We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 4

M y muscles are trembling with fatigue by the time I make it home. The vampire is once again leaning against our door, Carrick standing next to him, eyeing him distrustfully, my brothers positioned behind his large frame.

The street is quiet, our neighbors nowhere to be seen. But I catch a face pressed to a window in the apartment above ours. When I raise an eyebrow, the face disappears.

I return my attention to my brothers. “Go inside and make sure you’ve got everything you need,” I murmur. “Carrick will help you.”

Carrick’s face darkens further at that, but he follows my brothers into the house.

At this point, I have no leverage. But vampires are sly and cunning. It’s in their nature to ruin lives. A simple word in the wrong place, and I could spend the rest of my life as Bran’s slave.

Bran leans close enough that I can catch the faint scent of blood on his breath. The air around him is several degrees colder, which means he is a direct descendant of a First—one of the vampires created by Umbros himself all those centuries ago.

Typically, the older a vampire is, the more power they have. But that’s not always true. I’ve heard of centuries-old vampires who can barely manage a basic shield, while others just a few years turned will radiate raw, untamed power.

Those who are sired by the Firsts are powerful from the moment they begin to transition. And those who are naturally born of the Firsts?

I shiver. Bran gives me a pleased smile.

“Here are the terms of our agreement: You will enter the Sundering as a gladian. While you’re training with the other gladians, I will attempt to give you information that may help you in your task. You will not strike at the emperor until after the Sundering, when I say it is time. You will not tell the Primus of your plans. You will not warn either him or the emperor.”

He pauses, as if waiting for me to argue, and I stare at him. The Primus is the leader of the imperius—the emperor’s elite cohort.

“I may not be a trained assassin, but I’m not an idiot.”

“Once the emperor is dead, I will heal your brother and release both of them. You may join them in the north.”

“No. Evren can’t wait that long. I want him healed now.”

Bran slowly peels himself away from the door. “And lose my leverage? No.”

“We both know you’ll still be holding my brothers hostage. That’s more than enough leverage.”

His smile is small, pleasant, his fangs tucked neatly away. “A compromise. Your brother’s lungs will be healed once you have completed the Sundering.”

“No.”

His eyes harden. “Yes.”

My nails slice into my palms, and I release my clenched fists before Bran smells blood. He just ensured I can’t throw any of the challenges. I’ll have to win all three in order for Evren to be cured.

I let out a low growl. “There are thousands of people training to be in this exact position. And likely hundreds more who could get close to the emperor. Why did you decide to stalk me?”

He frowns at the word stalk . “Anyone who has made it this far and entered the emperor’s arena is already there for their own reasons. You, however, don’t want to be there. You were never planning to be there. Which makes your hands clean. Exactly what I need for my purposes.”

A chill slides down my spine. Every move I’ve made was to ensure I’d never have to fight for the emperor again. It’s bitterly ironic that those very steps have led me right back to this exact situation.

Can I really become a cold-blooded murderer?

Evren’s face flashes before my eyes, his lips blue, the muscles in his neck straining as he fights for air.

I take a deep breath. Vallius Corvus is a monster. His obsession with conquering and collecting kingdoms to force beneath his own banner has cost countless lives—both in Senthara and across this continent. And when force doesn’t work, he sends his imperius out to persuade foreign rulers to hand over their crowns.

His taxes are crippling. He provides few services to the poorest of his subjects, all while bragging about the progress he has created within the empire.

But most important …

He’s the reason Kassia is dead.

Meanwhile, Bran took one look at the Thorn—at my life—and decided I was nothing but a tool he could use for his purposes.

He thinks I’m weak. Broken. Easily manipulated.

He’s going to learn otherwise.

To his credit, Bran doesn’t draw it out. He rattles off our amended agreement, then leans down, one cold hand taking my chin and tilting my head with practiced ease. His sharp fangs sink into my neck.

My hand slides instinctively down toward my knife. Bran catches my wrist, squeezing until it cracks.

A scream rips from my throat, and he releases me. “Must you be so difficult about everything?” Sharp teeth slice into his own wrist, and I instantly shake my head, stepping back.

