Son of Saints: A Dark YA Fantasy Adventure: Renegade Guardians: Book Two

by Kyra Quinn

  Viktor’s mouth went dry. He didn’t need to ask to know the agreement was likely little more than a formality or tradition. Whoever walked away from the arena victorious would win the girl as a prize.

  “The ladies are in the parlor awaiting results,” the man continued. “I expect clean, honest fights. If you lose, lose with honor. And remember, these are not fights to the death, but many champions have lost their lives in the arena.”

  Viktor rolled his eyes. The situation induced enough anxiety into the room without the announcer’s added dramatics. As the man continued his pep talk, Viktor’s mind wandered. How many other homes in Wyvenmere had indoor battle arenas built onto them? How did the fathers sleep at night after giving away their daughters?

  “The fight lasts until someone blacks out, taps out, or goes to meet their ancestors.” The man’s lips curled into a sadistic smile. “Are we ready?”

  The room cheered, and Viktor’s muscles tensed. He hadn’t planned to kill anyone when he’d arrived. The Fey child served at dinner the night before had satisfied his urge to feed. But the moment the coppery scent of blood filled the room his restraint and self-discipline might plummet. Even if the urge to feed left him, the urge to kill always lurked closer to the surface the nights leading up to a full moon.

  “First two fighters, please join me in the arena.”

  Viktor shook his head and reached for Jett’s arm. “Don’t do this. We’ll figure out how to make it right with the queen later.”

  Jett gave him a sad smile. “From what I’ve gathered around court, Moara isn’t known for her mercy. Besides, she may respect us more when she hears what we can do in battle.”

  Viktor doubted Moara gave a damn about their combat skills, but Jett had decided. He strutted into the arena with the confidence of a champion gladiator, and for a moment Viktor couldn’t help but envy him. No matter what threat they faced, Jett never ran or lost his composure.

  “A fine batch of men we’ve gathered this year.” The nobleman from earlier appeared next to Viktor in the back of the room. A wooden pipe with an intricately carved crest dangled from his thin lips, his smoke overpowering the sweat and fear from the arena. “Any father would be proud.”

  Viktor snorted before he could stop himself. When the nobleman’s eyes narrowed, Viktor shrugged. “I’ve never thought much about marriage or love. Neither turn out well for someone in my shoes. But...I don’t know, it’s difficult to explain. Something about this whole charade seems off to me. I’d rather give my heart away and risk having it returned broken than put in so much effort and commitment to someone I don’t give a damn about.”

  He expected the nobleman to scold him or banish him from the competition. Instead, the stranger chuckled. “Ah, the idealism of youth. I can still remember when I had similar thoughts about the old traditions.” He drew a deep inhale from his pipe, the smoke exiting his lungs through his nostrils like a dragon. “But as romantic as love sounds in stories, age grants wisdom. It isn’t practical to base major life choices on fleeting emotional states. Marriage isn’t temporary, and it isn’t about love. Not for anyone with a brain in their head.”

  Viktor cocked his head. He knew he should focus on Jett’s match, but he found the words slipping from his lips before he caught them. “What is the point of any of it? Why should any man wish this on his daughter?”

  “Because marriage is about more important things than love. Commitment. Honesty. Partnership and family. Emotions are fleeting. Passion alone will never sustain a relationship.”

  “And strength will?” Viktor arched a brow. “Forgive my saying so, but none of these men will possess the same vitality or power in a decade. What makes a strong candidate more worthy than any other?”

  The older man shrugged. “It shows courage and discipline, ideal traits for any man who wishes to marry into the family. Every father wants to imagine his little girl provided for and protected from harm.”

  Viktor resisted the urge to snort again. How fragile the nobleman made the women of Wyvenmere sound. Viktor had met several members of the fairer sex who could protect and provide for themselves. Some were more talented with a weapon than any man he’d faced in battle.

  “Not all women need a man to take care of them,” he said, each word chosen with care. “If given the chance, the young ladies here might surprise everyone.”

