak.

"…Fuck the king and fuck his men," he mumbled.

Jasmine kept her head low. Talking to the floor, she said, "Can I help you with anything, master?"

He grabbed a handful of her hair and brought it to his face taking in her scent. "Fuck the royal family. What have they ever done for us? We work. I pay my share for my land. I do my work and I do it well. And they increase taxes overnight!" His grip tightened. She winced. "Fuck the army. Fuck the king. Fuck Blaine. He promised me extra payment." He kicked one of the chairs over.

Jasmine remained silent. It wasn't as if she had anything useful to say. She didn't know much about the city's economic state, but she figured Surge would be one of the fortunate few people paid reasonably well. It seemed like that wasn't the case if Surge's words were to be believed. Perhaps he overestimated his value.

He turned to her again." …I could use you."

She peered up at him. "How can I help you?"

"Stand up," he ordered. She did as commanded, her arms hanging down by her sides. "I don't like the thought of having to share you with other people, but I don't have much of a choice otherwise we both won't have a home to live in." He placed his hands on her shoulders then turned her around.

She felt his hands move to the buttons on the back of her dress. The buttons were being undone and she couldn't do anything to stop him. Trying to fight him off would only end up badly. All she could do was watch as he tugged her dress down to her waist, exposing her chest to the cold air. She immediately wrapped her arms around herself, but he pulled them away.

"You're going to make me money using your natural assets," he said softly, bringing his face close to her right ear, his hands fondling her breasts. "I will give you some time off each day to prepare yourself for the night shifts. There are plenty of soldiers who will pay up for a night with a beautiful girl. Agatha will give you medicines to ensure you don't catch a disease and die. I can't risk having that. When we make enough, we will leave this city behind."

She bit down on her lower lip, trying to prevent herself from making any noises, as his hands continued to fondle her. "Leave the city?" she managed to speak.

"Yes. Leave. Start a new life someplace else. This city is going to implode eventually. The king will die, and he has no true heir. Clair would be a volatile queen and Lance is just a bastard incapable of claiming the throne. But you my sweet… We can have a life outside these walls once we have the coin." He pulled his hands away. She shuddered. "The soldiers will be rough. But you don't have to enjoy it. The money is what is important."

Of course. It was easy for Surge to talk about prostitution. He wasn't the one being forced into selling his body for coin. Was it still classified as rape? She wasn't giving her consent. It was being given for her on the behalf of her master. But it would not matter. It wasn't as if anyone cared about her feelings or opinions on anything. She turned her head towards the kitchen. Surely, there would be something inside those cupboards she could use to kill herself with? Death seemed far more appealing than living. What was there to live for anyway? A life outside the walls with Surge?

He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around again to face him. His face rested on her chest for a few moments longer before speaking again. "I'm going to talk to some lads at the barracks to arrange a night for you." He dug a hand into his pockets and pulled out a few silver coins. "These coins are for you. Head to the apothecary and purchase some medicines from Agatha. Tell her what you need them for, and she will give you the right ones." He picked up her dress and handed it over.

She quickly grabbed it and covered her chest. "Thanks…"

He chuckled. "Best get used to it. The others won't be so gentle or kind." He turned his back and exited the building, closing the door behind him.

Jasmine dressed herself, her face burning red. Humiliation. That's what her life had become. A constant cycle of degradation and humiliation. What kind of a life was this? There was no guarantee Surge could even leave the city. What was to stop bandits from finding them? Alone once more, Jasmine sat down on the ground, her knees close to her chest. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she buried her head between her knees and wept.

.

Lance's eyes opened, a deep groan escaping his throat. His vision slowly grew accustomed to his new environment and he found himself looking up at the thick canopy. Small patches of sunlight peered through the openings providing minimal light. He tried to move, but even the slightest of movements such as the lifting of a finger, sent a shockwave of pain throughout his body. What had happened? He struggled to remember.

"Look at him. He's not one of us. He would've healed by now," a man said.

"Didn't you see the mark on the back of his neck? He's been cursed." Another voice.

"This is madness, Brawley. He's an enemy. What if he comes back with an army?"

Lance remained on the ground. He wanted to sit upright, but his body refused to move. All he could do was lie down and look up at the people around him helplessly. Had he been poisoned? "…What did you do to me?" he murmured.