With a sigh, Bran moves too fast for me to evade. He shoves his wrist against my mouth, clamping his hand onto the back of my head and holding me in place.

“Shall I pinch your nose the way you pinched your brother’s?” Bran’s blood pours into my mouth, burning through my body. My wrist cracks again, the bones welding back together, and I cry out, the sound muffled against his skin.

He pulls his arm away, casually sealing his wound with the flick of his tongue.

It has been a long, long time since I last drank vampire blood.

Cool sheets. Warm skin. The sharp, coppery taste of my own blood as he kissed me like he would never let me go.

I push the memories away. My entire body is buzzing, my bruises gone. I’d almost forgotten just how miraculously vampire blood heals fresh injuries.

Bran smiles at me, my blood coating his teeth. “Delicious, hmm?”

Fury surges through me. Reaching for my water flask, I swish my mouth, spitting leftover blood on the ground between us. “I’ve had better.”

His eyes turn cold. “Some gratitude would not be unwelcome.”

I tuck my water flask away. “For healing the wrist you broke?”

He curls his lip at me. “It’s time to go.”

Bran doesn’t attempt to wrangle an invitation inside, and I slam the door in his face. In the kitchen, Carrick sits slumped at the table, Gerith and Evren waiting quietly across from him, canvas bags by their sides. They’re pale, shell-shocked. My heart twists.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them. Ducking into my room, I search the back of the closet for the whispering mirrors I bought six years ago. The mirrors I bought because I missed Tiernon so desperately when he wasn’t around, I wanted to be able to talk to him daily.

My mouth floods with bitterness and I swallow it down, placing one of the mirrors into my bag, along with weapons and clothes.

“Don’t do this, Velle,” Evren says behind me. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he stands tall. Thanks to Bran’s blood, he looks stronger today than he has for months. Years.

I haul my bag over one shoulder and hold out my arms. He steps into them.

“It’s going to be fine.”

My brother shakes his head, burying his face against my shoulder. When did he get so tall?

“I don’t want you to die.”

I ease him away until I can look down into his face. Something in my chest wrenches at the devastation in his eyes. “I swear to you, I will do whatever it takes to stay alive, Ev. You’re going to go and get healed, and then I’ll come and find you.”

“Do you promise?” Gerith asks, leaning against the door.

“I promise. But if they hurt you—if they go back on their word—run. Look and listen for any opportunity you can. If you need to escape, go. I’ll find you. I’ll always find you. Promise me.”

Both of my brothers look spooked. But they promise.

“Did you talk to Leon?” Evren whispers, his brow furrowed.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m hoping he will come with me.”

“He’ll keep you safe,” Evren says, but his voice cracks. He meets my eyes, and I wrap my arms around him, squeezing tight.

Gerith’s gaze drops to my ankle, his eyes worried.

I wink at him. “I drank vampire blood.”

His nose wrinkles and he gags dramatically. I can’t help but smile. “My ankle feels better than it has in years.”

“But it’s not fixed.”

“No.” Vampire blood is miraculous for fresh injuries. But my ankle was never set properly by a healer all those years ago.

Gerith gags some more. Evren laughs. It’s forced, but it’s a laugh.

“Vampires rarely give their blood to humans,” I say. “You’re just jealous.”

Leaning over, I hand Evren the second mirror. “Take this. I’ll be able to talk to you every day.” As long as I win enough money to replenish the aether in my mirror.

Three challenges. That’s all the Sundering is. I win the tria proeliis, and I can leave. As long as I kill the emperor too.

I have the strangest urge to burst into unhinged laughter.

Kill the emperor.

The very idea is absurd.

Grabbing my bag, I steady myself and follow my brothers into the main room.

Carrick is waiting, and I gesture for him to follow me into the kitchen.

“If something happens to me …”

“It won’t.”

“If it does—”

“I know. I’ll find them and make sure they’ll be safe. I’ve got contacts in the north, and I’m going to try to make sure someone will keep an eye on them. Gods, Arvelle …” He swipes a hand through his hair.

“I have to look at this as an opportunity. It’s everything I’ve wanted for my brothers. Evren will be healed. Both of them will be safe, and unless the emperor succeeds in adding Nesonias to his empire, they’ll never have to fight in the Sands.”

