We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 9

I t’s weeks before I see Ti again. I keep returning to my tree, which has somehow become our tree. And my chest aches each time I stare up at its empty branches.

Kassia knows about the noble boy but refuses to meet him.

“He sounds mean,” she says.

He is mean sometimes. But so am I.

And beneath the mean, I think he’s sad.

So am I.

I’ve decided this will be my last visit to the oak I love so much. I don’t know if Ti is punishing me, or if he hates me now.

He shouldn’t have tried to stop me leaving.

I shouldn’t have hit him.

He shouldn’t have been rude in the first place.

I’m a confusing mass of emotion.

When I find him sitting up in one of the highest branches of the tree—where even I’m too scared to climb—something settles deep in my chest.

He ignores me as I climb up, settling several branches below him. We sit in silence for a long time.

Finally, when I glance up at him, I find him watching me.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” I say.

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I’m sorry for grabbing you.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” I explain carefully. “I may not be a noble, but I’m a person too.”

His gaze lingers on my sigil. We never talk about the blank space on his own forehead. I don’t understand how he could be a noble and not have a sigil.

Finally, he sighs. “I’m sorry too. I don’t want you to leave. You’re the only person I can talk to.”

I frown at that. Ti doesn’t really talk all that much.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he says. “I couldn’t come back. My father took an interest in my training for a few weeks. My brother warned me to be on my best behavior.”

I want to ask more. I’ve always been hopelessly curious about what it’s like to grow up with a father. Or an older brother who would have looked out for me.

But Ti has gotten that closed expression on his face. The one that says he doesn’t want to talk about that subject further. So I leave it alone.

“What would you do if you could do anything?” he asks me suddenly.

“I’d be a healer.”

Surprise flashes through his eyes and I frown at him. “You don’t think I could be a healer?”

“No, I do. It’s just … most people I know aren’t interested in helping people. They’re only interested in themselves.”

It’s mostly the same in the Thorn. But sometimes, there are good people too. Like our neighbor, who took pity on my mother and left us a round of bread in the middle of winter a few years ago when my brothers were first born. Or the butcher, who sometimes gives her a little extra meat when he sees me standing next to her, as skinny and unkempt as I am.

I’d thought Ti’s life was easier than mine. It’s clear he’s used to getting what he wants. But he’s not cruel. He just needs to be taught.

I’ll teach him. And one day, he’ll be a kind noble. Maybe, when he grows up, he will raise his children to be kind too.

“What are you thinking?”

Ti hates when I’m quiet without him initiating it. He often demands access to all my thoughts. And I usually give it to him. But something tells me he wouldn’t be happy with these thoughts.

No one wants to feel like they’re a project.

I FALL INTO a rhythm. Swords and sand and sweat. Steaming skin and straining muscles, all underscored with an incessant fatigue that burrows into me night and day.

Leon’s lips, thin with frustration; my palms, blistered and swollen … it all blurs together throughout the next two weeks, until suddenly, the first challenges of the Sundering are just one week away.

More guards fill the ludus, keeping a careful eye on all of us. To say the emperor was displeased by the sudden appearance of a dead gladian is an understatement. According to Maeva, he spent the next day overseeing executions within the arena until even the most hardened Lysorian resident found it difficult to watch the torture—a problem the emperor solved by ensuring the city wardens handed out extra bread and fruit to the populace.

I manage to avoid Rorrik by spending most of my time within the gladian barracks. Vampires can’t enter unless personally invited, and despite the raging lack of intellect among some of the other gladians, even they wouldn’t be stupid enough to allow vampires who aren’t already gladians access to where we sleep.

Each night, I dream of Tiernon. Each day, I have to block out memories of Kassia. It’s as if being in this place has unlocked something inside me, and everything I’ve suppressed for six years is flooding out. For six years, I’ve attempted to forget the most painful moments of my life. Now, I’m assaulted by them.

This morning, I only have a few minutes to talk to my brothers before I need to meet Leon.

Leaning forward, I study them. Gerith’s green eyes are filled with suppressed excitement, while Evren’s hold a sadness he’s attempting to hide.

