We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 7

T he boy’s name is Ti. And he’s obsessed with the sun. He sits in the tree for hours, face turned up to the sky, basking in the weak rays.

“Maybe you should move north one day,” I say, wobbling precariously on my chosen branch. “It’s warmer there.”

He gives me a look I can’t understand. “Impossible.” Within minutes, he’s quiet and sullen.

When I grow tired of his attitude and attempt to leave, his jaw hardens and he shakes his head. “I’m not ready for you to go yet.”

My pulse pounds at my temples and I clench my fists. I have little oversight. When I’m not helping my mother with the twins, I run wild through the Thorn.

And no one tells me what to do.

My feet are on the ground a moment later. Ti jumps down beside me, eyes lit with fury.

“I haven’t said you could leave.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t you want this?” He holds out his hand, showing me the button.

“Not enough to stay with you when you’re in this mood.”

He blinks. I step away, and his hand flies out, grabbing my wrist. It’s a strange movement. A desperate movement.

My fist plows into his cheek. It’s an instinctive reaction, and I immediately regret it.

He curses, letting me go. “What was that for?” he demands, cupping his face.

“You shouldn’t touch people without permission. Even you aren’t allowed to touch me without asking.”

Kassia’s father, Leon, taught both of us this rule years ago. And he taught us to throw a punch, making us hit a soft bag over and over.

But hitting a person is different. My knuckles sting, and I hate seeing the swelling along Ti’s cheekbone. He’s going to bruise.

I did that.

I bite my lower lip. “I’m—”

“You want to leave? Go.” He glowers, thrusting the button at me. But I don’t take it.

Instead, I turn and run away.

He’s not at the tree the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next after that.

“Y OU WANT ME to do what?” I ask the next morning as Leon gestures at the rope swinging in front of me.

“Climb it.”

Our presence at the ropes has already drawn too much interest. Maeva gives me an encouraging look, while Baldric’s eyes glitter with malice.

My prediction was correct, and my muscles are so stiff today I can barely raise my arms. My jaw aches, and I force myself to unclench my teeth. “Why?”

“Training.”

The hall is even busier than yesterday. Already, I’d give almost anything to be able to train outside. To go for a run and feel the wind in my hair. To practice swordwork with the sun on my skin.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask quietly.

While Leon’s expectations were always high, he was also always fair. He had an intuitive sense of which of my muscles needed rest, and which muscles he could push a little further each day. He’d make allowances for the ache in those muscles after a rough training session.

He rakes me with a disparaging look. “You want me to go easy on you?”

“Of course not.”

Silence.

My back and shoulder muscles are so stiff, even walking is painful.

Maybe asking Leon to come with me was a mistake. Maybe …

And that’s the problem. I didn’t ask. I manipulated him into this.

Leon has never gone out of his way to make me hurt before. But things are different now. And if this is what he needs …

I study him. Tension lines his face, and he leans forward on the balls of his feet. He’s waiting for me to say I won’t climb. Or to fail. Either option would give him an excuse to walk away. So he can tell himself he tried, but I was untrainable.

He wants out.

Striding toward the ropes, I look up. And up. Once, I could climb these as quick as a monkey. Kassia and I would race up them. Most of the time, she would win. She had more upper body strength than I did. But every now and then I’d beat her to the top, and she’d pout while I crowed victoriously.

Both of us were fiercely competitive.

“Go on,” Leon says behind me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, lost in memories as I stare at the ropes. Does he remember my races with Kassia?

Of course he does. Leon remembers everything.

I reach out. The coarse fibers of the rope bite into my palms as I haul myself up, feeling the strain in my shoulders and back. My muscles scream in protest, and I hiss out a breath.

Pinning the rope between my feet, I push, using the rope as leverage. And still, my body aches.

I grind my teeth. Leon wants me to climb the rope? I’ll climb the fucking rope.

One pull.

Another.

Another.

I’m out of practice, and it feels as if I’m making no progress at all. Distantly, I can hear Baldric jeer, but I tighten my grip around the rope, ignoring the sharp sting from the splintered fiber.

My vision narrows, until all I can see is the rope.

Race you, Velle! Maybe I’ll let you win this time.

My next exhale sounds more like a sob.

