Alairiss Bayne was the best pit fighter in Aventera and she was tired of not being treated like it. It was a waste of her talent—she had been trained to fight, not escort brutes incapable of speaking for themselves to the pit. The one she was stuck with now was especially insufferable.
It was true that without her Felix would be insignificant—she made his act what it was, but she didn’t care. There was nothing like walking into the arena, the entire crowd cheering for her and her alone. Sharing the spotlight ruined the experience—especially when she was forced to be a mere mouthpiece, just an accessory.
A long line of weapon-clad fighters waited in the hallway outside of Glozell, the head booker’s office. Alairiss strode right past them and swung open the door. Glozell’s personal guards stationed outside ignored her—they knew better.
Glozell was sitting at his desk in a high-backed chair, looking more haggard than usual. The trio of gemstones dotting his forehead and hair dyed a pale blue did nothing to disguise his age. The office was relatively neat, only the scattering of papers on the glass-topped desk was out of place. The colossal golden sword hanging on the bloodred back wall of the room was the only other sign of his eccentricity.
Seated in one of the two chairs in front of Glozell’s desk was another fighter—one of the novices who opened the shows—undoubtedly trying to persuade Glozell to change an outcome for the night’s show to favor him.
Alairiss patted the young man on the back and said, “Out.” He quickly scampered into the hall. She sat down, crossed her arms, and propped her legs up on Glozell’s desk.
“You’re smudging the glass,” Glozell sneered at her.
“And you’re ruining my career.”
“When you’re fully recovered we’ll discuss your role. At the moment this is the best option for all parties.”
“I am recovered,” Alairiss countered. Glozell just tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. Okay, maybe she wasn’t fully recovered but even at this level, she was still better than anyone Glozell could pit against her. “Is this still punishment for the mirror match because I guarantee that it made you more than anything in years. Really, you should be giving me a bonus.”
The mirror match had been, to say the least, a spectacle. The pits occasionally put on special fights for big events. Alairiss had begged Glozell to let her take part and he eventually relented. It had been her ticket to the top though it was a bloody affair, one that she left unconscious and with countless shards of the mirrors lodged in her, but that was mostly her opponent’s fault. The fight began in a mirrored box that the fighters quickly shattered and used as their only weapon—unlike the regularly scheduled fights where they had their choice. Her opponent had gotten a bit carried away.
“Your bonus was not making you pay your medical expenses after that disaster.”
“In that case, you should be charging Rollan. He knew not to damage my face.” Glozell had flown in a doctor from Dantar—the southernmost member of the allied nations—who specialized in plastics. Luckily Alairiss’s face healed properly with the doctor’s careful procedures. She couldn’t say the same for the rest of her. But her face was her biggest weapon according to Glozell, so it had required the most attention.
“Rollan was fired. That was his payment,” Glozell said.
“You’re welcome for that by the way. I know you were just dying for an excuse to finally get rid of him. I for one, couldn’t have been happier to see him go.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Glozell said, raking a hand through his hair, “Go out there tonight with Felix and make him look good because right now that is what I am paying you to do. You will return to competition when you prove to me that you are ready and the fact that you still don’t see how irresponsible the mirror match was, shows me that you are not.”
“Trade me then. I know Mynad has been making offers. A hundred bilk was it?” Alairiss didn’t know if she meant it or not. Scleria was the city she had grown up in, the only city she really knew. Sure, she’d be the top fighter in another city, but none of them had the exposure of the capital. Scleria was home to the royal family. Many foreign ambassadors and businessmen attended the fights when in town, along with the royals themselves.
“I made your father a promise to take care of you. Now go get ready.” Alairiss stiffened at the mention of her father.
He had dropped her off at Glozell’s training academy when she was ten. Since then she had heard nothing from him. Errol Bayne had been a top pit fighter of Glozell’s in his day. In fact, he had survived the entirety of his twenty-year contract—a feat that was almost unheard of.
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Despite being scripted, the fights were incredibly dangerous. One errant knife throw could lead to someone's death and often did. But with that risk came the reward—the compensation was unrivaled among those who had not been educated in Centrum, the neutral city of the allied nations.
“You care about profit. Or else I’d be a guard or medic for you instead—hidden in the back. If you really cared you wouldn’t expose me to the public eye. Of course, I’m not complaining. I would go insane with any other job but Otorg forbid the public find out my name is really—"
“Don’t say it out loud,” Glozell nervously glanced around despite the room being empty.
My father made you rich, that’s all. Don’t act so high and mighty. I could say one word and your business would crumble down. Imagine it. The booker who knew all along his star fighter Errol Bayne was actually the—"
“Cut out the empty threats,” Glozell interrupted. “You say that one word and you and your father wherever he is are both dead.” He didn’t mean by his own hand. “I need you on your best behavior as impossible a request as that is. The royals will be at tomorrow’s show.”
