Boasting a crown of pin-sharp teeth, swathed in the heavy weight of his frayed cloak, the Scavenger King looks down on it all from his moonshard throne, comfortably set on his wide and lofty booth high above the viewing mezzanines. What makes up the biggest, grandest battle pit in the world, renowned for its savage shows, flowing refreshments, and wild debauchery.
Hispalace.
Hiskingdom.
… At least until he sits upon hisrightfulthrone.
Slouched in a much simpler throne, the Tri-Councilor sighs, displeasure rumpling his long face. “It’s been a while since I graced the Pits of Khindard, but I must say, Arkyn, I remember it being much moreexciting.”
The Scavenger King frowns, turning his attention to scan the screaming crowds. Tiers of prestigious folk who’ve come to feast on the carnage, emptying their pockets in exchange for a front-row seat to slaughter.Ripefor the picking.
Einar, it seems, is the only one not enjoying himself.
Arkyn’s about to say as much when a null server steps forward, dips into a curtsy, and offers him the requested mug of mead. She hands a second to the esteemed member of the Tri-Council; the youngest of the near-fossilized group, his eyes not yet gone milky with the wisdom of too many phases lived, his mind still somewhat soft.
Somewhat pliable.
Arkyn’sspecialguest.
Einar scowls into the mug, then slams it back on the tray. “I don’t drinkyour grittyfilth,” he growls, backhanding the server so hard a red mark blooms on her freckled cheek. “You dishonor me. Find me something palatable.”
The server scurries from the booth while Arkyn tracks the motion. “You maimed my server.”
“Null incompetency.” Einar’s scowl deepens. “They bask in our cities, safe behind walls they had no part in shaping. They drink water we cleanse and funnel, breathe air we purify when a moonfall strikes. Theleastthey can do is serve us something that’s fucking drinkable.”
Arkyn drums the itching tips of his fingers against the armrest of his throne, chewing on several …less diplomaticresponses before he settles on, “Perhapsincompetentisn’t the right word. Where would your beaded brothers be were it not for their dedication to the mines?”
Einar chuckles, waving a finger. “You’ve got me there. On that note, you ought to feed fewer nulls to your pits, more beasts. Once Cadok and Tyroth take control of The Burn, troves of nulls will be funneled into fresh bloodstone mines so we can finally unlock the north’s untapped supplies.”
Arkyn’s hand stills.
Interesting …
“While I’m all for the sport,” Einar continues, steepling his hands, “at the rate you’re currently feeding the razah … well. It won’t be long until we outnumberthema thousand to one, not the other way around.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Arkyn lies, of the belief that any competent brown bead could excavate their own bloodstone … if they only deigned to breathe the dirty mineshaft air.
But no. They’d rather have it handed to them on a platter.
While Arkyn doesn’t enjoy feeding nulls to the pits, it’s the means to an end; the near-constant flow of revenue paving the path to a greater world once his mission is complete.
“For now,” Arkyn continues with a dash of his hand, “enjoy the show.”
The sound of grinding chains echoes through the amphitheater as the many pit gates lift. Numerous folk stumble through the smog, masked and garbed in mismatched bits of scavenged armor. Some immediately wet themselves, while others try to bash through the bars they came from. Only one stands sturdy, with a bravado of false confidence that’ll soon taper.
The crowd cheers—notforthe tributes but already celebrating their impending deaths.
A cloaked male pushes past the black velvet curtain and bows to Arkyn and Einar, turning his shoulders toward the Tri-Councilor—ledger, quill, and sack in hand. “Any bets? Perhaps who will be the first to fall? Or the last remai—”
Einar sneers, dismissing the male with a single look. Something Arkyn finds curious, given he’s perfectly aware that Einar enjoyswinningbloodstone as much as he doesconsumingit.
Usually.
But if—like his spies suggest—the Citadel’s stores aredepleting …
The Scavenger King arches a brow. “You’re not betting, my friend?”
“Not this dae,” Einar murmurs past tight lips, all but confirming Arkyn’s suspicions. “Besides, my attention wanes. These battles were much more exciting before you lost your Fire Lark.”