Peering down at him with, Brawley said, "No. Poison would have no effect on you. Not the ordinary kind. The only poison we're weak to is a plant called wolfsbane." Brawley dropped to his knees. "The pain will subside. Even in a dormant state, you recover much faster than a human would. I knew you'd come looking for me when you opened your eyes to the truth. It took a lot longer than I had hoped, but here you are. I know you have many questions."

Brawley was right. The pain was subsiding. Already, he could feel the dull ache fading. You said you would never harm me," Lance said, recalling their previous conversation.

"I have to make you understand what you are. What you really are. Drastic measures, but time is precious." Climbing to his feet, Brawley turned to address the other wolves. "Leave me alone with him. Protect the borders and make sure none of his people have come looking for him."

The wolves, of which Lance counted about five, turned to leave. He wanted to climb to his feet and leave this place too – this had been a mistake. "What do you want with me?"

Returning his attention to Lance, Brawley said, "An alliance. You want answers. I can give you those answers if you grant us your word we will not be harmed. We are not the monsters your grandfather thinks us to be, Lance."

Lance tried to push himself up from the grass, but his body refused to comply. Even though the pain had subsided, his legs didn't want to move. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because we have nothing to gain from killing you." Brawley dropped to his knees and moved a hand towards the back of Lance's neck. "You bear the mark of a curse. The work of a powerful witch. Designed to keep something from getting out. You are full of many surprises, Lance." The man climbed to his feet.

"So, I've been told," he replied wryly.

Brawley touched the mark on his neck, then jerked his arm back, as if he had touched something burning hot. "…I can feel the magic. This is the work of an old witch familiar with old magic."

Try as he might to sit upright, he could not. The pain had faded now, but his arms and legs were paralysed. "…How?"

"Magic runs through our veins. We can smell it too. A sweet scent. But yours is unpleasant, like the smell of the dead. A curse indeed." He tilted his head to the side and frowned. "There's something about you that makes you different. Someone was scared enough they hired the services of a mage to place a spell on you… To stop something from getting out."

"You think I'm like you."

Brawley gave him a brief grin. "What a scandal it would be if your people knew what you were."

Lance grimaced. "It seems like you're enjoying this."

"What we are is not something to be ashamed of, Lance."

"Well, it seems like my family disagreed because a curse was placed upon me," he replied curtly. The wolf did not reply. He simply looked at Lance with an expression of amusement. Feeling a familiar surge of anger rising, Lance clamped his jaw firmly and said through clenched teeth, "You say it's something to not be ashamed of, yet this… affliction is the reason my mother died."

"You know what you are then."

"Are you going to make me say it out aloud?"

Brawley cracked a grin. "Would that make you feel better?"

"No."

"So, a part of you still refuses to accept what you truly are."

Lance gave a sardonic laugh. "A wolf like you? The whole idea is ridiculous to me. How could I be anything like you? I've lived my entire life pretending I was someone else. To play a role of a king's grandson. You know what people called me? They said I was blessed by Arceus." Again, he laughed, but the humour did not reach his eyes. His soldiers admired him for his strength. His grandfather often bragged no man could defeat his grandson. They all believed he was blessed by Arceus, but he wasn't. What fools they all had been.

Cocking a brow, Brawley answered, "This spell that was cast on you prevents you from fully accessing that part of you. The magic suppresses your true nature. You might've experienced some side effects of that magic." He paced back and forth. "There was a wolf called Jacob. A mercenary. He used to be part of a pack, but he abandoned them shortly after Edward Blackthorn became king. He had become infatuated with a woman. Your mother."

That woman in the painting. His mother. Tahlia Blackthorn. Again, Lance's thoughts shifted to the unkept man at the bandit camp. A wolf. His father was a werewolf, an abomination his grandfather swore had to be exterminated like rodents. The man had always claimed werewolves were monstrous bloodthirsty animals that were a threat to everyone including themselves. He claimed they were unnatural beings that disturbed the balance of nature. All this time the man had known about him being a wolf.

"You're lying." A part of him still wasn't convinced even if all the signs were obvious.

"I wish I was, but it all makes sense now." Brawley extended a hand.

Lance grabbed it, and the man helped him to his feet. He staggered, his balance unsteady, but Brawley made sure not to let him fall over. "He knew… All this time… He knew." A wave of hot anger surged through him. His grandfather, the man he had looked up to his entire life, had wanted him killed because he had been born a wolf. Had his mother died because of his true nature?

"Save that anger for the true threat, Lance. You'll need it."

"I won't even live long enough to see the face of the threat. It's getting worse."

"That's because the longer a wolf doesn't become a wolf, the more unbearable it becomes."

