The King Trials.

~The Spartans of Sorcia~

And so it continues.

After my adrenaline-inducing victory. I return to the dungeons, the gaols of the underground. That is where he takes me to the water bank to informally tend to my wounds so I do not bleed to death. He takes his time cleaning them. None infected by any kind of metal poisoning. Whilst he nurses my injuries, binding them. Kelan does not say a word.

Not a slither of shock, excitement or even relief that I lived. Once again reverting to his state of stoniness, but he could not have worse timing. Meanwhile a few of the Herems fight their solo matches against gladiators of their own. By the time Vince's match is announced, he has already returned.

The others are still to complete their solo matches after.

After what?

The Quarter Sage.

That is what we are all preparing for now. This is where most gladiators, slaves turned into fighters, meet their death. The grisly climax of the Blood Games. In the Quarter Sage, Spartans, idle warriors of Sorcia willingly participate to go against gladiators. They have never lost. Now they go against us.

A group of ill-despised purebloods versus the beloved and fearsome Spartans of Sorcia.

The Herems and I are lined up in two rows behind the west portcullis. In one hand we each hold a weapon of our choice. And in the other, a circular, torso-length shield. The straps of the shield are hooked securely around my bracer, with some leeway for ease of movement. The wooden shield is dense, marginally heavy. Kelan's sword in my other hand.

I have never heard a silence so ear-piercing; it nearly silences the clamours of a restless crowd. The pain both in my side and arm is like a fire in a hearth that blazes through nightfall. Embers still burning.

An all too familiar laugh slices through the tangible silence. Wry and unapologetic.

"It does not take a Valwa to see the purpose of us being part of the Quarter Sage," Vince says from the front of the line. On the right side. He stands ready with his sword drawn; dark splotches taint his blade.

Darkness draped over us.

"To kill us?" Brennon answers, his one finger ceaselessly rubbing against the grip of his longsword.

"To test us," Vince corrects. "A true king is fierce in battle and wise in victory."

I add my voice, and say, "More than that. We are rivals, and for many among us, the disdain is personal. But a good king places his reservations aside. A great king makes allies out of enemies."

Brennon blares a bored groan. "Stop talking in wise woman parables and get to it. What point are you trying to convey?"

If you need me to spell it out for you. "We need to work together. If you wish to live, we must unify or die with our reservations."

Markiveus angles up his mace in a ready stance. "Heed counsel from a woman? We might as well wave a white flag. Why should any of us listen to you, Hera?" The head of the mace fashioned with sharp flanges. Perfect to strike upon the head of the enemy with greater penetration.

"Because the Hera defeated a champion gladiator in record time. I did not see you doing that in such a brief span," Treyton says from beside me. Earning an icy, off-shoulder glare from him. "You do not need to like her or any of us. But she has deserved all of our respect."

Treyton turns his head to look at me with fierce and sincere eyes. I nod back at him gratefully. His knuckles whitening around the grip of his mace. The one that he wields has a silver chain attached to two spiked balls at the end.