Anya
My body is a statue carved from ice. The ladle is a distant metallic clang on the stone floor. The world is nothing but the figure in the distance, armored in blood and shadow. Nolan. Commander of the Crimson Legion. The King’s son.
He moves with the liquid grace of a predator, accepting the adulation of the crowd as if it is his birthright. Which, I suppose, it is. The man who orchestrated the end of my world is their hero.
The rage that lives in my bones, the cold stone of my vengeance, melts into something hot and liquid. It burns through my veins, a poison promising a slow death. My hand finds the hilt of my blade. It is a useless gesture. He is a hundred yards away, surrounded by guards, adoring masses, and his own lethal reputation.
My feet remain planted in the shadows of the tunnel. I am a ghost here, unseen. It is my greatest strength. I watch him, memorizing the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride. I add these details to the image already seared into my memory. The face of the monster on the hill.
“You. Scrapper.”
The voice is flat, devoid of emotion. I turn. A Royal Guard stands behind me, his armor immaculate, the King’s crest polished on his breastplate. He is everything I am not. Clean. Orderly. A cog in the machine I plan to destroy.
He jerks his head towards the plaza. “Prince Nolan summons the day’s victors to the Hall of Champions. You will present yourself.”
It is not a request. My blood runs cold again, the earlier fire extinguished by a wave of pure dread. A summons. Now. So soon. My plans, my careful, patient climb, feel like a child’s game about to be swept aside by an adult’s whim.
“Why?” The word is a croak.
The guard’s expression does not change. He looks at me like I am a piece of filth on the floor. “You do not ask the Prince why. You obey.”
He turns and walks, expecting me to follow. For a moment, I consider running. Fading back into the warren of tunnels and barracks. Disappearing. But that is the coward’s way out. That is not the path to vengeance.
My feet move, following the guard. Each step is heavy, a drumbeat marking a path to a fate I cannot predict. We leave the grime of the tunnels and enter a polished corridor. The stone under my worn boots is smooth marble. Torches in ornate sconces cast a warm, flickering light, chasing away the shadows. It smells of beeswax and power.
We arrive at two massive, carved wooden doors. The guard pushes them open without ceremony and steps aside, his posture a clear dismissal. I am on my own.
I step through. The Hall of Champions. I have only heard whispers of it. It is a grand chamber, the ceiling high and vaulted. Banners of the great packs hang from the walls, their colors vibrant. A long table laden with food and wine stands to one side, but no one is eating. A handful of other fighters, the day’s victors, are clustered together. I see the Granite Tusk Alpha I beat being helped by a healer in a corner, his face pale with blood loss and humiliation. I see Valerius, standing apart, his chest puffed out, a goblet of wine in his hand.
And I see him.
Prince Nolan stands near a large, roaring fireplace, his helmet on the mantelpiece. He has removed his gauntlets. He talks quietly with the Arena Warden, a fat, balding man whose smile is too wide. The Prince’s presence fills the room, a low thrum of authority that makes everyone else seem like a shadow.
My heart is a frantic bird beating against my ribs. I force my breathing to even out. I am the Omega Scrapper. I am a ghost. I am calm. I am death waiting for its moment.
Valerius spots me. His lip curls into its familiar sneer. “Look what the cats dragged in. I suppose even vermin must be acknowledged when they get lucky.”
I ignore him, my eyes fixed on the Prince. This is a test. All of it. I must not fail.
Nolan’s conversation with the Warden ends. The Warden bows low, scraping and backing away. The Prince turns, and his gaze sweeps the room. It passes over the other fighters, a cursory inspection. It passes over Valerius, lingering for a fraction of a second with something that looks like distaste. Then his eyes find me.
They are gray. As gray as the ash that settled over my village. As cold as the water in the well where I hid.
The world stops.
It is not a thought. It is a physical impact, like a hammer striking a tuning fork in the center of my being. A jolt of lightning shoots up my spine, white hot and shocking. The air is suddenly thick, charged with an energy I have never felt before. The smells of beeswax and wine vanish, replaced by the impossible scent of pine needles after a winter storm and the clean smell of cold stone.
For a dizzying, terrifying second, the rage in my heart is silenced by a wave of something else. Something ancient and primal. A feeling of recognition. A sense of a fractured piece of my own soul clicking into place. It is a feeling of coming home.
And it is the most horrific sensation of my life.
I see it in him, too. A flicker. His gray eyes widen almost imperceptibly. The hand resting on the hilt of his sword clenches, his knuckles turning white. A muscle in his jaw tightens. It is there and gone in a single heartbeat, his mask of command slamming back into place. But I saw it. He felt it.
