Page 32 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Seems unfair to whoever has to fight twice,” Emmeline said.

“Let us begin with the opening duel!” Rocarri called.

All but the first two men moved to the perimeter of the arena, some removing their helmets to wait, others remaining in their hardened mindset. Emmeline tried not to look too closely at them—she didn’t want to humanize the men trying to force her into a bond.

The first pair circled each other in the center of the arena, dirt scuffing up around their feet. Their cheering sections shouted impossibly loud. They were clearly favorites.

Rocarri bellowed, “Begin!”

A member of Valyn City Guard turned over the hourglass.

It was a slow start, a build to the flurry of clashing blades and soaring daggers. While the two seemed evenly matched in ability, one wore pristinely polished armor while the other only wore leather guards. So, they were even in skill but perhaps not wealth.

Emmeline tucked away every bit of information she could glean from their appearances, how they moved and what strategies each employed, which members of Rocarri’s entourage cheered for which man.

“What do we know of them?” Emmeline asked Cyren.

“One is born and raised in Valyn—a favorite to many, but not all. His grandfather was in the pocket of the last Chancellor which has left a lot of people wary.”

That would be the armored man, then.

Cyren winced as he got in a good hit, but went on, “The other is from a southern city. Trained at a military academy there and did a few stints working with other warrior clans. I’ve met him a couple times before this. He’s a strong contender.”

He had a more brutal technique, blunt strikes and clear predictions of his opponent’s next moves.

The armored man slashed, and the blow came within an inch of the other’s chest.

Emmeline gasped, clutching Alana’s hand. She’d seen her fair share of bloodshed—had taken more lives than she liked to admit—but that had been such a careless strike.

“That could have been lethal. Aren’t they only fighting to disarm one another?” Emmeline asked.

Alana shook her head, clearly equally shocked.

Emmeline’s heart beat erratically as the men’s blades swiped once, twice, more than three times. One sliced his opponent’s cheek, bringing the cross guard up to slam into his jaw on the follow through. The other took a bruising hit to the shoulder. Crimson splattered the ground from minor cuts, dust swirling up around them as their feet traveled quicker across the floor.

Blood rushed in Emmeline’s ears as the armored man backed the other toward the wall, driving him to his knees with a sneaky tripping maneuver. He kneed him in the jaw and knocked aside his sword.

There was enough blood now—one man had fallen.

“Why isn’t he yielding?” Emmeline whispered, her heart beating in her throat. “Or someone calling first blood?”

Alana stuttered, “I—I don’t know.”

The man on the ground—the one in only leather armor—coughed, spitting crimson to the dust.

Horror squeezed Emmeline’s chest as he grinned a bloodstained smile up at his competitor and wrenched a knife from his bandolier, slamming it through the man’s foot.

It sank all the way to the dirt, both of their screams—one of victory and one of agony—blending with the collective gasp in the arena.

With the flapping of flags on the wind.

With the roaring in Emmeline’s ears.

The crowd cried out for more. More blood, more violence.

Emmeline’s stomach turned at the senseless, recreational brutality, but she couldn’t look away.

And when the competitor in the leather armor hoisted himself upright and staggered to retrieve his sword, one word fell from her lips.