Ursula gripped Sotz tightly with her thighs, guiding her toward the arena. The icy lunar wind whipped over her skin as she arced lower. Here, on the other side of the moon, no sun burned in the sky. Only the silver glimmer of stars lit her way, and the bright glow of the Earth, hanging in the sky like a vibrant gemstone.
As before, torches burned before the platform, held by oneiroi. The crater’s seats crawled with demons and oneiroi. Oneiroi with great hunks of meat walked the aisles, shouting the price of a slice of roast. Oneiroi maidservants held trays laden with steins of beer.
All along the benches, demons waved banners with the insignia of the houses they supported—a lion for Bael, a scorpion for Abrax, a satyr for Bileth...
As she descended over the arena’s floor, a great whoop rose from the crowd. To her shock, the crowd began chanting her name. Apparently, they don’t hate the hellhound harlot as much as they once did.
In fact, maybe someone from the crowd had a weapon they could lend her...
Sotz touched down on the ground and she stepped off, surveying the space. As before, she stood alone in the center. She still wasn’t clear where they were supposed to go before the start of the duel, so she might as well start here.
Hothgar stood on the platform, a silver cape billowing in the wind. He stared at her, his eyes completely black.
And by his side, Abrax sat in a dark throne, just below the statue of his father. Abrax’s eyes had that same eerie, silver sheen as his father’s.
Ursula turned, scanning the crowd, searching for a weapon. Didn’t any spectators bring swords to death matches? She couldn’t find a single sheathed weapon—not even a dagger. Panic stole her breath.
Before she had the chance to give in to her fears completely, Hothgar sounded the gong. The knell reverberated through her bones, and her pulse began to speed up.
Hothgar’s voice boomed across Lacus Mortis. “The dueling commences soon, a fight to the death. Only one man will remain standing.”
He didn’t even bother to correct himself, to add in the possibility of a woman remaining standing. Anyone watching at this point would realize she didn’t have a weapon—that she was basically here to be slaughtered.
Hothgar raised his hands to the night sky. “I call upon Zoth of the giant of Pleion, Inth of Alboth.”
As Hothgar called out the names, the fighters strode from a dark tunnel on the side of the arena.
“Bernajoux of Zobrach,” Hothgar continued. Ursula glanced at her opponent—her lanky, and apparently sadistic opponent—dressed in a starry doublet. As he took his place, he bowed to Ursula.
“Valac of Phragol Mocaden,” Hothgar boomed. “Chax of Azimeth, our Phantom Rider, now known as the Gray Ghost.”
Ursula’s stomach clenched. Bael hadn’t taken him out of the running? What the hell was his game?
Hothgar smirked. “Ursula, the Harlot of Hellfire.
“And, our last champion, is the reason we’re all here to today. The lord of Abelda, formerly the Sword of Nyxobas, will be fighting to retain his manor. Bael the Fallen.” Hothgar solemnly intoned.
Ursula turned, her heart squeezing, and she watched Bael charge from the tunnel like an ox entering a bull-fighting ring. He wore a silver lion helm and a pair of thick leather trousers. No such protection guarded his tattooed chest, however. He strode into the arena shirtless, his godlike physique on full display. He’d left the bandages at home, and she got a full view of his lethal-looking tattoos: stars, lightning, a razor-sharp thunderbolt.
How could someone blessed with such beauty and physical grace be so dead inside? Too much time in the void, obviously. The betrayal felt like a punch to her gut.
But as he moved into the center of the arena, she studied him closer. In one hand, he clasped a silver broadsword, the same color as his helm. But in the other, the katana.
He stopped just by her side, a thin sheen of sweat on his tawny skin, and she looked up at him, her heart slamming against her ribs. Beautiful and terrifying at the same time. A man who looked like a god, but had murdered his own wife.
He held out the sword by the hilt. “Here.”
Hope bloomed in her chest. For just a moment, she had the strongest impulse to throw her arms around him, but she remembered what Cera had said about his wife.
She took the sword from him, her eyes moistening with tears of relief. “Why did you take it? I thought you were trying to get me killed.”
He shook his head. “You still think I have no honor? I had it cleaned and sharpened.”
She stroked her fingers over the hilt. “Thank you. You could have told me, I guess.”
“I thought you’d have understood me better by now,” he said softly.