"I don't want to be like this!" Lance blurted out.

"It's not something to be ashamed of, Lance."

Lance scoffed. "Ashamed of? I was taught to despise wolves." What a fool he had been. He tightened his jaw, eyes shifting to his sword. "I was given this blade when I was knighted. It belonged to Edward once… A blessing from Arceus, he said."

"You are not to blame, Lance. We don't get to choose how we are born."

He ignored Brawley his gaze still fixed on the blade. Withdrawing the weapon from its sheath, he held it before him, examining the steel. A sword that had taken the lives of many people who had threatened the peace of the kingdom. A blade that had claimed the life of one of his own. A sword fitting of kings, Edward claimed. "Forged with dragon's breath," Lance said. "Or so it was believed."

Brawley didn't move. "It's not a curse, Lance."

Lance gave a sardonic laugh. "A curse? Of course it is! If it weren't something to be ashamed of, why would grandfather have a curse placed on me? Because he was embarrassed that I'd bring shame to the family name if people knew what I was."

Edward wanted to fix him, as if he were an object. That's why he wanted Clair to marry. She was pure. No risk of tainting the Blackthorn name. Did the man even care? Or was he simply a weapon of war? To be a mindless soldier carrying out the orders and risking his life for the king. Empowered by adrenaline and anger, Lance turned on Brawley.

Raising his hands, Brawley said, "I'm not your enemy, Lance."

He pointed his sword at Brawley. "I don't know what to believe anymore," he hissed. "For my entire life I believed in the lies that my father was a man to be despised. I pledged undying loyalty to the crown for my grandfather, believing in every word he said. For what gain? Nothing. Clair was right all along. He doesn't care at all. Just wants us to be controlled." He dropped the sword on the ground.

"You didn't know."

"And I never would've suspected anything either if it hadn't been for Lyra or that mage. He should've let me die, but the man needed an heir. Someone to carry on his legacy because family name is so important to him." He turned his back to Brawley, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath. "I sacrificed everything for a lie, and I've punished those who did not deserve it. I'm supposed to be this… hero of the kingdom. They say I'm blessed by Arceus. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do anymore." And nothing was more dangerous than a man without a purpose.

"You came to me for help in fighting the necromancers."

Turning back around, Lance said, "I don't even know where they are."

"Hunting them alone is suicide. You need to help Blackthorn prepare for war," Brawley explained. "The dead will rise, and you have the power to stop it from happening.

Lance scoffed. "My grandfather will not give the order. He believes we are not under threat."

"Then convince him or many people will die."

With a frown, Lance said, "Why do you even care? I thought you'd be happy at the downfall."

"Because it affects us all, Lance. There is a world outside Blackthorn."

"Why do you think I can stop it? Lorelei said the same thing. There's nothing about me that sets me apart from any other man." A partial lie. He did have the advantage of being a dormant werewolf.

"But you are different, Lance. You have king's blood in your veins. That makes you a powerful influencer – a person who can make change happen." Brawley folded his arms.

"That's what you say, but I have no power as long my grandfather is alive and well."

Brawley folded his arms. "You need to make a choice."

"I'll be dead by the time war starts. These potions won't last forever."

"Curses can be lifted by the person who made it happen."

Agatha. The woman who placed the curse on him in the first place. Lifting the curse would cure him of his symptoms, but at what cost? People would ask questions if he disappeared every full moon night. They'd learn the truth eventually and then what? "And be like you. Living out here in the wild? I can't live like that."

"It doesn't have to be like that. If you become king, then you have the power to change the world."

Similar words had been said by Lorelei. To save the mages. In Brawley's case, it was to save the wolves. Their kind. Lance narrowed his eyes. "You want to use me too. How are you any different from my grandfather?"

Brawley raised his hands. "I mean you well. We have magic in our blood, Lance. That makes us stronger than normal humans. If you want to win this war, you'll need that part of you. It's different, but sometimes you must make a sacrifice to save the world. You said it yourself. You will die in time. You can't fight what you are forever."

Lance turned back to the sword. "The only way my grandfather will relinquish control is in death." Killing the king would be treason. The people would never trust him again. "He'll rule until he can no longer breath, but you can't expect me to kill him. I'll be put on trial if I did." Make a sacrifice for the greater good. That's what Brawley had implied. But how could he remove his grandfather from the throne?

