The amphitheater smelled of copper and incense. Torchlight reflected off the marble tiers, where Eliad's nobles leaned forward with liquored mirth as the sand below grew redder with every strike.
Thessaly sat stiffly, a cascade of expansive fabrics and pearls meant to disguise the rawness of her age. Eighteen. Newly a wife, yet already bound to a man well into his sixties. The crowd roared as one fighter fell to his knees. She did not flinch, but her throat tightened.
Tyrravel Damaris sprawled beside her, rings biting into swollen fingers, his lips wet with wine. When her hand twitched toward her lap, he shoved it back down against the carved wood. "Eyes forward," he drawled, "What use is a wife who cannot stomach sport? Watch. Learn. There is elegance in the way a man begs for his life."
She forced her chin higher. Below, a man limped, dragging his entrails like a crimson train. His opponent raised the blade for the final cut. Thessaly's lips parted, not in horror but to swallow the protest that burned her tongue. To call this barbaric would change nothing. Silence, at least, could be hers.
Tyrravel laughed, the sound obscene and satisfied. "Ah, there it is. That steel. You will come to love it, girl. This is power. Men dying for your passing amusement." His hand drifted to her knee, never an affectionate touch. His eyes possessed her with an intent that she already loathed. Tyrravel snared and turned back to the sand as though she were no more than the cushions beneath him.
The crowd shrieked approval as the blade fell. Thessaly kept her gaze unblinking. And slowly, what was left of her innocence was torn from her by each foul stroke of blade and wizened hand.
Thessaly sat stiffly, a cascade of expansive fabrics and pearls meant to disguise the rawness of her age. Eighteen. Newly a wife, yet already bound to a man well into his sixties. The crowd roared as one fighter fell to his knees. She did not flinch, but her throat tightened.
Tyrravel Damaris sprawled beside her, rings biting into swollen fingers, his lips wet with wine. When her hand twitched toward her lap, he shoved it back down against the carved wood. "Eyes forward," he drawled, "What use is a wife who cannot stomach sport? Watch. Learn. There is elegance in the way a man begs for his life."
She forced her chin higher. Below, a man limped, dragging his entrails like a crimson train. His opponent raised the blade for the final cut. Thessaly's lips parted, not in horror but to swallow the protest that burned her tongue. To call this barbaric would change nothing. Silence, at least, could be hers.
Tyrravel laughed, the sound obscene and satisfied. "Ah, there it is. That steel. You will come to love it, girl. This is power. Men dying for your passing amusement." His hand drifted to her knee, never an affectionate touch. His eyes possessed her with an intent that she already loathed. Tyrravel snared and turned back to the sand as though she were no more than the cushions beneath him.
The crowd shrieked approval as the blade fell. Thessaly kept her gaze unblinking. And slowly, what was left of her innocence was torn from her by each foul stroke of blade and wizened hand.