This cannot be. The Fates are crueler than I ever imagined.
A fated mate bond. Here. Now. With him.
With the man I have sworn to kill.
He takes a step towards me. The pull is a physical thing, a thick cord tightening between us, begging me to close the distance. My every instinct screams to obey. My rage, my grief, my vengeance, all scream louder to tear him apart. The war inside me is so violent it makes me feel sick.
He stops a few feet away. Close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes. Close enough that the impossible scent of pine and winter is overwhelming. It should smell like smoke and death.
“You are the Omega Scrapper,” he says. His voice is a low baritone, calm and controlled. It carries no trace of the shock I saw in his eyes.
I force my own voice to be steady. A shard of ice. “I am.”
“Your victory today was… efficient,” he states. He is watching me, his gaze intense, analytical. He is looking for a crack, the same way I look for weakness in my opponents.
“Efficiency keeps me alive, Your Highness.” The title tastes like poison on my tongue.
Valerius chooses that moment to swagger forward, eager to be noticed. “She has no honor, my Prince. She fights like a cornered animal, not a warrior.”
Nolan’s eyes do not leave mine. “And yet, she stands here a victor, and her opponent does not. There is a lesson in that, Valerius. Perhaps you should consider it.”
The dismissal is sharp and cold. Valerius flushes, taking a step back as if struck. He opens his mouth, then closes it, retreating into the shadows with the other fighters.
The Prince’s attention is solely on me again. The bond hums between us, a terrible, silent song only we can hear. It is a catastrophic liability. A chain I never asked for, shackling me to my greatest enemy. This is not a gift from the Fates. It is a curse. The ultimate betrayal.
For him, I cannot guess. I see the conflict in the tight line of his mouth. Does he feel the same horror? This complication, this omega tribute fighter who is somehow his other half. It must be a stain on his perfect, royal existence.
“They tell me you have no pack,” he continues, his voice quieter now, for me alone.
“My pack is gone.” The words are flat. Dead.
“And your name?”
Why does he want my name? Is it not enough to be the Omega Scrapper? A nameless piece of chattel for the arena. “My name is Anya.”
He says my name, a soft whisper of sound that should not be audible over the crackling fire, but I hear it perfectly. “Anya.”
The bond flares at the sound of my name on his lips. A warmth spreads through my chest, a treacherous heat that I immediately try to smother. I clench my fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. The small pain is an anchor in a sea of madness.
“You fight with skill,” he says, his gaze dropping to my twin blades. “But you are alone. That is a dangerous way to live in this place.”
Is it a threat? A warning? An observation? I cannot read him. “I have survived this long.”
“Survival is not the same as victory.” He says it quietly, the words echoing Valerius’s earlier sentiment but holding an entirely different weight. He takes another half step closer. The pull is agonizing. My body wants to yield, to lean into his orbit. My soul wants to gut him and watch the life fade from his cold, gray eyes.
“What is it you want, Your Highness?” I ask, my voice hard. I need this to end. I need to be away from him before this cursed bond makes me do something insane. Like scream. Or cry. Or lower my guard.
He holds my gaze for a long time. I see a universe of calculations happening behind his eyes. He is a commander on a battlefield, assessing a new and unexpected threat. Or perhaps, an asset. The thought is chilling.
“For now,” he says finally, his voice returning to its formal, commanding tone. “I want to see what you do next. Do not disappoint me.”
He turns his back on me then, a clear dismissal. He moves back towards the fireplace, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the Hall of Champions. The invisible cord between us stretches, taut and painful. The other fighters watch me, their expressions a mixture of confusion, jealousy, and fear.
I do not give them the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. I turn, my back ramrod straight, and walk out of the hall. I do not run. I walk through the clean corridors, back to the grime and shadows of the lower levels. Back to the stench of blood and fear that feels more honest, more like home, than the perfumed air of that gilded cage.
I do not stop until I am in my own small, windowless cell in the barracks. I slide the bolt on the door and lean against the rough wood, finally letting out a breath I did not realize I was holding.
My hands are shaking. Not from fear, but from a rage so profound it threatens to tear me apart from the inside. Fate has not just dealt me a bad hand. It has chained me to the axe-man. It has bound my soul to the monster who haunts my every waking moment.
I look at my reflection in a shard of polished metal I use as a mirror. The same determined face stares back, but something is different. There is a new terror in my eyes. A new complication. My mission has not changed. I will see King Theron dead. I will see his entire bloodline erased.
But now, my vengeance has a new, terrible price. To kill the father, I must first get past the son. My fated mate. The butcher of Silent Creek.
