The King Trials.

~The Calm Before The Storm~

The palace guard's definition of 'prepare' is to have all of us purebloods rounded up like a horde of slaves, and packed into a bullock wagon, pulled by oxen. We could not even travel by our own carousine, instead, we travel like we are a pen of dirty animals. An imperial carriage from the palace follows behind us. And the full Avangard squadron tails them.

I stifle a groan.

Descending from the palace down to the city, the wagon rocks destructively from side to side. The road is gravelly, rock-strewn, but it seems that everything might fall off its hinges at any given moment. Acquainted nausea roils in my stomach.

Is it possible to be lightheaded but still feel like your head weighs a ton?

"So, my fellow candidates," Brennon exclaims over the clangour of hooves and rolling stones. "While we despise each other's existence. Does anyone have any last words they wish to share as we are being shuttled to our deaths?"

"Yes," Treyton says, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. "If they do not slay you in the games, I will slit you myself."

Deep chuckles rumble all around.

"Watch yourself, Treyton," Zekei warns playfully. His short-cropped hair is a leaden grey. Vivid against his bronze skin. "If you wish to slay him, get in the back of the line," he says from his flank. Seated on the opposite bench from me, clasping his hand on his shoulder to give it a vigorous shake.

"This cannot be, can it?" Tamani asks, agitated. He fretfully pushes back a few wisps of his lank hair, aligned with his narrow jaw. "The Blood Games are famed for hosting matches that are to the death, never has they not been. What if one of us perish?"

"Then my father will call to arms," Markiveus says smugly. "To avenge me, and as a reward to restore Sorcia into what it once was and what it always will be. All this glamourous architecture does not conceal the savages that they truly are. The Blood Games is proof of that."

Vince frees an interrupting, wry laugh.

All in the wagon look at him.

"The only thing your father will do is hold a party in your name," he says, and he lifts his hand, holding up an invisible chalice, feigning a salute. "To celebrate the loss of one less problem."

The ride to the colosseum is an arduous one. It seems the whole of Sorcia has been summoned to the Capital, jamming the pathways. The call of the Blood Games, trafficking in the masses of every Sorcian that dwell both within and without the city.

Eventually, we arrive.

They direct us to the colosseum from a side threshold that leads to a tunnel of dusty and dark passages. The cold stone walls are weather-worn. Duce Merian, our Avangard squadron with Zulan accompanies us. And she has an escort of a handful of palace guards that pioneer ahead. After a series of turns, we exit the warren passages to the underground dungeons. Which are surprisingly more spacious than I thought, but exactly as petrifying to look upon as expected. Everything inside, if not dark brown, mushroomed stone. Its decomposed black coat drips off corroding metal like dead skin.

The putrid stench is unbearable and more frighteningly too potent to identify. It invades my senses so much I can taste the foul air, every speck of grimy filth. Already some cells brim with prisoners, fighters, victims of others' blood lust. What is more nerve-racking is that not a single sound echoes from their horrid faces. They only glare, glowering at us as if searching for weaknesses.

From there we all split up. The Herems, Duce Merian, a few palace guards, and all the other Avangard soldiers leave in one direction. Zulan and I, along with the rest of the guards, go in the other. Zulan leads me through the crumbling scene of deteriorating walls and decrepit cells.