"You are our only hope, Lance. I know you don't want the burden of responsibility on your shoulders, but you are of royal blood, and this is your destiny." The man gestured to the sky. "The storm is coming, and you have a chance to lessen the damage. It won't be easy – you'll have to turn your back on the life you've always known – but this world cannot fall into darkness again."

Lance placed his hand around the hilt of his blade and picked it up from the ground. "And how do you fight the dead? They're dead."

"Magic is linked to the person who created the spell."

"Didn't work for the werewolves though."

"It became a part of us."

Lance sighed. "Will you be there for the battle?"

"We will be there. You have my word. But you must guarantee our safety afterwards."

"We have to win the battle first." Lance walked away from the trees, placing his sword back in its sheath. Even though his body had recovered, he felt sluggish and weak. It was as if he was carrying something heavy on his shoulders. A new burden of responsibility. "I need to leave. What will you do now?"

Brawley shook his head. "Not yet. You need to know things about what it means to be a wolf. Even in a dormant state, you still have abilities open to you. Your senses are far stronger than any human. Stronger than an ordinary canine too. You just have to know how to use them."

"How?"

"You need to focus on your surroundings. Focus hard on what you are looking for. Let's try it with a bird. Think of a bird of interest. There are pidgey in this forest. You know what they look like. Small, round, plump pigeons covered in tawny brown feathers. Picture the bird in your mind, and a path will be revealed to you."

He wanted to return to Blackthorn. Too many days had passed since he had last set foot in the kingdom. How was Clair faring? What of Lyra? What of his grandfather? The man had looked ill the last they had met. But he doubted Brawley would let him just leave. Feeling like a fool, Lance closed his eyes and tried to conjure an image of a pidgey in his mind. Supposedly, a path would reveal itself, but he hadn't noticed anything different.

"You need to clear your mind of doubt."

"This is ridiculous…" Lance murmured, opening his eyes. "Nothing is happening."

"You're a soldier are you not? You should be able to focus your mind."

He closed his eyes again, and once more thought of a plump pidgey. "What does a pidgey sound like," he mumbled, trying to recall the last time he had seen a pidgey. He rarely paid much attention to the local wildlife, often too preoccupied with other things. "All right, focus." An image of a pidgey appeared in his mind, and he tried to imagine it making a soft chirping noise.

"Keep focusing on the bird then open your eyes and keep that image in your mind."

Lance followed the wolf's commands and opened his eyes, still holding onto the pidgey image. It was hard not to get distracted by the trees and bushes around him. Then he heard it. A soft chirping noise further into the forest. He could hear multiple chirps. A small flock of pidgeys. "I was expecting a path to show."

"An invisible path. You just follow the sound. Or the smell in some cases."

"Does it work with people?" A branch rustled above him. He glanced up, a few leaves fluttering down to the ground. Above, he spotted a brown-feathered plump pigeon. It jumped off the branch and flew further into the forest. "They're everywhere."

"The world will open up to you. It can be overwhelming at first, but you adapt. And yes, you can find people. You just have to know what they smell like, sound like, and look like, and your senses will help you find them. Magic is both a blessing and a curse." Brawley leaned against a tree his arms folded across his chest. "Find the witch who did this to you."

Become a wolf he was supposed to detest or die. Neither option was appealing. "I'll find the witch."

"When the battle begins, we will come."

Lance still didn't fully trust the wolves – what if they decided to turn against him at the last moment? But for now, he needed their help. No one else could tell him about life as a wolf. Without saying another word, Lance left the circle of dead trees.

.

The slave fighting arena was much smaller than Clair had imagined. The king's throne room was larger. There was a wooden grandstand of three rows of seats around a circular sand pit indicated by lit braziers. Guards were positioned around the circle to prevent bystanders from getting involved in the action. Owners of slaves had come here to witness a depraved form of sport – watching slaves fight for gold.

Slaves were mostly men although Clair spotted a few women being escorted into the arena by a rope around their neck. Some slaves even had chains around their ankles and wrists, the spikes puncturing the flesh. She could see blood on the sand where the slaves walked. Many of the slaves that were paraded around the arena were sick or of old age, but she did notice some fighters in prime condition. One that caught her interest was a red-haired male with a violent look in his eyes.

"Oh, I like that one there," Clair said, drawing her attention towards the red-haired male.

Karen glanced over. "He's okay, I guess. He looks a bit wild."

The red-head's arms were bound behind his back. His master was none other than Blaine, the man responsible for the slaves. Clair had never spoken to him, but she often spotted her grandfather in conversation. Even though Edward didn't like the mistreatment of slaves, he knew they were necessary in keeping the city standing.