  The nobleman shook his head. “Are you from Carramar or one of those other heretic towns? Cimera’s section of the Sacred Texts states the initial spark of life ignited in the womb of a woman, and a man’s job is to protect that spark.”

  “Of course. But I wonder what might happen if you allowed the girls more say in their futures.”

  The nobleman chuckled. “You have spent little time around girls, then. The women here may respect the traditions, but they aren’t the pious and submissive girls of Faomere or Faircrow. She may raise an objection or refuse the winner during the courtship.”

  A second later, the short man’s body dropped to the ground with a thud. Jett wiped a streak of blood from his nose with the back of his arm, his copper eyes blazing in the candlelight. No one clapped or cheered as he jumped out of the arena and made his way back over to Viktor.

  “See, nothing to fret over. The little leprechaun bastard went down in three hits.”

  He knew Jett wanted him to say something about the fight, but he blurted, “You’ve seen a leprechaun?”

  Jett’s face split into a grin. “Once, and only for a second. Unlike the man on the ground over there, leprechauns are quick little buggers.”

  Two of the men dragged the unconscious body from the arena. Ambrose resumed his place in the center and called, “Next fighters, please enter!”

  “Ready?” Jett asked.

  Viktor shook his head, but no excuses came to mind. The nobleman had already wandered away to speak to someone else across the room. He had more experience in battle than the rest of the men in the room combined. And, unlike them, he wouldn’t force a young girl to marry someone she didn’t care for. In theory, he had all the motivation he needed to climb into the arena and smack some pampered rich boy around.

  “Let me observe one more fight first,” Viktor said, his voice raspy. “Trying to calm myself enough to not hurt anyone more than necessary.”

  Jett clapped his hand over his shoulder and chuckled. “If they die, they die. That’s the risk we all take when we step into the arena. The only thing you need to worry about is coming out on top. We can sort out our sins when it’s over.”

  Viktor inhaled a shaky breath as he watched the two men in the arena dance, their fists raised in front of their face. The bulkier of the two men landed a sharp uppercut to the other’s jaw, and Viktor flinched.

  “Could be worse,” Jett said when he caught Viktor’s eye. “At least the weapons are banned from the arena. The family must hold onto those things for personal use.”

  Viktor didn’t want to ask what use a wealthy family found for a domed room full of weapons and gear. The leaner man in the arena slammed his fist against the ground three times, his face covered in blood.

  “Match!” Ambrose yelled, his hands over his head. The big man smirked and bumbled out of the arena while two more men jumped in to help the other limp to a spot against the wall and collapse.

  “Next round of fighters, please proceed to the arena!” Ambrose called.

  Jett smirked. “Your turn, kid. Give them hell.”

  Viktor exhaled a shaky breath. His fists curled as he marched towards the arena. “Always do.”

  The arena appeared smaller on the inside than it had on the sidelines. Sweat and the metallic scent of blood filled the air like incense. Viktor took his place and cracked his neck. His eyes flickered over his opponent, a man half his height but twice his weight with dark spirals of ink spiraling up arms the size of Viktor’s head. A diagonal scar cut across his face from his ear to his jaw. He snarled at Viktor, his teeth chipped and yellowed.

  “All the fortune
in the world couldn’t convince a woman to marry you,” Viktor muttered. “Not when your breath could offend the dead.”

  “Shut up and face this fight like a man,” the stranger growled, popping his knuckles. “You won’t look so pretty when I’m finished.”

  Any trace of hesitation or guilt melted away. No one should have to endure the torture of such a man’s company, least of all an innocent young girl. A cold smile curled his lips as he steadied his stance and raised his fists.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Forged in Fire

  The bonds of brotherhood, much like steel, must be tested.

  -The Sacred Texts, 54:21

  Viktor and Jett had almost reached the final round of fights when Queen Moara marched into the room, Zorya close on her heels. Any question as to why she’d come disappeared when her eyes burned into Viktor’s. Someone had tipped her off. Jett’s hands remained steady as he finished wrapping his bruised and bloodied knuckles in a thin white bandage. Moara stormed over to stand in front of him and jammed her nail into his chest. “You two. With me. Now.”

