Page 33 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“No.”

The contestants rimming the arena stomped their feet, banging steel against steel.

“Yield,” she pleaded.

The man from the southern military academy stumbled back to his opponent—still impaled in the dirt. He lifted his sword, spit another mouthful of blood to the sand, and without remorse brought the gleaming blade down on the neck of his opponent.

Emmeline’s knees weakened as blood spurted across the arena.

As the body fell.

As a life was ended.

Her glass tumbled from her hand, the shatter lost beneath the crowd’s roar. And she realized, this was no organized fight. It wasn’t fair swordplay and timed attacks. There would be no yielding to the stronger opponent. This duel ended in death.

It was the ruthlessness of the Angel set upon a freshly whetted blade.

It was the Fates’ wrath embodied and motivated by the one thing people gave their morals up for fastest: power.

And all of it—every life sacrificed—was in pursuit of her.

The first victor ripped off his helmet, long brown hair tumbling around his shoulders and greedy eyes finding Emmeline’s. He raised his sword above his head and beat his other fist against his chest, right over the eleven starred sigil pressed into his leathers. Blood dripped to the sand, soaking deep and bright around the lifeless body.

The crowd erupted into cheers, and there was a moment where time seemed to suspend.

“Fates knew it,” Cyren whispered. The General’s lips pressed into a tight line, but their eyes weren’t on the crowd.

They were on the competitors, on the hunger brewing in their tense frames.

With the crowd cheering them on, the men erupted. Blades out and cries of victory on their lips, untamed battle broke across the arena.

Chapter Twelve

Emmeline

Rocarri’s jaw tightened as the first strike landed, a muscle ticking with the carnage raining below.

And Emmeline realized, he hadn’t expected this either.

Hadn’t expected the chaos he derived from his own trials, feeding these men with promises of fortune and starving them for blood. He’d expected a show—drama and flare, but not a massacre.

Despite the devastation, for a brief flash, satisfaction curled within Emmeline at him losing control of his own event. Even Balmour Rocarri didn’t hold total power. Good. Let him experience the swooping sensation of the rug being pulled out from under him as he’d done to her yesterday.

But as more men fell—as the cries of agony rang louder then sliced into eerie silence—bile stung the back of Emmeline’s throat. This savagery was being committed in her honor.

The crowd was only encouraging them. Starsearchers were warriors after all. Most grew up with a triple blade in hand, and it was an honor to die on a battlefield. To them, these men had volunteered for this.

“Cyren?” Alana forced out. “What’s happening?”

“I warned them,” Cyren whispered. “A few of us read at the temple last night after selecting the pairings. We saw this as a potential outcome when Rocarri removed the rules.”

“What do you mean?” Alana asked.

“He purposefully didn’t set any instructions on yielding or first blood. The only rule is that half of them must proceed to the second trial.”

“He told them to do this?” Emmeline asked. “To kill each other?”

Cyren shook their head. “He simply didn’t tell them not to.”