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Chapter 34: The Weight of Sand and Blood
"Even I am yet to see the limits of his strength," the princess said, her eyes still tracing the constellations above. "Of course, that’s not to say he’s without one. I’d wager he is not as powerful as the Church’s Light Crusaders or the Imperial Family’s Dark Legion... nor the upper circles of the ancient factions. There are still those I believe might be stronger than Eli in this world."
She turned her gaze back to Ian, her voice cooling into something more serious.
"But, fortunately for me—none of them are my enemies."
Ian leaned back in his stone seat, his eyes narrowing with thought.
"So," he said, "where do I come in?"
"Ah yes," she smiled faintly, "I got sidetracked."
She placed her cup of tea down gently, then folded her hands across her lap.
"You’ve heard of the Arena, but I doubt you understand its true importance. Let me explain."
Ian stayed silent, his posture straightening, his attention fixed.
"The Arena of Esgard is the most sacred bloodground in the western lands. It is more than a place of sport or punishment—it is the battlefield of politics, power, and public favor. No noble house rises without it, and none can remain standing if they fail to command the crowd. Glory in the arena is more valuable than land or gold, because it earns you favor with the Council."
"The Council?" Ian echoed.
"The ruling body of Esgard," she said. "Nine thrones—each occupied by the heads of the oldest and most powerful families. They write the law, decide city matters, and mediate disputes. They also control access to commerce, land rights, and military sanction. To survive in Esgard, you need their favor—or at the very least, their indifference."
"And the arena helps with that?"
"Oh yes," she said. "Each noble house fields fighters—gladiators—for the Arena. Only slaves and the condemned are permitted to fight. That’s the rule. It ensures the upper class need not stain their own blood."
Her smile soured for a moment. 𝔫𝖔𝖛𝖕𝔲𝔟.𝔠𝖔𝖒
"But victories in the arena do more than entertain. With each win, a house earns prestige. They gain sponsorships, trade contracts, mercenaries, land deeds, and favor with the Council. A rising star in the arena brings honor to the noble house that owns him."
Ian’s brows furrowed. "So the whole city runs on blood and spectacle."
She nodded. "Precisely. Esgard’s strength is in its brutality... and its ability to package that brutality into theater. The crowd cheers, the Council watches, and the nobles bet fortunes on the lives of men who have no say in their fates."
Ian’s jaw clenched slightly.
"And you? Your house?"
Her fingers traced the edge of her tea cup. "When I arrived in Esgard, I had nothing but a name and a crumbling title. No allies. No land. No coin. Eli stood beside me, and with his help, I gathered warriors. Trained men and women who rose quickly through the Arena ranks. For a time, House Elarin stood on the cusp of power. I had begun receiving audience with the Council. I was nearing a seat at the table."
Her voice dipped, cold and tight.
"Then the Duke of Lugard arrived."
Ian’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpened.
"Lugard was likely sent by the Queen herself—or at least sponsored by her. He came with a fleet of fighters—ruthless, brutal, and unmatched. His champions destroyed mine. One by one. They took no forfeits. They killed even when it wasn’t required. And when I tried to buy new fighters... they died just the same. Whether trained warriors or newly purchased slaves, it made no difference."
She leaned back slightly, her voice growing quiet.
"Now, I am bankrupt. I owe debts to moneylenders, merchants, even the criminal syndicates. My name is laughed at in the council halls. One more loss in the arena, and I’ll be formally blacklisted—cut off from resources, stripped of land, and forced to dissolve my House. Everything I’ve built will be scattered to vultures."
Ian was silent.
But his mind drifted back—to the cold words of Eli on their first journey:
"You either die in the Blackblood Forest... or return from it a man strong enough to be victorious."
And now he understood. He wasn’t just another gladiator. He was the final card in a losing game.
"I see," Ian said quietly. "So if I lose... it’s over."
"Not just for you," the princess said. "For me as well. If you die in the arena, there is no second chance. No replacement. We cannot afford another gladiator—let alone one with your... talents."
Ian met her eyes, his own grey gaze unreadable.
"So what happens now?"
The princess rose from her seat slowly, stepping forward until the moonlight caught the white of her dress and the shimmer of her silver hair. Her expression was calm.
Regal. Inevitable.
"You rest," she said. "Eat. Prepare yourself."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of command.
"Because tomorrow, at sundown—you fight in the arena."
The words echoed in Ian’s mind like a drumbeat in a tomb.
He rose to his feet as well, the chill of the night wind brushing across his skin like a warning.
He had come out of the Blackblood Forest stronger. Changed. But now he saw clearly—
That survival was only the beginning.