  His better senses told Viktor not to follow the queen anywhere. Zorya, however, patted the sheathed sword fixed to her hip and narrowed her eyes as if to suggest he rethink his decision. He shot a desperate glance around the room. Hope deflated in his chest like a popped balloon. Despite the array of weapons around them, he didn’t have the first clue how to kill a demigod. To disobey Queen Moara was to forfeit any chance at surviving her dukaz.

  The plump nobleman shook his head and stepped forward. “A thousand pardons, Majesty, but—”

  “These men are not eligible to participate in the ceremony,” the queen said, her voice stern like a mother reprimanding her stubborn child. Her pencil brows furrowed. “Their allegiance lies with the traitor we’ve captured upstairs.”

  Viktor’s heart dropped. “Do you mean Lady Iris? What has she done?”

  “As if you don’t know,” Zorya sneered.

  “If I knew, why would I need to ask?”

  The queen pursed her lips. “Your presence here is enough to prove your guilt. I’m positive neither of you developed a sudden interest in wedding a young maiden from Wyvenmere.”

  “True. Our participation in this strange ritual was accidental.”

  “Elaborate.”

  Viktor hesitated. Something told him the goddess of justice and order would value honesty, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw Ambrose and Zorya into the fire with him. The burden was his alone to bear. He swallowed. “We caught wind you and King Dyius might be in attendance tonight. With the dukaz still active, we’d hoped to find some clue that might convince you to grant us assistance.”

  The queen barked a bitter laugh. “After tonight? Your Avian friend has disappeared with the birthday girl. You’re lucky you aren’t in a cell.”

  Iris wasn’t what he considered a friend, but the darkness brewing behind the queen’s pale eyes convinced Viktor to swallow that thought. He had spoken to Iris not long ago, and she mentioned nothing about plans to kidnap a child bride.

  “Is the girl special in some way? Clan Sova doesn’t care much about the mortals.”

  “Not here.” Moara’s eyes flickered towards the crowd of roughed-up onlookers. “Zorya, help me show our guests to Lord Corbyn’s study. We can speak without fear of interruption there.”

  Moara didn’t wait for anyone to agree or confirm her plans. She spun on her heel and sashayed out of the room with the confidence and elegance of a woman born to lead, her back tall and proud despite the feminine sway of her body. A floor-length navy gown hugged her body, the bodice embellished with small sapphires. Her hair sat piled around her glistening silver crown. Her heels clacked against the marble floors as she hurried from the arena.

  “After you, gentlemen.” Zorya stretched an arm towards the exit. “Wouldn’t wish to keep Her Majesty waiting.”

  The manor’s narrow passageways sent Viktor’s pulse racing. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Damn whoever had decided tight spaces were fashionable. Candles flickered in brass chandeliers suspended from the arched ceiling, illuminating the gaudy beige and teal wallpaper plastered with poorly drawn leaves. Viktor bit back a chuckle. Only the wealthy could convince themselves such an eyesore passed as artistic.

  Zorya ushered them into the study. She whispered a simple, “Good luck,” into his ear as he passed her by. When Zorya pressed the heavy oak door closed behind them and disappeared, Viktor wasted no time. “The girl. Is there any reason Clan Sova might wish to steal her away?”

  The queen shook her head. “Average on all accounts. No special circumstances to the girl’s birth or history of contact with shapeshifters. As of now, we have no idea what motivated her to do something so horrible. Dyius has sent Zorya and a few of her chosen soldiers to retrieve the girl. The shifter will face trial here in Wyvenmere and, when she’s found guilty, have her wings clipped.”

  The nobleman’s study held more empty bottles of booze than books. A bearskin rug sat on the floor in front of an empty brick fireplace. Two sleek leather armchairs sat to the right of the fireplace, an olive settee to the left. A polished wooden table was perched in the center. The modest stack of books on top had a layer of dust so thick Viktor doubted anyone cracked the spines.

