Page 437 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Though I wasn’t sure it ever had.

“Today’s fight will be different,” Marley announced dryly.

“No shit.”

She cleared her throat with a huff. “Harder, bigger. You’ll face more opponents, and there will be beasts, trap doors, challenges for you to overcome to prove you’re worthy of serving Moros,” she said, her voice melodic, even as I scowled up at the crowd.

“When the fuck did I agree to all this?” I demanded. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to serve Moros. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay here. Despite spending every waking second post-ascension in these halls, I still felt wildly out of place. The death of Branoc and his wife—and the image of their nuptials—sat like a load of bricks on my shoulders, making bile churn in my stomach. I kept dreaming of the same faces—blue, amber, and silver eyes on a loop. I should know them. Should but…

I came up empty and aching every time I reached inward to find them. Like reaching out only to slam my knuckles into a wall, scraping them raw.

“Someone’s in a mood today,” Marley observed. “I promise it’ll all make sense after—once you’re connected mind-to-mind and you feel Moros’ power in your blood, you’ll know you made the right decision. He’s the strongest king of our age.”

As if my growing distaste had summoned him, my scalp prickled moments before the man himself strolled up beside us. A low buzzing filled my ears as he dipped his chin.

“Beautiful day for a fight. God blesses you,” he declared as I held his gaze. Unbidden anger roiled in my stomach. Just me? Like the opponents wouldn’t fight under the same sky?

“She’s very focused, Your Majesty,” Marley said hastily. I had the distinct impression she thought she was helping me.

“Let’s get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” Moros said, smirking as I bypassed them to march into the arena. A chill ghosted over my skin as the gate dropped behind me, caging me in. Still, the sun shone. Still, I wondered when I’d last turned my face up into its warmth.

The… crucible.

One would think they’d remember something so pivotal. Some kind of initiation ceremony to connect me to the hierarchy? Why didn’t that make sense? Should we just… be?

Shaking my head, I scanned the space—a stretch of dirt surrounded by ten-foot walls that separated us from the onlookers. Every side of the square was littered with gates like the one that just fell at my back.

One by one, souls stepped through the domed openings, their gates closing behind them. I counted twelve. None of them wore anything like what I did.

Simple clothes.

Leathers.

One soul in black and gold armor, an indistinguishable symbol on their chest.

The only thing that mirrored the pits below was the assortment of weapons at the center.

With this many opponents, that spelled bloodbath unless I was, miraculously, the fastest.

Eyeing the meager amount of muscle I’d packed on the last few weeks, I doubted it.

The rattle of chains echoed from all sides as the final gates clanged to the ground, the roar of the crowd so deafening it rang inside my skull. How we’d hear Moros over that racket was beyond me.

Quickly, I scanned my opponents.

A girl so frail I’d be shocked if she didn’t collapse from fear. Somebody more aggressive would likely take her out. Though if she’d made it this far, she clearly had some tricks up her sleeve.

Men corded in muscle beneath their leathers. Best to avoid until there was only one standing.

A woman with short pink hair eyed me like a fucking snack. Ugh. Avoid if possible. But I was pretty sure I could survive that one. There were few better advantages than being underestimated.

And… the blond man from the pits. The one with scarred hands—who’d exchanged words with Branoc before we fought.

Before I killed him.

I palmed my sternum. It seemed to me that if Moros was looking to hone assets, having us kill each other off was the least sensible option available. But what the fuck did I know?