Chapter 2: Five Years After My Funeral

Five years after Pandora Seitz died, Polycaste had yet to lose a fight.

The crowd chanted my hidden name as I circled the enormous man bleeding in front of me. "Polycaste! Polycaste! Polycaste!"

Once, thousands of warriors had spilled blood at my command. Now, hundreds of drunken men watched me spill mine for a purse of fifty gold crowns.

I preferred it this way. Polycaste possessed no pack, no throne, and no mates waiting for her return. She was merely an arena fighter hiding behind a black half-mask and a name no one else should have known.

The man across from me charged. He swung a spiked club toward my head. I ducked beneath it, drove my elbow into his ribs, and heard bone crack. His roar shook dust from the wooden beams above us. He turned faster than a man his size should have been capable of moving.

I allowed the edge of his club to graze my shoulder.

The crowd cheered when blood appeared.

Idiots.

Pain made opponents careless. The promise of my pain made them worse.

He raised the club again, expecting me to retreat. Instead, I stepped inside his reach and drove my heel into the side of his knee. 

The joint folded. He crashed onto the sand. Before he could rise, I planted one boot between his shoulders and pressed the point of my dagger beneath his jaw.

"Yield," I said.

He spat blood onto the ground. I pushed the blade deeply enough to draw a thin red line.

"Yield!" he shouted.

The bell rang, and the arena erupted.

I removed my boot and turned away before the fallen fighter finished cursing me. Above the lowest rows, nobles and wealthy merchants occupied private balconies hidden behind dark curtains. Most were already drinking, gambling, and discussing how much they might offer for the evening's defeated fighters.

Two balconies remained strangely quiet.

A tall figure stood motionless behind the curtain to my right. Across the arena, another man lounged against the railing with one shoulder lowered, as though the violence below bored him.

Neither applauded, but both watched me.

I looked away.

Men had been staring at me my entire life. These two did not deserve special consideration simply because they could afford better shadows.

The arena master waddled onto the sand, dressed in a crimson coat stretched too tightly across his stomach.

"Polycaste remains undefeated!" he announced. The chanting started again. He raised his hand for silence before turning toward me with a smile I had never trusted. "Our reigning champion has requested the honor of facing you tonight."

The crowd exploded.

I wiped my dagger against my trousers. "My match is finished."

"The purse will be tripled."

That stopped me.

One hundred and fifty gold crowns would purchase forged documents, bribe the guards stationed along the southern border, and secure passage into another kingdom. By dawn, Polycaste could disappear from this land as thoroughly as Pandora had disappeared from Crescent Ice.

Rumors about the undefeated woman wearing the black mask had begun traveling farther than I liked. Three nights ago, a merchant claimed he had heard my name repeated in a city several days away.

I had remained in one place for too long.

"The champion's conditions remain unchanged," the arena master added. "The victor claims the purse. The defeated fighter forfeits all earnings and ownership of their contract to the house."

"I know what I signed."

His smile widened. "Then, do you accept?"

I glanced toward the two silent balconies. The standing figure had not moved. The other slowly tapped two fingers against the railing, waiting.

"I accept."

An attendant brought water while the arena servants cleared the bloodied sand.

I removed the stopper and smelled it before drinking. Water. Faint traces of iron from the pipes. Nothing more. Still, unease crawled along the back of my neck. "Who requested the second match?" I asked.

The attendant avoided my eyes. "The champion."

"I heard that part. Who paid him?"

His face paled. Before he could answer, the second bell rang. He fled with the empty pitcher.

I watched him disappear beyond the gate. Someone had arranged this.

Good.

It had been years since anyone offered me a challenge worth remembering.

The opposite gate opened.

The reigning champion entered wearing a steel wolf mask and carrying two short swords. He was lean rather than enormous, his movements controlled as he crossed the sand.

Unlike my previous opponents, he did not posture for the audience. He watched my feet.

Smart.

The bell rang.

He attacked first. His right sword swept toward my throat while the left blocked the path I normally used to evade. I twisted backward, feeling the blade pass close enough to cut a strand of my hair. He followed with a strike toward my injured shoulder.

I parried.

Steel screamed against steel.

He knew where I had been wounded. More importantly, he knew which direction I preferred whenever someone attacked my right side.

I changed my stance. He adjusted immediately.

Across the arena, the man leaning against the balcony stopped tapping his fingers.

The champion drove me backward. I slipped beneath his sword and opened a shallow cut across his abdomen. He grunted but did not retreat. Instead, he hooked one foot behind my ankle. I jumped over it.

The arena tilted when I landed. My vision blurred around the edges.

Poison.