“Velle.” He’s looking at me like I’m a ghost.

“As fascinating as this is, it’s time to go ,” Bran’s voice comes from the open door behind us.

Carrick leans close. “Keep your head down, your eyes open, and fight for your life,” he mutters.

I nod. “Goodbye, Carrick.”

His face is tight as he watches us leave. And I’m more than happy to go. The last thing I need is anyone else looking at me like I’m already dead.

T RAVELING BY LEY line is usually reserved for vampires and wealthy sigilmarked who are at least half-crowned bronze—although they occasionally bring their mundane servants along with them. I’ve never even stepped foot in the nearest ley station, which is three districts north of the Thorn.

Bran is all business, scanning a piece of parchment as we approach the station after sunset. Next to me, Leon is a grim, silent presence, a huge canvas satchel slung over each of his shoulders. He arrived at my house at the last possible second, his expression resigned, his eyes smoldering with fury.

He hasn’t said a word. But he’s here.

Gerith and Evren stare, wide-eyed as we enter the ley station.

The building rises from the ground like a monument. Stone pillars have been carefully etched with sigils that glow gold as we walk by them. The marble beneath our feet is polished to a gleam, the entrance giving way to a huge hall. In the middle of the hall, a statue of Ghaleros dominates the space.

The god of travel and trade towers over us at ten feet tall, his lips curved in a gentle smile. One hand extends forward, holding a coin, while the other clutches a staff topped with a stylized compass. His robes are adorned with his symbols—coins, ships’ sails, carriage wheels. But the most prevalent, carved into his chest, is the symbol for the ley lines—a circle with six curved lines spiraling from the center.

“Come along,” Bran says, and we pass a sigilmarked who pauses to bow his head to the statue before adding several coins to the pile at Ghaleros’s feet.

Bran sneers at the statue. Vampires worship only Umbros, and they enjoy showing contempt for the sigilmarkeds’ gods.

To my right, a group of women walk past the statue. Since they’re sigilmarked—and around my age—they must have fought in the Sands. But from their relaxed body language and easy conversation, it’s almost as if the experience didn’t leave a mark on them. They seem … normal. Happy.

Loneliness cuts through me, sharper than the sword strapped across my back. But there are worse things than loneliness. Like having people in your life, trusting that they’ll always be there, and then losing them.

Evren slips his hand into mine—something he hasn’t done for years. Gerith is tense, his own hand in his pocket, where I’m relatively sure he’s hiding another of my stolen daggers.

I could take my brothers’ hands. We could sprint toward the ley line to Nesonias. All I would need is to distract the ley warden long enough for them to escape.

The place on my neck where Bran bit me begins to throb warningly. Slowly, the vampire turns his head, meeting my gaze. His smile is filled with silent threat.

“How do they work, Velle?” Gerith asks.

“The ley lines?” Dragging my gaze away from Bran, I bite my lip. Truthfully, I’m not entirely sure.

“Ley lines are places where aether has settled,” Leon says gruffly from where he’s fallen a few steps behind us, and both boys turn their attention to him. They’re the first words he’s spoken, and he keeps his attention on both the sigilmarked and vampires going about their business, as if he’s expecting to be attacked at any moment. “They form gradually, the way water flowing from a mountain steadily eats into rock and soil, becoming a river. Most of the strongest lines have been harnessed for travel.”

I stare at him. For six years, the few times he has spoken in my presence, his voice has been dripping with either fury or disgust. It’s … disconcerting to hear him speak in a neutral tone.

Evren instantly frowns, opening his mouth. But a tall, dark-haired woman is prowling toward us with the predatory grace of a vampire, her long black gown parting at her feet, the high slits displaying teasing glimpses of pale thighs. She could be anywhere from twenty to two hundred, but the bitterness carved into her face tells me she’s much older than she looks.

“Arvelle, this is Elva. She will be taking your brothers to the healers.”

I attempt a smile, but I’m sure it looks more like a grimace. She merely raises one eyebrow.

How can I possibly trust this woman with my brothers?

Gerith gives her a cool look, and she smiles at him, flashing fang. His sigil flares, and I sigh.