  Moara’s words sent a ripple of tension through his muscles. Did she mean to kill Lady Iris? Or give her wings a literal clip? Not that it mattered much. The effect would be the same for a proud shapeshifter like Iris. If she lost her ability to shift or fly, Clan Sova would have no use for her. Whatever reasoning Iris had behind her bold decision, the Queen intended to take her life for it.

  “Your Majesty, if I may, wolves excel at tracking prey. I’m sure we could find the girl much faster than any of the King’s guards.”

  The queen’s cold eyes swept over him. “The fugitive is one of your kind. A shapeshifter. How can we trust you to bring her to justice?”

  Jett stepped up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. When he spoke, he held his head high and projected a strong confidence Viktor almost wished he believed in.

  “Queen Moara, the wolves have operated independently from the Clans for years now. Many of us have no allegiance to them or Starbright. Like all citizens of Astryae, our first duty is to our king and queen. If you give the order to bring the Avian girl in, we will not fail.”

  “Our lives are on the line as much as Lady Iris’s,” Viktor added. “Only a fool would risk losing your favor in the middle of a dukaz.”

  Queen Moara tapped a shimmering navy nail against her painted lips. “Very well. This entire conversation is likely pointless—Zorya’s success rate is unmatched. But your offer is appreciated, and I shall enjoy watching your unique talents in action.”

  Jett’s eyes widened. “Do you plan to join us, Your Grace?”

  “And leave the nobles here to fall into anarchy? No, Wyvenmere needs me to manage the crisis here. But I have my ways of keeping watch over Astryae. After all, it’s my duty as Queen.”

  Though she spoke with the casual tone of a woman discussing the weather or current affairs, the ominous hidden meaning in her words didn’t slip past Viktor’s notice. How long had she had her eye on him? Was it why she suspected the truth about his past?

  “Can you provide us with something personal of the girl’s?” Viktor asked. “We will have an easier time tracking her once we have her scent.”

  “Unless the fugitive thought far enough ahead to mask her scent,” Jett added, his voice cold and detached. “As a shapeshifter, she has more knowledge of our movements than others.”

  But Queen Moara shook her head. “She stole the girl from Wyvenmere, not Starbright. And our information tells us she’s had a room here for weeks. She did her research well enough to know Zorya would be her biggest threat.”

  The tiny voice of reason in the back of his mind urged him to thank the queen for her kindness and set off on his way. But even sober, Viktor struggled to listen to that
voice. “If you’ll pardon my asking, how did Zorya come to work for King Dyius?”

  Queen Moara’s face turned to stone. “Don’t you have a girl to track down?”

  Viktor folded himself into a bow to hide the heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. “Of course, Your Majesty. We won’t let you down.”

  * * *

  “Queen Moara will eat us alive if we don’t find this spoiled little rich girl,” Jett grumbled under his breath. He fumbled for the canister of water—or alcohol, but Viktor chose to believe it was water for both their sakes—strapped against his hip and took a swig. A slick layer of sweat covered his face despite winter’s chilly embrace. Pointed rocks dug into the soles of his boots with every step. The longer they hiked across the endless tundra from Wyvenmere to the mountains of Starbright, the more his throat burned with an unholy thirst. A hunger he didn’t recognize, even after a lifetime of satisfying bloody urges.

  Viktor gave a grunt of disapproval. “Try not to have so much contempt for the girl. In one day, her birthday no less, she’s had to deal with her family offering her up to the strongest brute and being kidnapped by an eccentric Avian. That’s an unfortunate stroke of luck.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jett grumbled under his breath. He reached into the pocket of his slate grey coat and retrieved a small black pipe packed to the brim with mistweed. The pungent herbal odor struck Viktor in the face before Jett set fire to the herbs inside. “But when have you known the fates to strike out against the innocent? Avians don’t kidnap people without cause. Mark my words, the girl’s hands are as dirty.”

  Viktor’s lip curled. He had half a mind to point out the same fates had taken his parents from him far too soon, but he swallowed and waited for the bitterness to pass. “We have no idea what the old crow wanted from our passive. Maybe she’s in league with a blood mage.”