Alairiss rolled her eyes. That explained Glozell’s attitude. He always got a bit testy leading up to whenever the royals were to attend. Rightfully so—the Barthel’s began their reign of terror forty years ago when they ousted the Pergas from the throne. Since that damned feast, the whole nation had been living in fear. One could be executed for a slight as small as being out past curfew.
“Fine. But if you want to make tomorrow night a good show, your best bet is letting me back in the pit. To fight,” Alairiss said.
“Duly noted. Now get out,” he waved a hand at the door. She gave him a grin but obeyed.
After her makeup, hair, and wardrobe had been completed, Alairiss headed towards the entrance tunnel. In a matter of minutes her fight—well Felix’s fight—was up. He was standing there waiting for her, decked in bronze-colored sleeveless armor and a broadsword at his belt. He was classically handsome, tanned and muscled, and golden hair swept back. Pity he was dumb as a rock or Alairiss might not have minded working with him quite as much.
“You ready?” Felix mumbled.
Alairiss stretched out her arms and cracked her knuckles. “Aren’t I always?” she said with a crooked grin that didn’t reach her eyes. Soon. Soon it would be her fighting again.
The music started pounding in her ears—that was their cue. Alairiss walked through the tunnel following Felix out to the roaring crowd of at least five thousand. Pillars of flame ignited around them adding to the pageantry. Felix paused at the end of the tunnel and flexed his arms, kissing each bicep. He really was the worst.
Still, Alairiss played her part. She sauntered up beside him, placed an arm on his shoulder, and gave the crowd the wicked smile she was known for. The same one seen on billboards throughout the entire city.
A glance at the big screen hanging from the glass roof of the arena showed her exactly what the audience saw. They were enthralling—the spotlights in the otherwise dark arena glinted off Felix’s armor and her matching bodysuit. It was a rather impractical thing—not something she could ever fight in—a completely metal one piece, but it made an impression.
Alairiss tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder as Felix strode to the center of the pit. His opponent was already out there, a visiting fighter from the nation of Costa which lay on the eastern coast of the continent. He carried a saber and was dressed in the traditional Costian garb of a chainmail tunic accented by teal clothing underneath. It would be a quick fight, the main attraction would be what she had to say afterward.
She went to stand inside a plexiglass shielded box on the side of the pit she entered from. The fight began and she cheered Felix on, playing the role of the ever the supportive partner. When the fight worked its way towards her side of the arena, Alairiss opened the door to her box and smashed Felix’s opponent’s head into it. She raised her hands and her eyes widened, causing the crowd to boo her. She just sneered into the camera, following the script Glozell had laid out.
When Felix had finally pinned his opponent to the dirt floor, sword over his neck, she strode back out the center of the pit microphone in hand.
“Well well well,” she drawled, “another one down. This is getting far too easy. Is there anyone left we haven’t beaten? Wait, there is one person . . .your precious champion.” She paused to let the champion of the Scleria pit, Silas run out to confront her and Felix.
When he got to the center of the pit she stuck out her hip and studied the microphone in her hand. Bored. Silas stared intensely at them looking ready to pounce. He was lean and athletic, but in a relatable sort of way, hence why he was the one cheered by the audience and not them. Her and Felix were a standard none of those fools could ever hope to achieve.
“Got anything to say for yourself?” she asked.
“You don’t deserve this title” the champion growled out. The crowd approved of his statement.
“Let me guess you think because Felix hasn’t been fighting as long as you? Hasn’t earned it the hard way? Guess what? Some of us don’t need to go the hard way. Some of us are just plain better. Talent supersedes tenure any day.” Felix just stood beside her, chin in the air letting her do the talking. Otorg knows what would happen if he had to be the one on the microphone.
“And Felix has more talent in his left hand than you do in your entire body,” she continued as the glorious sounds of the crowd’s jeering rang out.
“Then why am I the one holding the title?”
“Because I haven’t pried it from your cold dead hands yet.” We—she was supposed to say we. She’d hear about that from Glozell later.
“At least I don’t need my arm candy to do my dirty work for me.” Felix scowled at the champion’s statement.
“I could disembowel you with this microphone if I wanted,” she smirked up at him. Arm candy she was not.
“What about him?” Silas gestured at Felix.
“Why don’t you find out?”
“Then you have your wish. Tomorrow night Felix can have his shot at my title and he can learn who’s really the best around here.”
Alairiss let out a mocking laugh. “That he will. Sleep well. It’s your last night as champion.” And with that, she dropped her microphone letting the earsplitting static noise echo throughout the arena. And then she grabbed Felix’s neck, bringing his head down to hers and she kissed him.