Helena doesn’t notice any of Alaric’s antics; her eyes are transfixed on Amie’s broken body. She gasps as she watches Amie disappear over the rim of the viper pit, joining Remy in her serpentine bed. My fault, she whimpers, wishing Amie was still alive to hear her apology. I put you in danger just by being in proximity to you. I’m so sorry, Amie.
Helena faces Andras, determined not to witness another moment of this disgusting display. Until Alaric’s long fingers clutch her chin, straining her neck as he pulls her face back toward the ring. “You will want to see who is crowned the victor, Helena. You are the prize, after all,” the king sneers, relishing the way Helena’s skin grows cold and clammy under his touch. “Don’t you want to see who wins an evening as your special guest?”
A new competitor appears, this one making Thayer look like a clean, prim member of Alaric’s court. Nauseous waves roil through Helena’s stomach as she watches the fight, unable to decide which of the horrible men she could possibly hope will win. In the end, the new competitor reigns supreme when he bites Thayer’s neck, chewing through skin and sinew despite the blood spraying from the wound.
One more, then the one that really matters. Helena counts through the rounds as she tries not to vomit at the grisly scene. She covers her ears with her hands, hoping to drown out Thayer’s gurgling whimpers as his breathing fades. Time slows, each second grueling and prolonged, as if Thayer has somehow bent the rules of the hours just to prolong his own life. The minutes feel like hours, and Helena twitches in her seat, longing to get away from the sight. The breeze stirs around her as if it can hear her desperate pleas.
I could do it, she decides, subtly twitching her fingers to strengthen the breeze. I could drift out of this place and just disappear into the night. It would be so easy. Helena eases back her chair, widening the gap between her body and the table just enough that she can stand comfortably. When the next fight begins, I will escape, she declares, checking the surroundings for any open door or window she could slip through on the wind. The doorway to the kitchens catches Helena’s eye. A few of the maids have propped it open to peek through the cracks. Perfect, Helena nearly hollers out loud, silently urging the next fighter to provide a distraction for her plans.
Then a sharp, blinding pain erupts between her wrist bones. “Still trying to leave me, hmm?” Alaric mocks, crushing a tiny iron nail deeper into her arm. The tip of the nail pierces her flesh, the metal burning through her blood with a sickening sizzle. “I’ve only driven the nail a few millimeters into your arm, Helena. I realize that’s enough to keep you in your place. But try anything else, and I’ll nail you to the chair just because I can,” Alaric warns, holding a large, heavy mallet close to Helena’s arm.
Helena shudders but does not move, sobbing softly as she turns her attention back to the fighting ring. Thayer has already been removed from the scene. The prisoner who’s just defeated Thayer waves, offering her an exaggerated kiss and a wicked smile. Helena’s face grows cold, sweat beading on her forehead as her injured wrist begins to throb.
“I open the challenge to the guards in the ring. Surely one of you would risk the fight for a night with my daughter,” Alaric announces, waiting to see if any of his men would dare to take on the goliath standing before them.
Thayer’s blood still drips down the monster’s chin. He paces around the ring like an animal in a cage, challenging each guard by his growls. The prisoner spits on some of the guards’ shoes, offering them a bloody smile to try and rile their anger.
One of the guards takes up the challenge and steps out of the circle, ripping off his helmet to expose his bald head. He sneers in Helena’s direction, wagging his eyebrows as he asks, “Remember me, darling?”
The guard who used to watch me bathe in my cell, Helena recalls, a soft whine escaping her tightly controlled mouth. Helena grips her chair’s armrests, hissing as the tension aggravates the damage Alaric’s already done to her wrist.
“Seems you left quite an impression on old Grimshaw,” Alaric muses, grinning widely as he waves the guard forward. “Very well, Commander. Best of luck to you; I’m sure Helena will be rooting for you as well.” Alaric grins as Grimshaw’s bawdy laughter ricochets off the stone walls, growing louder and more maniacal with each echo.
“He can’t win,” Helena pleads to anyone who might be listening, not allowing her mind to wander down the dark possibilities of what would happen if she had to spend a night with this man.
Her stomach drops as the prisoner and Grimshaw face off against one another. Evenly matched in stature, the men in the circle slowly pace around each other, searching for any signs of weakness or vulnerability. The prisoner wipes Thayer’s blood from his chin, flicking the dark, congealing stickiness at his opponent.
Some of the droplets splatter against Grimshaw’s ratty uniform. The guard glances at the stains, unperturbed by the prisoner’s efforts to intimidate. “All that blood will soon be replaced by your own, you dog,” Grimshaw exclaims, lashing out with his fists aimed at the prisoner’s chin.
The prisoner sidesteps the blow easily, skittering over to the opposite side of the ring. On and on, they dance around each other, twirling in their furious waltz for what feels like hours. Helena’s mind wanders far from her body as she offers silent prayers to any of the forgotten deities she read about in her childhood studies. When the crowd’s roaring grows louder, she returns her attention to the
