There was a new silhouette at the tunneled entrance to the pits.

Ser Capulet was the first to notice. The pit was his domain, he had just claimed dominion by slaughtering his only challenger. A fellow predator? No. Prey. Nothing more.

He spat. The people of this city were like flies drawn by the allure of a carcass, the stench. They were insufferable. But amusing in their own way, when one pondered their existence, how easily they could be manipulated. And what his manipulation had done. With one flick of his knife he had ended two lives, stopped two hearts, and none of the pitiful onlookers would leave this place, could leave this place, without pain… without the memory of their fallen countryman… without Capulet. He was part of them now, part of them all. He felt it as an extension of himself. Existence without end. And it was so easy to take. One flick of his knife! Every time they remembered the other one, every time they shed a tear, they would remember Capulet, and he would feel it from wherever he was. Even from beyond this world he could be reborn, if only for a moment, and smile.

And they could not see the gift they had given him, the gift they continued to give. Every shout, every cry of anguish. They were blind to it. It was… It was… Capulet felt his chest begin to move, felt his shoulders begin to shake, and realized he was laughing. He could not stop, he did not try. He laughed. Look at them! Look how it provoked them! They were no more free than he was. The flies gathered because he made them gather, like a true king he summoned his subjects and they came, all by what he had done to the other one—the one who now lay dead. What had his name been again?

Master, a voice echoed in his head. Master, we must be careful.

CAPULET

[Tethered]

[Gladiator]

[Level 13]

[Sand Grade]

[Anchor Points]: 1

[Skills]: 5

METERS

[Lifeblood]: 90 / 290

[Chaos]: 30 / 290

Capulet growled. He hated when his tether did that.

Be quiet, Alun.

His thoughts were venom, and he made sure they burned. He laced shadows through his mind, and Alun was silenced. The numbers faded into a mist.

Low meters. He spat again. It did not matter. He was not some child, he did not have to be told. He had already felt an awareness of the fatigue within himself, and it did not matter.

What mattered now was the tall, braided man walking across the sand.

My sand, Capulet thought.

What use were numbers to someone such as him? You cut people, and they bled. That was all. You cut them, and they died. All of them. And this newcomer…

The newcomer carried a blade. His expression said he was not there to announce Capulet’s victory, he was there to dispute it.

For that, Capulet was going to make him suffer.

***

Ellsworth crossed the flaming boundary into the pit. His shadow, by some trick of the light, did not flicker in accordance with the flames, but remained steady as he approached the Illd’Orian [Gladiator]. The Aonens quieted down as the Warden’s nephew came into view. Even the [Guardsmen], who had just entered the arena, hesitated.

Ellsworth was known by all, respected. Despite being of noble blood, he and Zendar had never shied away from hard days in the flooded fields followed by long nights in the local taverns. They were closer to the common folk than most nobles, that was sure. Closer than Finn, at least, who had never managed to bridge that gap in quite the same way.

Ellsworth came to a stop. Finn felt a sudden pang of fear for his cousin. Standing so close to the Crimson King, so alone…

He’s not alone, Omri reminded him.

Rian was there, his tether. Shadowless, stoic, meditative. He did not look worried. He and Ellsworth had fought together. Many times.

Finn nodded. Exhaled. He’s not alone.

The arena had gone deathly quiet. Ellsworth was speaking, but Finn had to strain his ears to hear. Then strain them again, far beyond what was natural. At his side, Omri stiffened. There was a movement from Capulet. Finn strained his vision. Omri made a sound as if punched in the gut.

Sorry, Finn thought to his tether.

“A [Nobleman]?” Capulet was saying. There was visible disgust on his face.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“A [Warrior],” Ellsworth corrected.

“Either way, you sleep on satin at night,” Capulet said. He spat at Ellsworth’s feet. “You are not a [Gladiator], not a true [Warrior]. You dishonor the sanctity of our class with your request.”

Capulet’s tether drew nearer. His skin was clammy in the light of the flames. His ribcage was discolored, as if something beneath the skin had ruptured, and his shoulder hung loose from its socket—wounds courtesy of Dekker. Finn was once again struck by the tether’s scarring. It reminded him of a cocoon, or the shed skin of a snake. In another world, Finn thought, this would have been Capulet’s true face. In a sense, it was. Capulet’s golden gown, fashionable hairstyle, and courtly demeanor had been nothing but theatrics, and they had all been fooled. Ellsworth had underestimated Capulet from the first moment, and Dekker had underestimated him until the last. But now that his true nature had been revealed, it seemed unthinkable that they could ever have seen Capulet as anything other than what he was.

“You speak of honor?” Ellsworth said. “Was there honor in the way you cut up Dekker?”

“Was that his name?” Capulet asked. “He dishonored me.”

“How?”

“I do not yield,” Capulet said, and offered no further explanation. “I dishonored him in return.”

“You dishonored yourself,” Ellsworth said. “And now you are afraid to answer for your actions.”

“I fear no man,” Capulet said lazily, and Finn believed him, “and certainly not courtly peacocks. If you want to die, boy, there are more pleasant ways, I can assure you.”