“Gerith.”

His powers haven’t woken yet, but he’s still going to have to learn to control his emotions. Vampires consider glowing sigils to be a threat. As they should.

Elva merely studies Gerith and Evren’s sigils. And then her gaze lands on me. “Three gold sigils in a family from the Thorn. An unusual case.”

I shrug. Our mother was gold marked, which means the twins would have had a 46 percent chance at a gold sigil if I hadn’t been born with mine. No one knows the true rate of sigilmarked inheritance among siblings, but the more children sigilmarked parents have, the less likely the next child will carry the same mark. And the chances of having a voidborn—a sigil-less mundane born to sigilmarked parents—increases.

It’s ironic considering our mother wasn’t attempting to procreate for power. She truly loved the twins’ father—a gold sigilmarked noble who never once visited after she became pregnant. And while she never spoke of mine, her expression had turned tight with longing each time I’d asked about him.

Elva seems to be waiting for an answer. When I don’t respond, she sneers. “And yet your own sigil hasn’t grown at all.”

“I need your word that you will look after my brothers.”

Her eyes narrow. “I give you my word that I will keep them alive.”

I give her a hard stare. “Alive, unharmed, and as happy as they can possibly be without me by their sides.”

She rolls her eyes, and the gesture is strangely human. But she repeats my words, and something unlocks in my chest.

I pull Evren and Gerith a few feet away. “Look after each other,” I order, my throat tight.

They nod, and I open my arms once more. Both of them nestle close and I squeeze them tight, blinking away the sting of tears from my eyes.

I won’t let them see me cry.

“We have to go,” I murmur. Evren’s lip trembles as he pulls away, and Gerith rubs at his eyes.

Only the most powerful vampires and gold-crowned can survive the journey by ley line across large amounts of water. Elva, Gerith, and Evren will only be able to take ley lines to the northern tip of this continent. They’ll take a ship for the remainder of the journey.

Will Ev and Ger get seasick?

I wish I could see the wonder in their faces when they see how big this world is.

I wish I could see it with them.

Suddenly my arms are empty, and Elva is walking away with my brothers. They both look over their shoulders at me, and I force an encouraging smile onto my face. All these years, and nothing has separated us until now.

The pain is agonizing. But keeping them alive means letting them go. At least temporarily.

One day, I will make Bran pay for every moment of fear and anguish he has caused my brothers.

My eyes burn, and I grimly fix my gaze to the stone floor, following Bran down the corridor leading to the ley line traveling in our direction.

I’m so focused on keeping my emotions in check, I almost miss the commotion.

A mundane woman breaks away from the sigilmarked she was trailing and drops to her knees in front of Bran, her eyes wild, face twisted.

“Please,” she begs.

Leon lets out a low hiss, but the corner of Bran’s mouth curves up.

Understanding trickles through me.

A blood addict. Lost to the craving. To the agony.

A wide circle has opened up around us, those passing by intent on ignoring the scene of a woman begging for relief from her pain. Several people wrinkle their noses, while most carefully ignore her.

Bran glances over his shoulder at me. “ Some people understand the gift of vampire blood.” Without another word, he strides past the woman, ignoring her strangled sob.

Her hollow, despair-filled eyes lock with mine, and a lump rises in my throat. Leon clamps a hand around my elbow and yanks me back into step, releasing me the moment I fall in line behind Bran.

Unsurprisingly, Bran leads Leon and me past the line of people already waiting for the ley line we need. He flashes a document at the ley warden, and the bronze sigilmarked immediately nods, stepping aside.

With a jerk of his head, Bran gestures for us to step into the tiny cabin.

It’s a little bigger than a carriage, but the pale wood has been heavily adorned with silver.

If that silver weakens Bran in any way, it’s impossible to tell by his placid expression. When the door of the cabin clicks shut, he nods once to the ley warden. And we’re suddenly moving.

Leon turns green, closes his eyes, and fists his hands. My own stomach churns as the world turns blurry outside the small windows.

Within moments, the world solidifies once more, and my stomach hollows out.

