Page 57 of Black Sea

The gladiator I had thrown off the chariot, now covered in sand that clung to his sweat-drenched robes, drew the scimitar on his side. He fixed his gray eyes on me and spat words in a language I didn’t understand, gesturing toward his wounded companions, who were dragging themselves toward the gate through which they had entered. Then he turned to Amlach, who had killed his charioteer, and his voice became even more venomous.

Amlach shot me a quick glance before turning to the man who had probably just threatened him with death. “It was nothing personal, man,” he said with insolence.

The three erupted in warlike howls and lunged at us. Their fighting technique differed significantly from that of the soldiers we had trained with in the last days; at times, it was even better and more acrobatic.

Amlach took some time to figure out when and how to attack, and I had to yank the chain that connected us several times to protect him from strikes he couldn’t see coming.

But when he finally found the rhythm, we began moving in a different way. More fluid. Faster. More lethal.

In a way more intimate. More ours.

At the right moment, I drove the arrow into the crook of the gladiator’s arm wielding the scimitar. He let out a cry, releasing the weapon to immediately attempt to pull out the dart, blood gushing profusely from the severed veins. With a little smile, I stole one of the daggers attached to his torso and cut deeply into his knee joint, causing him to fall.

Simultaneously, Amlach fended off the assault from one of the other two gladiators and tore open the belly of the second. The nauseating smell of the internal organs pouring out from the man’s body, along with a crimson cascade, saturated the hot air, making me feel like I couldn’t breathe.

The next moment, the only enemy left standing lunged at Amlach with all his weight.

Before I could dig my heels in the sand, I was pulled down with them and landed on the back of the desert-dweller, hitting my chin against his shoulder blade with such force that the snap of my teeth echoed in my ears.

“Nauriel,” Amlach roared, gripping the opponent’s wrists to stop him from driving his blade into a vital point. “ Kill him!”

I couldn’t do it. Even if the guy was determined to kill us, he was still an innocent person. I would never take his life.

So, I wrapped my fingers around the wrist of the gladiator’s unarmed hand and pushed it against the ground. Then, with a wild grunt, I impaled it into the sand. He erupted in a terrible cry, and a thick vermilion puddle began to spread like an oil stain under his palm.

The next instant, so fast that I barely recorded his sudden movement, Amlach pinched one of the man’s daggers from its sheath and stabbed him on his side, piercing his lung. The man vomited a bubble of blood onto him, and Amlach turned his face to the side to avoid the impact, grimacing as the slimy liquid trickled down his throat.

I drew the blade from the back of the desert-dweller’s hand, and Amlach groaned as he pushed the corpse aside. I stood up and grabbed Amlach’s blood-slicked armguard, helping him get up.

He invaded my personal space, his expression anything but amused or victorious. “When I tell you to kill, Elf—”

“I’m not like you, human,” I brusquely interrupted him.

His eyes seemed to burn in anger . . . and darted past my head.

The next moment, Amlach shoved me aside and blocked the strike from the gladiator I had injured. I watched as the dagger hovered on Amlach’s chest, the tip grazing his leather armor.

Seeking his heart.

The heart with which mine synchronized every single night, following its regular rhythm. The heart that, when Amlach was deeply asleep and unaware, I enjoyed hearing by pressing my hand against it.

The heart I had learned to know.

The heart I didn’t want to lose.

The heart that was mine.

Something dark formed within me, slithering through my veins and mingling with my blood until I could feel it everywhere.

Until it took possession of my mind.

And before I could realize what I was doing, I moved behind the one who wanted to take Amlach away from me and shoved my blade into his neck.

The man turned to stone, and a gurgling sound escaped his mouth before he collapsed heavily to the side, igniting the delirium of the crowd in the stands.

The host of the Games began to scream to overcome the roar raging in the arena, yet I did not hear a single word.

I watched the blood gush out of the desert-dweller’s severed carotid artery and soak up the veil that covered his face as well as his clothes. Then I observed the sun’s rays refract off the scarlet patina that soiled the weapon still in my hand.