The water had carried no scent because the substance had been designed to escape a wolf's senses, designed to escape mine.

The champion struck again. I blocked, but the impact traveled through my arm and nearly tore the dagger from my hand. My healing had slowed. My hearing faded beneath the roar of the crowd, and every breath felt heavier than the last.

Whoever arranged this knew exactly how much poison my body could endure without collapsing immediately.

They wanted me conscious.

They wanted me alive.

The champion's blade cut across my ribs. Silver-blue light sparked beneath my fingertips. One command would have summoned moonfire into the arena. It would have burned the poison from my blood and brought every fighter in the room to his knees.

It would also have given hundreds of witnesses a story about an arena fighter wielding the same power as the woman who supposedly died five years ago.

Scarlet Raven did not need magic to find me. It only needed rumors.

I closed my fist and smothered the light. The champion came for my throat. I let him.

At the last moment, I caught his wrist, turned beneath his arm, and drove my elbow into the back of the joint. Bone snapped. One sword fell from his hand.

He screamed. Then, I seized the weapon before it touched the ground and slashed behind me. The blade struck his thigh, forcing him onto one knee.

The audience rose as one. I lifted the sword for the final blow.

My fingers opened without permission. Steel landed uselessly in the sand. The champion swept my legs from beneath me. My back struck the ground. He planted a knee against my chest and pressed his remaining blade to my throat.

I tried to move, but my body refused.

The arena master began counting. "One!"

I reached for my divine power again.

"Two!"

Moonlight trembled beneath my skin.

"Three!"

I imagined Asterion's cold eyes and Faolan's mocking smile. If I exposed myself now, news might eventually reach them.

"Four!"

The thought should not have frightened me more than death, but it did.

"Five!"

I extinguished the light. The remaining count disappeared beneath the crowd.

For the first time in my life, I lost.

I awakened with iron shackles around my wrists, every link smeared with wolfsbane. The black mask was gone. So were my weapons, boots, and the purse containing every coin I had earned. I sat on the stone floor of a narrow cell beneath the arena. The poison still dulled my strength, although feeling had begun returning to my fingers.

The arena master waited beyond the bars.

"You poisoned me," I said.

"An accusation from a disappointed fighter."

"Open this cell, and I'll show you how disappointed I am."

He laughed, but sweat gathered along his hairline. "You signed the champion's contract, Polycaste. Your earnings and fighting contract now belong to the arena. Fortunately, several buyers are eager to recover our losses."

"Several?"

His gaze slid away. So, someone had already known I would lose. "The auction begins shortly," he said. "I suggest you make yourself presentable."

"I suggest you begin running."

His smile weakened before he walked away.

I tested the chain connecting my wrists to the wall. Reinforced iron. The wolfsbane coating burned wherever the metal touched my skin, explaining why my strength had not returned with my senses.

Whoever built this trap understood wolves.

Whoever selected the poison understood me.

The realization should have warned me. Instead, I began counting guards and listening for doors.

By the time they dragged me from the cell, I had already planned three ways to escape. The auction chamber occupied the lowest level of the arena. Lanterns burned behind red glass, casting the circular platform in the color of fresh blood. The guards fastened a chain around my waist before leading me into the light.

Men filled the lower rows. Others remained concealed inside the private balconies above.

The arena master lifted one hand. "Lot Twenty-Seven. Known throughout the underground circuit as Polycaste. Undefeated until tonight. Trained with blades, capable of shifting, and young enough to provide many profitable years of service."

Laughter traveled through the room. I memorized every face attached to it.

The bidding began at one hundred gold crowns.

Two hundred.

Five hundred.

One thousand.

I kept my head lowered and flexed my fingers against the chains. The poison was fading. Another few minutes and I could break the wrist of the guard to my left, take his keys, and reach the eastern corridor before anyone realized the auction had ended early.

"Five thousand," someone called.

The arena master raised his hammer.

"Ten thousand."

The room fell silent. The bid came from the dark balcony on my right. The voice was deep, cold, and controlled.

It sounded... familiar.

My heart stopped.

"Twenty thousand," another baritone voice said from the opposite balcony. "She has always hated being kept waiting."

The first voice turned my blood to ice. The second tore open the mating bonds I had kept buried for five years.

I slowly raised my head as Asterion stepped into the light first, the silver Alpha crest of Crescent Ice fastened across his black coat. Faolan emerged from the opposite balcony, wearing the same crest and a smile that promised nothing merciful.

Asterion's cold eyes softened the instant they found mine. "Five years was long enough, my moon."

Faolan leaned against the balcony railing. "Did you truly believe changing your name would hide you from us, little tyrant?"