“What happened?”

Gerith smiles at me and lifts a hand. A piece of parchment floats up to meet it, his gold sigil flaring. The ends of the sigil have lengthened slightly, curling up. My heart trips. “You woke.”

He nods. “Last night. But it’s not a big deal.” He says this quickly, his eyes moving to his brother.

“Congratulations, Ger.” I smile, and he beams at me.

My heart wilts in my chest. The awakening can be dangerous. And even when it’s not, it’s a huge moment. The kind of moment I should have been there for.

“Do it again,” Evren says, and Gerith lifts the parchment. Evren laughs, elbowing his brother, and they tussle.

“I don’t have long,” I say, and Gerith unwraps his arm from around his brother’s neck. “How’s the tutor?”

“Good,” Evren says, and the shadows leave his eyes. He’s always been obsessed with learning. When his lungs were particularly bad and he was confined to his bed, Ger and I would bring him as many books as we could, borrowed from anyone who would give them up.

“We’re learning about Mortuus.” Evren’s voice is low, but I still glance around, ensuring no one can hear our conversation.

“Ev, you know we’re not supposed to speak of him.”

Evren shrugs. “Our tutor encouraged us to study him. The vampires talk about him all the time.”

I study their faces. Wide eyes, intent expressions, an air of … excitement. Enthusiasm. My brothers’ tutor in the Thorn could barely cover basic reading and arithmetic, and for the first time, they’re learning about history and geography. I won’t squash that enthusiasm.

“In that case, tell me what you learned.”

Gerith clears his throat. “Mortuus is the god of ruin, embodying despair, decay, and chaos. Every twenty-five years, on the anniversary of his imprisonment, the bars of Mortuus’s cage grow weak enough for him to briefly escape and walk through the world as a human from dusk until dawn.” His gaze drops below the mirror and Evren scoffs.

“He’s reading that from the book.”

I hide a smile. “That’s cheating, Ger.”

He shrugs. “Elva told me Mortuus began a war with the other gods thousands of years ago. He wanted to create death and despair, so the other gods united behind Umbros to stop him. Is that true?”

I’ve done something right. My brothers question everything taught to them, especially by vampires.

“Yes,” I say, although I’m not surprised that the vampires have decided Umbros is the hero in this story. “Personally, I’ve always wondered why Umbros would care about what happens to mundanes and sigilmarked.”

“He doesn’t,” Evren says. “It was Mortuus who stole the sun from Umbros’s children. So the vampire god wanted revenge.”

Wait. What?

“ Mortuus is the reason vampires can’t go out in the daylight?”

Evren nods. “He took the sun from them as vengeance against Umbros. They had been feuding for thousands of years.”

Not to be undone, Gerith glances down at his textbook. “The other gods joined with Umbros, each of them donating a piece of their most precious power to create a prison made from the very essence of life. They hid such a place where no one would ever find it, working together for the first time since their own creation.”

That makes perfect sense. If Mortuus had succeeded, there would have been no one left to pray to the other gods. This world would have turned to ruin, and the other gods would have grown weak.

Gerith holds his textbook up to the mirror. In it, Mortuus stands, his mouth twisted into a snarl, his eyes two dark slits as his hand pounds on a shimmering gold wall. On the other side of the wall, Anoxian looks on. The battle god’s hand is wrapped around a sword—the blade so dark, it seems to suck up all the light in the room. There’s a hint of a smile on Anoxian’s face as he watches Mortuus.

My memory throws me back to Tiernon. Watching him lose the sun, knowing he would never get to feel its warmth on his skin again, seeing the dull acceptance in his eyes …

At that point in my life, experiencing Tiernon’s loss with him counted among my worst moments.

I’d had no idea just how much worse my life was going to get.

Evren picks up the piece of parchment, dropping it so Gerith can catch it with his wind. Despite the envy that must burn within him, Ev’s excited for his brother, already helping him train.

I’ve seen Gerith sit by Evren’s bed for hours reading to him when Ev was too weak to read. I’ve seen Evren save a precious last piece of cheese for his brother because he knows he loves it.