Kas never let me win. I would have snarled at her if she had.

Focus.

Muscle memory kicks in and I use my legs. I’m almost at the top. Just inches away from being done.

The rope turns eel-slick beneath my palms.

The flash of confusion is enough to break my focus.

I slide, curse, squeeze with my legs. But my thighs can’t find any purchase on the slippery rope.

I plummet, my hands still tight on the suddenly smooth rope.

This is going to hurt.

Fire rips through my hands and I let out a screech. The rope is no longer covered in oily slickness. I’m still careening toward the ground, but the coarse fibers are tearing up my hands.

A sudden burst of wind wraps around me, slowing my descent.

I know that wind.

Leon slows my fall, and I halt, saved from breaking my body against the floor far below me.

Gods, my hands hurt.

I let out a pained moan. But it’s drowned out by the commotion on the ground.

Leon has Hester’s tunic in his fist, and she’s staring at him wide-eyed. A guard marches toward her. “Power is only permitted during sparring,” he snaps.

Hester’s eyes dart, and she looks up at me. “I was just having a little fun. Helping her train. We should all prepare for the unexpected here, shouldn’t we?”

I look like an idiot clinging to this rope. Sucking in a few shallow breaths, I slowly descend, until my feet finally hit the ground.

The guard steps closer. His eyes are hard. “Do you want her charged?”

For the first time, true fear flashes across Hester’s face.

I give her a long look.

Yes, I do.

But that, more than anything, would make me a target for every other gladian here.

“No.”

The guard says nothing, merely nods and walks away.

Leon leans closer to Hester. “Stay the fuck away from my gladian.”

Hester’s own guardant strides toward her, takes her arm, and hauls her away.

Leon and I stare at each other for one long moment. His gaze drops to my hands. I don’t want to look. But I do.

My palms are a deep red, speckled with darker patches where my skin was scraped away. Thin lines of deeper abrasions run along my fingers and down my forearms where the rope twisted and rubbed during my uncontrolled descent. My hands feel as if they’ve doubled in size, already swelling.

I won’t be holding a sword or shield today. Or any time soon if I don’t find a good healer.

Something flickers through Leon’s eyes, but I turn away, a hot ache burning up my throat. I shouldn’t feel this sense of betrayal. But I do. Maeva approaches, her gaze dropping to my hands.

“I saw what she did.” Her eyes snap with fire, and she scowls at the gladians still watching us.

The training hall suddenly goes quiet, and I crane my neck.

A vampire enters, several guards trailing behind him. He’s wearing the emperor’s colors, and he must be hundreds of years older than Bran, because goose bumps rise on my skin as he walks past.

“His name is Nyrant,” Maeva murmurs next to me. “He’s a member of the imperius and the ultimate authority for us gladians.”

I study him. His features are unremarkable, his build average, and his face seemingly designed to blend into a crowd. His hair is a common shade of brown, and there’s absolutely nothing about him that catches the eye or lingers in the memory. If not for the power I sensed when he walked past, I wouldn’t hesitate to pass him on the street.

Maeva shrugs one shoulder. “The most powerful vampires tend to conceal their power, ensuring their enemies never know the full extent of their strength.”

“Obviously Nyrant doesn’t care about that.”

“Attention, gladians,” Nyrant says. “The Sundering begins three weeks from today. You’ll find a schedule on each of your beds with the date of your first fight. Train well, and you’ll impress both the emperor and potential sponsors who may provide you with superior weapons and shields.”

Murmurs break out, and Nyrant raises a hand until silence reigns once more. “Tonight, you will meet some of the most powerful people in this empire. For those who are still interested in finding a sponsor, this is your opportunity to impress them. For those who already have sponsors, this is your opportunity to ensure they reach into their pockets when it’s your turn to fight. Remember, winners will receive a percentage of all bets taken.”

He’s talking about the Sigilmarked Syndicate.

But I’m more interested in getting my first glimpse of the emperor.

Several gladians break out into grins. Maeva, on the other hand, is chewing on her lip, a deep line etched between her delicately arched brows.

Not my business.

“Training will end early today,” Nyrant says. “The emperor wants you to look your best.” His nostrils flare. “I suggest those of you who are bleeding get your wounds seen to.”