Page 196 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
Saren stepped into the light.
She wore the clothing of a Dunayan—loose beige fabrics designed to blend seamlessly with the shifting dunes of their homeland. Her head remained uncovered, her short curls falling freely around her face.
Alina stared at the long scar that cut across Saren’s cheek.
She was already imagining how it might look once matched by the blade of her dagger.
With a heavy clang, the doors on either side of the arena slammed shut.
The drums continued to pound through the arena, their rhythm quickening, stirring the crowd into a frenzy. The sound seemed to throb through the very air, urging the spectators to shout louder, to hunger more fiercely for the blood that was yet to be spilt.
Saren let out a short snort, lifting her desert dagger and pointing the blade directly at Alina.
‘Ready to die today?’ she called.
Alina said nothing. She shifted her grip on the staff, settling it into a defensive stance as she began to circle the arena. Saren moved with her, mirroring every careful step.
Alina would not be baited by such childish provocations.
The drums suddenly thundered louder, faster, and Alina’s eyes flicked briefly towards the royal stand where the king sat watching the fight. In this arena there were no long speeches, no ceremonious words from the throne.
The people had come for blood.
‘You ought to beg for your life,’ Saren continued mockingly.She gestured towards the royal stand, and Alina noticed that the king’s son, Zaydan, had also come to witness the fight, along with the Saqar.
Alina kept circling.
Every step mattered now. Every movement had to be measured.
She watched Saren carefully, studying the shift of her feet, the tilt of her shoulders. Whether Saren truly was a god in mortal form or simply a formidable Dunayan warrior, she would be a terrifying opponent. But Alina was no longer the helpless princess Saren had once encountered.
No.
She had learnt to fight like the Dunayans.
Like the phoenixians.
And like the wyverians.
‘How are you feeling after falling from such a height?’ Saren asked as she continued circling slowly, her steps measured and deliberate. The two of them had fallen into a careful dance now, and Alina knew that sooner or later it would break. One of them would have to strike first. ‘I always wondered how you managed to survive.’
Alina frowned slightly, uncertain why Saren had chosen to bring that moment back into the light. It had happened long ago, so long that she had almost forced herself to forget it. They had been climbing a mountain to the city of Madari when Saren had cut her ropes.
Alina had fallen from a height no mortal should have survived.
And yet she had.
She had never truly questioned it. Perhaps some quiet part of her had always been too afraid of the answer.
‘I thought you’d be dead and out of my way,’ Saren went onwith a casual shrug. ‘But you didn’t die. How is that possible? No mortal could survive such a fall. Yet you did.’ Her dagger traced a slow arc through the air as she spoke. ‘And then I noticed those two who follow you about like moths drawn to a flame.’ She gestured towards a place to Alina’s right, near the royal stand where the king and his son watched the fight.
Alina hesitated. Part of her wondered if this was nothing more than a trap, that the moment she looked away, Saren would lunge. But something in the woman’s tone suggested otherwise.
Saren wanted her to look.
Alina glanced upward.
There, seated among the watching crowd, were Isla and Arena.
