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I balk, my arm dropping slightly as I shake my head. “My parents were not murderers. They Raced, and they won, fair and square.”
His laugh filled the cave, but it was joyless and dark. “My parents were not expendable. Their deaths were not accidents.”
The idea that my parents, who were single focused on winning the Race, were capable of murder doesn’t sound as preposterous as I want to believe it is. Still, my love for them and my pride will not allow me to believe a word of venom he spits at me.
“It wasn’t just my parents, either, Viola,” he whispers, his voice low and sinister. “They left a trail of broken families and shattered lives every year when they Raced.”
“That’s impossible,” my voice rings out defiantly. A chilling breeze, wholly out of place amid a summer storm, sweeps through us. Max silently slides beside me, her dagger in one hand and the other pressed against my lower back, where moments before Amio’s blade rested.
My parents raised me to prioritize the Race over all else. I was told stories of those who were expendable because they trusted the wrong people, showing me I could care for no one. While I feel for Amio, ultimately, I knew my parents did what they had to do to return to me and eventually win the Race. Anyone would make the choices they made, and I do not begrudge them for it.
Still, Amio was young when I saw him crying by the Summit. Being orphaned at that age would harden anyone. “I understand that’s your perspective, but everyone knows the Race is the Race, and we do what we can to survive. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
He scoffs at me, looking like I said something entirely foreign to him. “No, they wouldn’t! There are plenty of elderly who CHOOSE to be expendable year after year. Invalids who tire of a painful life would gladly lay down themselves as well. There is never a need to murder someone to save yourself.” He stalks towards me, his blade dangerously sharp and glinting in the low light. He meets the tip of my dagger with his own and snarls, “So that means what I’m about to do to you is wholly for me.”
I roll my eyes at him, feigning indifference. “Oh, okay, you took me to bed to gain my trust and kill me? Why not just kill me after we fucked?” Max’s fingers on my back tighten at my vulgarity.
His laugh is rueful as he says, “What’s the fun in that? I like a little more chase, and you just made it way too easy.”
Max, ever the peacemaker, attempts to get between us to diffuse the situation. “Get the fuck back,” Amio spits. He rears his knife back and brings the butt swiftly down on her temple. She falls, a red welt forming from the impact.
As she moves to stand, I put out my hand. “Stay down, get in the corner. This is between us, Max.” I sense the trepidation in her, but she does as I say and moves away from the two of us, standing face-to-face, our short blades trained on one another.
“What you don’t understand, Viola, is that nothing at this point can dissuade me. I tried to ignore this anger that grows within me like a weed, but seeing you at the market brought back all the memories of my loss. I can’t let you live when my parents didn’t.” His voice cracks, betraying his genuine fear of the situation he’s gotten into.
Distracted by the emotion in his voice, I momentarily let my guard down, and he lunges towards me, slicing upwards toward my throat. I nimbly duck back but take a small knick on my cheek. Despite the hit I took, I managed to sidestep his advancement and slash at his upper arm in the same instance. Blood pours from the wound, and his expression shifts from conflicted emotion to pure rage.
He moves to kick my legs out from under me, and I slip and fall in the blood he left on the grotto floor. The smell of it awakens my senses, and I relish the feeling it gives me.
From my vulnerable position on the floor, memories of past injustices, of men who thought they could take what they wanted from me, threaten to float to the surface. After my parents abandoned me on the Summit, I had to fight tooth and nail to finish the Race on my own. And I’ve done it every year since. I’ve made mistakes in who to trust and who to ignore, which cost me dearly.
Maybe not my life, but it broke parts of my mind.
Unfortunately for Amio, that broken part of me is the guiding force today.
I jump to my feet, motivated by the cool breath of the storm that swirls around us. Another lightning strike illuminates the darkness that lives deep within Amio’s eyes. What once was attractive and alluring to me has become clouded with sickness and devastatingly empty. My gaze locks with his, and I tighten my grip around the blade, cool and calming in my hand. The feel of the leather, hand wrapped by my father around the hilt, and the sheen of metal of the tip ground me as the realization of my situation weighs heavily in front of me. It is like a specter I can almost touch. That specter seems to whisper a grim truth that echoes through the cavern walls and my mind.
Only one of us would be leaving here alive.
Despite our size difference, we parry back and forth for what seems like ages, a surprisingly equal match of strength and dexterity. While he gets in a few good blows in the form of punches and cuts, I give as much as I get.
The storm outside mirrors the tempest brewing within us, a perfect backdrop to the impending clash of our conflicting destinies. Amio snarls at me, “You’re just like your parents. I bet blood stains your hands, too.”
The weight of my parent’s choices and their legacy presses on my shoulders, a burden I can no longer ignore. My breath hitches like something deep in my mind is trying to stop what I’m going to say next. “I won’t let the sins of the past define me. I prefer the sins of today.”
The weight of others’ choices can guide you, but the weight of your own defines you.
The darkness threatens to engulf us both, and it’s high time I embrace it.
I lunge, slicing through the air with trained precision, but Amio parries me well, his movements a desperate dance of survival and retribution. We circle one another, the fight intimately close with the length of our respective weapons.
He manages to slice my thigh, leaving a gap in my leather shorts. I wince at the blood flowing but shake the burn off quickly. I want to slap the look of triumph right off Amio’s beautiful face. He moves towards me, setting up a killing blow, his hand gripping the back of my hair. The world around me seems to slow as he raises his blade to the freckled tawny skin of my throat. Before he can make contact, I stab with my off hand, my blade making contact and sliding effortlessly into the flesh between two ribs.
I make a mental note to thank Max for the whetstone again.
I slide the blade from his flesh, blood spattering on my face, and Amio drops my hair and stumbles to his knees, clutching his side. His blood pools beneath his feet, glistening in the low light. The stories this bloodstain will tell when we are long gone from here call to me. I long to know them. I see the anger he felt, the desperation to avenge his parents in those stains. I watch the blood drip from his wound, his fingers slipping as he attempts to staunch it. My eyes linger on the slick of his blood on my knife before wiping it off on my shorts. It mingles with mine, and the revulsion I feel for sleeping with him bubbles to the surface. He meets my gaze with a vulnerable defiance, knowing he lacks the strength to continue but unable to admit it.
“Just leave me here to die, Viola. You won.” He winces and pulls his hand away from the wound. Max is at my side quickly, and her eyes narrow at the depth of the puncture.
