Page 3 of Bonded To The Arena Master

A formation of Volvath guards advances between the market stalls, forcing humans and lesser castes against the walls. Eight feet of carapace and muscle make a moving barricade beneath the spires. Their armor bears the King’s sigil. Axe heads rise over their shoulders, dark against the constant flicker of the storm.

The dark elf presses himself beside my doorway and lowers his head.

I remain behind my counter.

One guard turns as he passes. His black hair has come loose from its clasp, spreading across the upper plates of his back. He is broad even for a Volvath, with one horn broken several inches above the skull.

For one treacherous heartbeat, memory replaces him.

Silver eyes under a lightning-torn sky. A massive hand cupped around mine without closing tightly enough to hurt. A voice low enough to feel through my bones, promising that no decree, house, or god would take him from me.

Draxon’s right horn had already been broken then. The raw stump made him look more dangerous, not less. He had carried the dishonor as if the rest of the world lacked the courage to question him about it.

The guard outside turns forward.

His remaining horns curve outward rather than rising like sharpened shale. His hair is shorter. His carapace is bone-white beneath the armor instead of slate-grey.

Not Draxon.

Of course it is not.

Human markets lie far beneath Draxon Obsidius’s notice. Arena-masters stand above red sand and carry out Council sentences. Lords of great houses do not remember apothecaries beneath the spires. They do not remember promises made to women whose lives can be purchased with a handful of demon coin.

The formation passes. The shelves settle one by one, though thunder continues to circle the continent.

The dark elf servant hurries into the crowd without thanking me.

I gather the three jetons and test each enchanted center beneath my thumb. The deep green flashes are clear and steady. Genuine.

The nabella pouch contains nearly twice what I expected. I permit myself one breath of satisfaction before locking it in the iron box beneath the counter.

Then I take up the cleaning cloth.

Silver goligan dust clings to the stone mortar. Rirzed stains mark the scales. Red grit has settled over the place where the servant rested his hands. There is always another surface to clean, another remedy to prepare, another person desperate enough to pay what knowledge is worth.

Work is solid. Memory is not.

I retie my hair with the strip of worn leather and turn the bone-handled knife between my fingers while reviewing the jars on the shelf. Fylvek is running low. I need more waxed paper before the next market day. The vespid-sting poultice should be replaced before its binding oil separates.

The guard’s broken horn tries to return.

I reach for the ledger instead.

Draxon is an arena-master, a lord, and a choice made 10 years ago. Whatever he once promised died when he accepted power and left me without a word.

A memory is only a ghost.

I have living people to keep alive.

2

DRAXON

Red dust circles the Grand Arena, driven across the sand by winds trapped within Galmoleth’s perpetual storm. It gathers against the black walls, fills the grooves of the execution block, and stains the condemned demon’s damaged wings the color of dried blood.

I stand motionless on the central dais.

Lightning branches through the clouds above Ti’lith. Its silver glare reveals the spectators crowded onto the stone tiers. Volvath nobles sit nearest the arena floor, with Trolvor and Soz’garoth representatives behind them. Zonak fill the highest rows. They have come to witness the Council’s law and reassure themselves that its punishment belongs to another house.