Outside the window, the arena rises from the heart of the city, the black stone glimmering with gold in places. Towering spires pierce the sky, adorned with banners that flutter in the wind, covered in the emperor’s personal sigil—the two interconnecting triangles stark black against the purple banners.

Six years ago, Kassia squeezed my hand as we both stared at this arena, torn between excitement and dread.

Something cracks deep within my chest as grief and bitterness chew through the numbness I’ve embraced like a lover. A thousand memories of Kassia slam into me all at once, until all I can do is breathe through it, the sound of her last, choked gasp echoing through my ears.

The pain of loss never ends. It never gets better. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. The agony of “what if” eats at you hour by hour, minute by minute, until you’d give almost anything for it to finally put you out of your misery. And then, just when you start to function again, it waits, silently, before slamming into you full force when you least expect it.

Leon’s face is no longer green. No, it’s now almost gray, his eyes anguished as he stares at the arena.

There’s a spot waiting for me in the underworld, carved out by everything I’ve done to Leon. He would never have returned to this place if I hadn’t brought him here.

Get up, Velle. Don’t let the vampire see you hurt. Kassia’s voice echoes in my head. And I’d give anything for her to be sitting beside me once more.

“Arvelle.” Bran’s voice is stern, the impatience on his face making it clear he’s been attempting to get my attention. A group of silver-crowned women wait for our cabin, and I get to my feet.

“Yes?”

“Gladians live beneath the ludus on one side, with guardants on the other. You will be able to train in the days leading up to the tria proeliis.”

My lips turn numb. “When is the first challenge?”

“Maius.”

It’s already the second week of Aprilis, which means I have less than a month before I’ll walk into the arena for the first time.

The back of my neck breaks out in a cold sweat, and Bran frowns at me. “I would not have chosen you if I thought you would be unsuccessful.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

“It would be an incredible waste of time and energy,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken.

Leon drags his gaze away from the arena and gives Bran a look filled with dark retribution. Thankfully, Bran is too busy glowering at the ley warden who trudges over to us as if he’s half asleep.

“Well then,” Bran says as the cabin doors finally open. “Let’s go.”

Multiple roads lead to the arena, but the road from the ley line station is crawling with vampires. Their powers press against me until I want to claw at my own skin.

It’s difficult to believe we’re just a few miles from the damp of the Thorn. The cobblestones are clean and dry, and even the air is warmer. Here, vampires, sigilmarked, and mundanes mix in groups. We pass a mundane man standing on a stool, a drawing of a gladian in one hand. A young boy takes bets next to him, his nose scrunched in concentration. Vendors and merchants line the streets, their licenses hanging above their carts. The smell of cooking meat makes my mouth water, and an elderly mundane woman grins at me, offering roast beef on a stick.

Bran waits for an oxcart to rumble by and then waves his hand, gesturing for us to follow him across the street. An imposing stone archway looms over the street, casting it in shadow. The entrance is adorned with intricate carvings and reliefs, depicting scenes of combat.

Tall stone columns enclose what I’m sure is a sprawling structure. The columns are etched with scenes of Umbros creating his vampires—the god standing tall and battle-worn as he bares his oversize fangs. Below the vampires, maginari crawl at his feet. Pixies with their wings crushed, mer with spears through their tails, centaurs with their legs broken.

We approach from the right at a diagonal, and I catch a glimpse of greenery peeking out over the tiles from somewhere within the ludus.

I open my mouth, but Leon sends me a warning glare before turning his attention back to the greenery and shaking his head.

Bran waves a hand, gesturing for us to follow him into the ludus.

The vestibule is dim, leaving me vulnerable for the few seconds it takes for my eyes to adjust. Inside, the entrance is flanked by statues of gladians so lifelike, I wouldn’t be surprised if they stepped down from their pedestals and swung their swords.

Nerves riot inside my stomach, but I force a placid expression onto my face.

Keep your head down, your eyes open, and fight for your life. Carrick’s words run through my mind.

I can survive here. I just need to ensure I don’t draw any attention. My best chance of survival is to be just another gladian. Someone who doesn’t stand out in any way.

Bran immediately leads us down a set of stairs to our right. It’s not surprising the emperor built beneath the ludus for his guard. He may be forced to work with the sigilmarked, but this place has been created entirely with the comfort of vampires in mind.