Blaine stepped away from the slaves and walked around them. "Welcome friends to another thrilling pit fight! Please do remain in your seats throughout the duration of the fights. This is for your own protection. Some of these slaves carry diseases and I'm sure you don't want to get their filth on your skin. So, sit back and enjoy the fights! May the best slave win!" He raised his hands in the air. The crowd roared to live. People around her were clapping their hands and yelling at the top of their lungs. She winced. The castle was always so quiet.

Fortunately, no one seemed to recognize her. Karen had informed her it was best to keep a low profile as they'd probably think she was accompanied by the knights. She had taken to wearing the ugliest dress she could find – an old brown dress taken from one of the servant girls in the castle. Her hair was tied up in a bun and hidden under a white wimple. Her royal blue hair would draw unnecessary attention. Married women and nuns were expected to wear them because they were not supposed to show hair.

"It's not exactly the most organized event," Karen said, gesturing down towards the pit.

The chains on the slaves were being removed one by one. Clair had been expecting to see two people fighting in the pit, but it seemed like all the slaves would be expected to fight at once. How was anyone supposed to keep track of each slave? It seemed a bit too chaotic for her liking, but she wanted to see how it would play out. "Is it a tournament?"

"The slaves fight until there's only one left standing. They all fight at once. It's the fastest way to eliminate the weak instead of having individual matches. You'd have to have so many rounds and that is just a waste of time."

"How often do you come here?"

She shrugged. "Every couple of weeks. It gets a bit old after you've seen the fights a few times."

It wasn't boring for her. Clair had heard many stories about the conquests on the battlefield and what it was like to kill. Most knights didn't sound overjoyed when they talked about death – not even her cousin. It seemed like murder was a last resort. But this was a new experience for her. People died in the pits. Blood was shed. She hadn't ever seen anyone killed before. The thrill of battle.

She shifted her attention back to the sand pit and counted the heads. There were ten slaves in total; seven men and three women one of which looked a few years younger than herself. The other two women were lean and underfed. They would probably be first to perish. As for the men the only one she found interesting was the red head. He looked younger than the rest and appeared to be in fine condition. There was still meat on his bones, and he didn't appear to have any disabilities unlike the other slaves. One had a limp, another seemed to have a broken arm, and the others bore similar ailments.

The guards surrounding the perimeter of the pit moved towards the centre to retrieve the chains. The chains were then laid down on the outside of the ring as the slaves took their positions. Clair kept her eyes trained on the red head. He seemed to be the one in peak condition and therefore had the best chance of winning. No weapons were given to the slaves. They were expected to rely just on their fists to emerge victorious.

"Let the fighting begin!" Blaine announced stepping away from the arena to return to the stands.

The fighting began. Clair's eyes fixated on Silver watching his every move. Her only experience of combat was watching the soldiers train in the courtyard, but those moments had been short. Lance talked about it too often, but usually with his grandfather and the other knights of whom she had little contact with.

The red-headed boy threw his arms up to block a punch then countered with his own delivering a blow to a man's face. It was clear these slaves had little combat experience if any at all. She supposed that was part of the entertainment – to watch those untrained try to fight. The man staggered backwards, clutching his nose with his right hand, blood starting to flow out of his nostrils. Several members of the audience broke out into applause surging to their feet to cry out words of support.

Caught up in the excitement, Clair surged to her feet and joined in. She didn't even check to see if Karen was standing. She didn't care.

The boy kicked the other slave in the ribs then stomped on his face before shifting his attention to another slave advancing towards him. He waited for his opponent to charge the ducked a swinging first. He then charged forward, throwing himself at the other man, bringing him to the ground. They hit the sand hard and rolled around on the floor, each one trying to dominate the other.

The red head placed his hands around the other man's neck, choking him until he slipped into an unconscious state. In the background, other slaves were trading blows and wrestling on the sand. Even the girls were not hesitant to get their hands dirty. One of the three women had grabbed another woman into a headlock.

Clair returned her attention to the red-headed boy. He had defeated two opponents and was duelling another. The other man was twice his height, but he was an elderly man and slow with his reactions. He was brought to the ground with a knee to the stomach. The red head didn't slow down; he seemed to be the only one with some combat training and it made her wonder if the event was designed for him to win. His opponents were out skilled.