No matter what happened, no matter how much we struggled in the Thorn, they always stuck together. If something happens to me here, they’ll protect each other.

“Velle?” Ev asks. “What’s wrong?”

I attempt a smile. “Nothing. Except that I’m late for training.”

“With Leon?” Ger asks.

“Yes, with Leon.”

His expression hardens and I don’t blame him. While Ev was closer to Kassia, Gerith used to follow Leon around when Tiernon was busy. When Leon retreated, shutting us all out, Ger tried to hide how much it hurt, but I’d known.

“I need to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

They nod, and I wave my hand over the glass before heading back to my bunk, where I wrap the mirror in my blanket once more.

When I step into the main training hall, I find Leon quietly murmuring with a half-crowned silver who looks to be in his fifth decade. The gray streaking the man’s light-blond hair suggests time is creeping up on him … but his muscular build proves he’s staying one step ahead.

“Arvelle.” Leon nods. “This is Albion.” We’ve fallen into stiff politeness since the rope incident and I ignore the way my gut clenches at his neutral tone.

Albion nods. Deep lines have been carved into his face, and he has the saddest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “Hello, Arvelle. I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you arrived, and you’ve been improving rapidly.”

“Well, it’s not like she could get any worse,” Leon mutters.

Ignoring him, I smile at Albion. “How nice to talk to such a supportive guardant.”

Leon rolls his eyes, and Albion smiles back, although the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. When he shifts on his feet, I get the faint scent of leather oil with a smoky undertone and another musky note I can’t place.

“Who is your gladian?” I ask.

“Maeva.”

“Oh.” Perhaps he’s some relation? An uncle?

A shadow passes over Albion’s face and Leon clears his throat as the silence lengthens. “Albion’s son died last year in the arena. He stayed to help train gladians who didn’t come to the ludus with a guardant. To help ensure they …” His voice trails off.

To help ensure they don’t die like his son. A hard lump settles in my throat. “I can’t imagine the bravery and compassion that would take.”

Albion ducks his head. “Thank you.”

Leon lets out a sigh and I follow his gaze. Nyrant is strolling into the training hall, his expression perfectly placid in a way I know is bad news. Anxiety takes hold of my guts and twists.

“Gladians,” he booms, “the emperor has given you another gift. Now that you have met your sponsors, you have a chance to impress them. Today, you will train in the arena. Put on a show, and you’ll find yourself pleased with the outcome. Sponsors bring better weapons, stronger armor, and above all … money.” He smiles, and cheers break out across the hall.

My eyes meet Leon’s. His expression is resolute, but the hand gripping his wooden sword is shaking, his knuckles white. A moment of perfect understanding passes between us. This will be the first time either of us have stepped foot in the emperor’s arena since the Sands. Since … Kassia.

My face is numb, my stomach coiled with dread as we gather our weapons and follow the others to the entrance of the long tunnel leading to the arena itself.

The tunnel stretches out before us, wide enough for only three of us to walk side by side. All of us are silent, and I’m not sure what the other gladians are thinking, but I’m preparing for this long walk a week from now, when I’ll step into the arena and fight for my life.

The arena is lit by thousands of aether-powered lamps—bright enough to make my head throb. Leon has already announced that for the next week, I’ll be adding an extra training session at night—to prepare me for the challenges.

We file after Nyrant, walking between the stands near the northern side of the arena. The arena has been roped off into somewhere between ten and fifteen smaller sections. Most of the seats are empty, save for the seats closest to the arena, where sigilmarked and vampires watch closely, ready to decide who is worthy of their patronage.

Tiberius Cotta is talking to Maeva’s father, Alaric, who continues to ignore his daughter. As I watch, Tiberius uses his power to direct water from a pitcher several feet away. The water spirals up, weaving through the air before splashing into the goblet in his hand.

Dragging my attention away, I continue to follow Maeva. But Albion is already directing her toward a section to the right.

I turn to the left, numbly following Leon’s gruff order. My lungs constrict.

There it is.

The far-left quadrant of the arena.

The exact spot where my best friend died.