No windows. Lights that could easily be doused—leaving the sigilmarked as prey while the vampires’ eyes seamlessly adjust to the dark. Narrow corridors trapping our scents. Making it easy for them to hunt.

Gladians may be both sigilmarked and vampires, but there’s no question who the emperor favors.

“The guardants’ living quarters are that way,” Bran tells Leon, pointing to a corridor on our right. “A room has been set aside for you.”

Leon turns and lumbers away without another word. I swallow around the lump in my throat as Bran’s gaze flickers over my face.

Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a note. “This is your background, and the reason you’re here. I will be your sponsor. I originally hailed from this district, and it won’t be seen as strange for me to take an interest in a gladian. I have sponsored … others in the arena before.”

Others. He means criminals sentenced to fight and die as part of the emperor’s entertainment. The wealthiest citizens in Senthara bet on everything that happens in the arena.

I take the note and Bran points down the corridor. “Continue walking until you come to the next junction, and then turn left. Your bedroom is four doors down on the right.”

I turn and walk away, repositioning my heavy satchel on my shoulder.

It’s almost time for dinner, which likely explains why it’s so quiet. The scent of cooked meat and baked bread becomes stronger as I follow Bran’s directions, and my stomach rumbles.

Already, I loathe this place and its lack of windows. But there are more lights along the walls closer to the living quarters, highlighting murals that were likely painted on the walls long before my great-grandparents were born.

In one mural, a woman kneels at the feet of Anoxian, her gold-crowned head bowed. One hand is wrapped around the hilt of a silver sword, her other hand held up beseechingly to the battle god.

The next mural shows her slaughtered in the arena, Anoxian nowhere to be found, the woman’s own sword thrust through her chest by a vampire who wears a ruthless grin.

The message is simple. Your gods can’t help you here.

I keep walking. Another mural comes into view ahead of me. It’s somehow even darker themed, and I pause.

The scene depicts Mortuus—the god of ruin. He looms over the vampires, who bare their teeth at him. Mortuus is feared and despised by sigilmarked and vampires alike. It’s one of the few things we have in common.

Eventually, the sound of people talking drifts my way, and the aether lamps glow brighter. I pause at the sign above my head.

Aut neca aut necare.

Either kill or be killed.

Clearly I’m in the right place.

Beneath the sign, a statue of Anoxian looms, his head several feet above my own. Only this time, his perfect face is caught in a look of disdain. Offerings are scattered at the statue’s feet. Coins, blades, a vial of sand—likely from the arena.

I step through the entrance to the living quarters. Somewhere to my right, forks scrape against plates, a booming laugh echoes in the distance, and a woman’s voice spits vicious curses.

Turning left, I slam into a hard, very male chest. I bounce off black armor, and two strong hands reach out to steady me. The owner of those hands goes unnaturally still, and my heart jolts.

Vampire.

His armor covers the backs of his hands, transforming into thick gauntlets that wrap around his forearms, gleaming menacingly in the dim light. His neck is fully covered, stripping away any vulnerability, while his helmet conceals his face, leaving only his mouth exposed. Even his eyes are hidden behind some kind of shield, allowing him to observe unseen while keeping his features obscured.

I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s as if someone has taken leather armor and infused it with magic, turning it into a material that looks like it could repel almost anything.

The vampire lets out a hiss and his hands release me.

It’s unsettling, staring up into a face that’s nothing but shadows. Eyes show intention. They allow us to understand if someone is about to attack.

But of course, this vampire is likely covering them for that exact reason.

“I’m sorry—”

He stiffens like my voice is pure poison.

“Watch where you’re going.”

His voice is a rough rasp, as if his vocal cords have been damaged somehow. And his words are so cold, so emotionless, I shiver.

“Fuck you too.”

It’s been a long day. Usually, I’m able to clamp down on my poor impulse control. But the last couple of days have simply been too much.

I regret the words instantly, reaching instinctively for my knife.

An armored hand plucks it from its sheath before my hand can even get close. The vampire drops it on the ground between us.

Then he turns and stalks away.