The remaining fights were brief but bloody. The women had both fallen to the other woman who had walked up behind them and pushed both women to the sand. She was then kicked behind the knees and brought to the floor. Her attacker, one of the last few men standing, then wrapped an arm around her neck and snapped it. Clair didn't hear the crack, but she did see the woman flop to the ground. Her body ceased its movements instantly. Her death wasn't immediate, but Clair knew her time was already up. No one was coming to help her. Her spine had been severed and soon her brain would become starved of oxygen.

She clapped her hands and cheered along with the rest of the crowd. The enthusiasm of the other crowd members was contagious – every time they cheered, she did too. Every time they clapped, she did as well. She was like a sheep as of this moment, but it was hard to resist temptation. But she didn't care. It wasn't as if anyone aside from Karen knew who she was. And it was just for one day.

The scent of blood filled the air. Her new favourite slave was circling the last survivor. They were eyeing each other as if the other was the last remaining food source. The other man was a few inches taller and wider. His hair was a deep shade of auburn and styled in a way that reminded her loosely of Lance's haircut. Releasing a loud cry, the other man charged forward. The red head met his cry with a bellowing roar of his own, but held his ground, preparing himself for the impact. They clashed and toppled to the ground. Again, they wrestled on the sand for dominance, desperately clawing at each other's faces, trying to find a weak spot.

The red head managed to poke his opponent in the eyes. The other man cried out and released his grip, dropping his guard for a moment. It was enough for the red head to take advantage. He trapped his opponent's leg with one of his own then pushed him off by applying force to his knee and pushing hard. Weakened already by the eye gouge, the man lost his balance and rolled off. The red head immediately pounced on him and pressed both of his thumbs into his opponent's eyes applying pressure. Clair had read in stories the human head would explode, but nothing happened. All she saw was blood seeping out of the eyes. How disappointing. Clearly, the stories had been exaggerated.

The other man cried out in pain and desperately lashed out at the red head, but his arms were slapped away. The man received a repetition of punches to the face until his cries were silenced. There was blood coming of his eyes and out of his nose and mouth. Did he feel pain? Was he even still alive? She couldn't tell. He wasn't moving. The red head climbed to his feet. He didn't seem proud of himself – she always imagined the victor would parade around the pit, chanting his name to the crowd, seeking applause – but this slave stood in silence.

Blaine left the stands and walked towards the centre of the arena, stepping over the fallen victims to stand next to the victor. "And it seems we have a victor! Silver!" Blaine declared. The crowd applauded. Blaine smiled at him then handed the man a small copper bracelet. "You've done well. Your prize is your freedom from these chains that make you a slave. You've earned it, boy. This is your symbol of freedom."

Silver grabbed it, but he didn't put it on just yet.

She supposed he was still in shock. The poor lad. She didn't know how long the boy had been serving in the city, but she wondered how he would cope once back outside the walls. He probably didn't even have a home to return to. The boy was safer in the city and judging by the puzzled look on his face, he seemed to think so too.

"Now is a good time to leave," Karen said. "It starts getting a little rough in here and I'm sure you don't want to be touched by the men." She glanced over the bodies then turned back to Clair. "Don't worry about them. They just get fed to the dogs."

Clair made a face. "…Oh."

"They're just slaves. They don't get a proper burial here." She stood up and grabbed Clair's arm, guiding her out of the venue.

Clair could still hear the cries and shouts of excitement. A part of her was a bit disappointed that she was being forced to leave, but she didn't want to be touched by drunken men.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself."

Clair followed Karen towards the exit. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice them leaving. "And you didn't?"

"Like I said, I've been to these displays before. Once you've seen one fight, you've seen them all. Honestly. I don't really understand why men enjoy this blood sport so much. It's all so… pointless… But that's just what I think. You should return home. You've got a husband to tend to now." The corners of her mouth curved upwards.

Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Clair said, "And I'm not going to give you the details."

"Oh, come on don't be a spoilsport," Karen teased.

"How would it be any different from any other man you've been with?"

"He's a prince?"

Clair sighed. "That's not very convincing. How does being a prince make him any different?"

Karen threw her hands up in the air with mock defeat. "Ah fine, fine, I won't press for details. It's not very often people get a chance to share a bed with a prince, that's all I'm saying." She didn't speak another word, lost in her own thoughts.

Clair was fine with the silence. Even though Karen was her only friend, the girl tended to talk too much. But she was right about something. She did have a husband to return to and she hoped Lyra had brewed the potion ready to be used otherwise she'd be heading to Unova and that vision would become a reality.

.

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