Page 50 of Hellbound

Laughter erupted in the corner opposite her—full-throated guffaws.

“You’re joking.” A massive man with a shaved head and scars crisscrossing his forearms turned to another. “They let anyone enter?”

“Must be the entertainment,” his compatriot added, gold tooth winking in the light as he grinned widely. “Giving us something pretty to look at while we wait.”

More laughter rippled through the competitors. Two dozen men, maybe more, all turning to leer. Finding the same joke hilarious.

A lean, sinewy man with a bow slung across his shoulder nudged his neighbor. “D’you think she knows which end of a sword to hold?”

“Think she knows what a sword is?”

Ksenia’s rage simmered at the edge of her control. Did she know what a sword was? She had forged more blades than their years. Her family had fitted warriors of the highest caliber. Her family had forged Radegast, for gods’ sake.

And they boiled her capability down to her sex.

“Maybe she’s the prize,” an oily voice called, next to her. “For the winner.”

Without much thought, she had unsheathed Caromir and hauled the voice’s owner close—a pathetic weasel of a man. She fisted the front of his tunic in her grip and dug the dagger’s point into his neck just below the apple in his throat. It bobbed up and down as he gulped.

Unorthodox, but I won’t turn down fresh blood.

She felt the heat behind her eyes and clenched her jaw, fighting her bloodlust and failing at her mission of being forgettable.

“Enough,” called Bohdan. “Let him go.”

Ksenia reluctantly withdrew Caromir and gave the man a hard shove.

He sneered and spat on the floor before her. “You’ll regret that, Kitten.”

She leered back then turned to scan her surroundings, locating Bohdan.

He sported a casual tunic this evening, paired with suede breeches. When he crossed his arms, the laces of his tunic loosened, revealing a scar that cleaved from the top of his neck down his collarbone; a deep, irregular trench where something had brutally torn through almost to the bone. He scratched the silvered mark idly as though he sensed her attention.

He faced the crowd, leaning against an oaken table before a crackling fire. The air smelled acrid and stale, as if the room was seldom used but for something foul when it was. It was a dungeon after all.

He rapped his knuckle against a carved wooden chest on the table, its corners capped with gold filigree.

“Competitors, welcome. Drop your token into the chest for official entry to the trials.” He shifted slightly, and the hilt of his sword glinted at her across the room like a warning. “But know this: there is no turning back once you enter.”

On cue, his gaze and countless others flicked to Ksenia. She refused to blink, and her eyes watered.

“Hold on, now. What are the rules of these trials?” The weaselly man she had shoved drew closer to the front of the room. A dozen golden hoops were embedded in his ear, giving a gentle clink as he dug his pinkie deep into the orifice.

“Good question.”

The man displayed a toothy smile at the bit of praise.

“There will be four challenges. Death and dismemberment are expected. Those who do survive but don’t reach my measure of success in each trial will be executed.”

The silence that followed was deafening before protests erupted. Ksenia’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the ruckus of the crowd.

Bohdan looked nonplussed—a testament to enduring this song and dance yearly. With weary patience, he held up a hand in silence.

“That’s a rule that won’t be changing. By decree of King Saranov, the Sevrant is a highly coveted and secluded role. The knowledge this successor will have is tantamount to the safety of the crown—the safety of the kingdom. This person will become the king’s closest confidant, strategist, and hand.”

Ksenia recalled her scathing words with Bohdan in the library a couple of nights prior.

In front of her, a broad-shouldered man with a shiny, shaved head except for a thin strip on top shifted his weight, his hand palming a large gold coin.