Page 229 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Yes, it was! You killed him! You’re a Fatesdamned murderer.”

“They made me! I didn’t even know what I was doing there.” Svalla knocked Roremar beneath him, hand closing on his windpipe. He wheezed out, “What was I supposed to do?”

Roremar’s good hand skimmed the ground, his other tucked protectively to his chest.

“You were supposed to die,” Svalla gritted. His face was red, sweat pouring down his cheeks and mixing with the blood. “Like you will now⁠—”

That last word sliced into a gurgle, and warm liquid splashed across Roremar’s face and chest.

Svalla toppled to the side, a figure hovering over them, face shadowed by the candles flickering on the wall behind him.

The newcomer shifted, and when Roremar saw brown curls damp with sweat and sticking to his temples, air whooshed into his lungs.

“Rian,” he said hoarsely.

Rian tried to help him up, but Roremar hissed when he gripped his bad arm.

“Fuck,” he panted, pushing into a seated position and leaning against the wall. He cradled his arm to his chest. The pain mounted now that the threat was gone. His shoulder had its own heartbeat.

“Break something?” Rian asked, kicking Svalla’s limp form to the opposite side of the tunnel, double and triple checking that he was unconscious.

Based on the amount of blood, he wouldn’t be waking up again. Roremar was relieved, though he mourned what this tournament was doing to all of them.

Svalla wouldn’t have even wanted his life if they hadn’t been thrown into the arena in the first place. If they hadn’t been told this tournament was a means to fame and fortune—to Emmeline’s power.

They weren’t to blame. It was the Chancellor and all the fucking Fates at fault.

“My shoulder,” Roremar hissed out. “Don’t think its broken or dislocated.” He tested moving it, but cried out at the pain shooting through him. “Fuck, maybe partially, I don’t know.”

“Here.” Rian helped Roremar sit forward then sliced his tunic up the back and removed it. He ripped off a piece, and Roremar used it to wipe Svalla’s blood from his skin as Rian fashioned the rest of the fabric into a makeshift sling. He fiddled with it for a while to ensure it was holding Roremar’s arm properly, jittery energy rolling off him.

Every time he said he was done, he checked the positioning again.

“It’s okay,” Roremar said, eyeing Rian warily. He tugged at the knot himself. “See?”

Eyes flicking around, Rian nodded.

Roremar could finally take a deeper breath. The sling relieved a lot of the pressure on his shoulder but also restricted his movement. Hopefully no one else came after him.

“Thanks,” Roremar said. Getting to his feet, he nodded at the blade Rian had used to cut his tunic. “Where’d you get that?”

Rian pulled it from his waist, holding out the single-bladed dagger. “Found a cavern a few tunnels over. Walls leading to it had been messily demolished—probably not safe to go back—but there were a lot of artifacts. I took a few.”

Rian spun the blade toward the nearest candlelight, the intricate carvings around the hilt catching the light. “Everything looked old but like it was once expensive. Minimal damage.”

“How many fucking secrets are hiding down here?” Roremar muttered, mostly to himself.

“Know where we are?” Rian asked. His gaze flicked around nervously again.

“Tunnels beneath the city, I’m pretty sure.” Roremar racked his memory for details. “Catacombs and other passageways, but also, according to Valyrie, where a lot of ancient things are buried.”

Rian didn’t question him on the mention of the Angel. He nodded, pulling a second dagger from his waist and eyeing Roremar’s bloody mess. “Take this. You could use it.”

“That bad?” Roremar hissed at the implication of how rough he appeared, pain throbbing through the rest of his body more by the minute.

“That bad,” Rian said.

He took the dagger with his free, non-dominant hand and tested out the grip. It would do.