Page 36 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Not again.

The man’s helmet tumbled off as he toppled to the ground.

Not again.

Vision blurry, Roremar blinked down at his victim’s coarse, dark hair through the slits in his own mask.

Not Nico.

This wasn’t Nico.

This had been a man intent on killing him, and he could remember every moment and decision. This wasn’t Dryvius using him, this was self-defense and pure battle instinct.

It was one of many lives lost today. The only question was what in the Fate’s everlasting grave was going on?

Shoving the man off his blade, Roremar turned. He kept his back to a bare expanse of stone wall and scanned his surroundings, taking a second to calm his shaking hands and assess the situation.

They were in a large arena of some sort, flags snapping in the breeze from the highest points of the arched walls. Crowds lined endless rows of seats, their roaring cheers a crashing tide as if this slaughter was for sport. A dozen or so bodies lay lifeless in the dirt, the rest of the men still dueling with every aggressive means they could drudge up.

Were they all criminals like him? Was this some sort of entertainment to dispose of them? Based on the enthusiasm and the different names painted on banners, Roremar was certain the viewers had personal stakes—wagers, likely.

It wasn’t some underground operation, though. No, this was out in broad daylight, in an arena bigger than anything he’d ever seen on the Constellation Isles. It nagged at a memory, but he couldn’t remember where he might have heard of it before.

And he didn’t have time to dwell on where he was as the crowd cheered for his kills—no one knowing his name, thank the Spirits. Other men in the arena noticed where the spectators’ attention went.

They turned his way.

“By the fucking Angel,” Roremar grumbled, squaring his shoulders.

One of them aimed for him, and Roremar met him head on, blades clashing before he pivoted behind him.

The guards who had escorted Roremar had given him a nicked old sword and a few dull daggers. He wrenched one from his belt, the grip wobbling in his fist, and—with exceptional, unfortunate force—rammed it into the guy’s spine.

The strength he had to employ to sever bone and ligaments had him gagging, but he gritted his teeth and shoved the blade home. The man crumpled beneath it with an agonized scream that shook Roremar’s spirit.

His vision flickered.

Between here and a bloody cell.

Here and a war camp.

Two deaths he was responsible for. That he heard in his nightmares.

What was he doing, taking more life? He already had so much Fatesdamned blood on his hands, he couldn’t handle any more.

And while the men he just killed seemed so inept with a weapon they were practically asking to die, why did they deserve it?

But him…

Well, he fucking deserved all the grief the realms could rain down on him.

A glint had his attention snapping up. A triple dagger whizzed through the air for him, blades igniting in the sun. Out of habit, Roremar threw up an arm to block. The weapon clanged against his rusted vambrace and shot to the side, sliding across the ground in a cloud of dust.

“Fates.” He laughed. He couldn’t even die properly.

Finally, after weeks of torment, this was his chance to hand his life over and escape all the guilt and misery that had shrouded every Angelsdamned waking and sleeping second. And his body was still defending him in a way he didn’t deserve.

He deserved to feel every ounce of pain these opponents could bestow on him—he longed for it, as messed up as that was. And then, he’d let them take his life.