“Looks can be deceiving, as you know better than most. There is more to this courtly peacock than meets the eye.” Ellsworth smiled. “But what of you, Capulet? Is that a Varoni accent I hear? I have led men into Varonos, cut down the barbarian clansmen. Perhaps you knew some of the men I hung. How would you stack up against them, I wonder? How would your corpse look buried amongst theirs?”

Capulet chuckled. “You’re going to have to do better than that, boy. I care nothing for the clans. Although, I will admit…” He paused, considering. “It has been some time since my blades have been treated with the blood of a [Nobleman]...”

“[Warrior],” Ellsworth said again.

“It does not matter. You are nothing, fodder for flies. You will know that soon enough. Alun, bring me my—”

But before he could finish speaking, his tether made a sound and stepped ahead of him, between his master and Ellsworth. It was a peculiar movement, like seeing a sapling claim the ground of a giant oak. For a moment, the tether looked surprised at his own daring. Standing at an angle, his eyes darted between the two men, then to Rian, who looked wary. Breathlessly, with a voice that did not project, the Illd’Orian tether said, “We… we will fight you tomorrow night, my lord of Aonenbridge.”

Capulet’s fist hit his tether’s jaw with the sound of a thunderclap. The scarred man fell. “You forget your place, Alun,” Capulet said. His words were calmly spoken, his movements languid. He stared curiously at the back of his hand where the skin had split. It had already begun to heal. Then, to Ellsworth, as one might apologize for a misbehaving pup, Capulet said, “My apologies. You’re going to have to forgive my brother.”

There were whispers. Finn and Omri exchanged a glance.

Alun rose slowly, deliberately. His own knuckles were starting to bleed. He faced his master, his brother. There was a fire in his expression and, for a second, Finn was sure he’d be struck again. Then a moment passed, and Capulet’s face began to darken.

As the two locked eyes in silent communication, a quiet smile began tugging at Ellsworth’s lips.

When Capulet spoke, his voice was so low that Finn had to strain his ears even harder. Omri groaned.

“Alun has brought it to my attention that I am… low on [Lifeblood].” Capulet said the words through gritted teeth, as if it angered him to voice this. “The silly trick with the sand was unexpected. I was struck. I… also risk my tether if I continue to draw on [chaos].”

Ellsworth's smile grew. He spoke loud enough for all to hear. “The Illd’Orian is too low on [Lifeblood].”

“Coward!” a voice in the crowd shouted, and others joined him. “Coward!”

Capulet’s upper lip curled. “I said low. Not too low. I have more than I would need. But in the name of the Paragon I swore to fight a [Sand Grade] bout this day, and I have done so. I will soon be regraded. My reascension to the [Sky Grade] is imminent, and with it, its glories. You, boy, are not even an [ungraded]. I ask myself, then, what have I to gain from the breaking of twigs?”

“You have something to gain,” Ellsworth said. “Something I can offer you. Something you want more than a reascension to the [Sky Grade].”

“And what is that?” Capulet asked.

“Your freedom.”

There were gasps around the arena. Finn turned to Lord Yoquin, whose eyes were narrowed. Lucien, seated at his side, looked livid.

“My freedom?” Capulet’s eyes were wide. He paused, then purred, “My freedom.” He spoke slowly, savoring the weight of the word on his tongue.

“Your freedom,” Ellsworth repeated. “End my life, and yours is yours again.”

Capulet’s eyes widened again, despite himself. Then he laughed. “This life never ceases to amuse me,” he said. “I, who have sinned against the gods themselves… am constantly rewarded.” He chuckled once more. “Very well, boy. The prospect of your death diverts me, and a city has borne witness to your promise. I accept. Bring me my daggers, Alun.”

The tether did not move. His eyes spoke the same imploring message, but this time he would not touch reason. His master was a stone wall, unrelenting.

“Bring me my daggers, Alun,” Capulet repeated, slowly. There was an icy timbre to his speech.

The fire in Alun’s eyes began to dwindle until all that remained were cold embers in his skull. His shoulders dropped. He turned, shuffled across the sands with the expression of a murdered man, a man who knows he is dead. He picked up the first dagger, then the next. Wiped them both off. Handed them back to his master. Tried to meet his eyes one more time. Capulet twirled his daggers. His jaw was clenched, his eyes averted. The daggers cut through air. Once, twice, thrice. Jagged, jagged, then smooth, singing through the air and slicing through silence like a spectre's wail. Alun stood a moment longer. He had already begun to turn before his master dismissed him with a motion of the hand. Capulet’s jaw relaxed somewhat, and his eyes fluttered a moment to the retreating figure, betraying something hidden deep, too deep to matter. The smallest blade went back up his sleeve. Ellsworth’s eyes followed it.

“Very well,” Capulet said.

“You will fight me?” Ellsworth asked.

Capulet did not answer. There was no need.

Ellsworth smiled. “Very good,” he said. He sounded almost impressed. He nodded to his own tether, and Rian set off to their corner. To where the bodies of Dekker and his tether still lay. “First, we need to remove those bodies,” Ellsworth said. “And then we will need a new benediction. My cousin, Finric—”

Capulet struck with both blades, carving a perfect arc through the air directly at Ellsworth’s skull.