Someone bumps into me as they walk past, but I can’t seem to drag my eyes from the place where Kassia took her last breath.

It’s a fucking insult that fresh sand was dumped on the place where she bled her life away. There should be a marker. Some kind of sign to honor her.

We’re going to have a better life, Velle. Something cracks in my chest.

Strong fingers encircle my wrist. My dagger is suddenly in my hand, plunging toward black armor.

The Primus plucks it from my fingers once more, dropping it on the ground.

“This again?” he growls.

I stare at him.

“Go train, gladian.”

I blink myself back to the present. Leon stands next to the Primus, his expression grim. I can feel eyes on me, and I force myself to hold my head high, as I walk toward our section.

Breathe.

I suck in breath after breath of crisp night air.

Nyrant calls out names, matching us up against each other.

“Arvelle and Leira.”

Leira smiles at me, but her gaze flickers to the potential sponsors lining the arena. She wants this. And victory so often comes down to who wants it more.

Better weapons. Better armor. A higher chance of survival.

But all I can see is Kassia’s face.

“Fight!”

My wooden sword is heavy in my hands. Twice as heavy as a real sword. Meant to help us gain strength.

Leira lunges. She’s tall and lanky, but those long arms give her greater reach. Her sword swings at me, and I parry, testing her strength.

My arms ache relentlessly, but I’ve found a rhythm with training, and I let myself fall into the pain. I parry again, testing her still, and frustration flickers across her face.

She kicks out, and I step to the side—

Right into her sword.

Wood plows into my gut, and the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh.

Ow.

“Sorry,” she hisses under her breath, her gaze flicking behind me once more.

I know she’s not looking at the place where Kassia died.

I know she’s looking at the sponsor she’s currently courting.

And yet I turn my head anyway. I can’t help it. It’s as if I’m expecting to see Kassia standing right there, a wide grin on her face as she cheers me on.

The next hit is to my head.

I lie flat on my back, my head throbbing. The edges of my vision darken, until all I can see is Leira’s concerned face. “I really thought you’d dodge that,” she says. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

For a long moment, I can’t move. Turns out, Leila is stronger than she looks.

I stare up at the stars, glimmering like chunks of moonstone in the dark cloak of the sky. Gods, I want to go home. I want to be with my brothers. Want to lick my wounds in private.

The stars vanish as the Primus looms over me. He doesn’t offer to help me up. Instead, he crouches down. And when he dips his chin, the movement is suddenly so familiar, my heart stutters in my chest.

“If that sword had been real, you’d be dead.”

“Good thing it wasn’t.”

“You’re training with the imperius tomorrow,” he decrees. “You’ll need to get up two hours earlier.”

“No, I’m—”

“Be there.” He’s already walking away. “Or I’ll come find you.”

I DON ’ T WAIT for the Primus to come find me.

Instead, I’m awake before anyone else, bitter thoughts invading my mind as I slip from my bunk.

There’s something roiling in my gut when I think about meeting with the Primus. Something that I can’t quite identify.

Something that feels almost like … dread.

It’s probably only natural. He’s the Primus after all. The highly trained killer who will put his body between the emperor and anyone who attempts to harm him.

He’s waiting for me in the training hall, where the rest of the imperius are spread out, sparring, sprinting, and sneering as they glance my way.

“Do you ever take that off?” I wave a hand at the helmet wrapped around the Primus’s head, the black metal that comes to two points along his cheekbones, the strange mesh that covers his eyes.

As usual, he ignores me, gesturing to a spot just a few feet from where he’s standing on the mat.

My heart leaps into my throat.

“Look, whatever point you’re trying to prove, you don’t need to bother. I know I’m slow and out of shape. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

He just waits me out.

“Silence. Cute.”

I can almost sense a hint of amusement from him when he gestures again.

Heart in my throat, I step onto the mat.

His fist swings toward me. I duck, stepping to the side as I kick out. But he’s not there. He’s already behind me, driving his hand into the small of my back.

I drop to my knees.

Gathering my strength, I make my way to my feet.

He pushes me again.

Stumbling, I twist, barely managing to stay upright.

I can feel eyes on us. Heat travels up the back of my neck, but I face him once more.

“Still slow,” he muses in that rough voice. Again, there’s something familiar in it. Something that makes it painful for me to suck in my next breath. And my next.

But he’s already stepping forward once more. He’s shockingly light on his feet for such a large man, even considering his vampire speed, and I turn my body, my every sense on high alert.

He tilts his head again, and my stomach drops. A dull pressure begins at the base of my neck, radiating up my skull.

When his arm swings toward me next, I’m distracted. I dart backward, but not fast enough. His open palm hits the side of my head, and he curses.

My head spins and I drop to my knees.

He leans down. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

But I’m elsewhere, stuck in the past.

Gradually, something changes. Tiernon no longer chases the sun. He stops basking in its warmth.

But every few days, his eyes light with fury, his jaw jutting stubbornly as he steps into the sun, turning his face up to the sky in an act of defiance. Those few moments pain him so greatly he’s forced to linger in the shade for hours after, his entire body shuddering.

Watching him in such agony makes me want to vomit. He’s one of the few people I care about, and I want to destroy anything that harms him. “Ti. What’s happening to you?”

He stares at me. “You honestly don’t know?”

My cheeks heat. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

“I’m a born vampire. Born vampires can enjoy the sun until we naturally begin to transition. And then it begins to harm us. To weaken us. Even as we remember just how much we loved it.”

I feel the blood drain from my face as I put all the pieces together. Of course. Of course he’s a vampire. And yet I’ve refused to acknowledge such a thing, certain that a vampire would never willingly spend time with someone like me.

Ti lets out a hollow laugh. “You didn’t know.”

“No.”

A vampire.

I’ve never met a vampire before. They only visit the most dangerous parts of the Thorn after dark, and I don’t frequent those kinds of places.

It explains how Ti can be so obviously wealthy without a sigil. It also explains how his strength has been increasing so quickly. Just days ago, he reached for a larger branch and snapped it with a crack that left us gaping at each other.

After that, he stopped touching me. A few times, his hand has twitched when I’m near, as if he wants to reach for me but can’t quite trust himself not to hurt me.

And he can’t.

“Do you want to drink my blood?” I ask, suddenly desperately curious.

Disgust flickers across his face. “No. I won’t drink blood until I’m fully turned.” He’s silent for a long moment. “Are you afraid of me now?”

He turns away, and I study his profile. His shoulders are slumped, his posture defeated. It suddenly feels like something is clawing at my chest.

“No. But we should probably start meeting at night, don’t you think?”

His head whips toward me. And the stunned gratitude in his eyes makes my throat tight.

A warm hand cups my face. Forcing my eyes open, I find the Primus leaning over me. My gut twists, and I lash out, grasping at his helmet in a desperate attempt to yank it off.

He leans back out of my reach.

“Show me your face.”

No reply.

Fury rages through me, incinerating any hint of fear. “Show me your fucking face.”

The training hall goes silent, and the Primus lifts his head. “Out.”

No one argues. Within moments, we’re alone.

With a deep sigh, he removes his helmet. And the world stops spinning.

He’s older, yes, but I’d recognize that untamed beauty anywhere.

His features are rougher now, his thick dark brows overbearingly masculine, contrasting with his skin. Once that skin would turn several shades darker in summer. Now he’s paler than I’ve ever seen him.

Everything about him is hard, from the thick lines of his jaw to his strong forehead. It’s as if any hint of softness has been ruthlessly stamped out.

I run my gaze over those sculpted cheekbones, that perfect, surprisingly elegant nose, and the lips that once pressed gentle kisses along the shell of my ear.

His hair is a couple of shades darker than my own honey brown. I used to run my fingers through that hair, gently scraping his scalp with my fingernails until he was practically purring.

Those lips …

They used to tip up at one side when he was amused. And a dimple would appear—

I can’t breathe.

Silence stretches between us, until I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re still the color of the darkest sapphires.

But where they used to blaze with life, they’re now cold.

So cold.

“Tiernon,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says conversationally, as if he hasn’t just sucker punched me right in the gut. “Now why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”