"Again." Serkan bleeds, staggering from exhaustion. He's been fighting in this arena since dawn. The young boys are frightened, so they fight as hard as they can, fearful of dying.
Serkan would like to die. He's tired enough to accept it with open arms.
But then what about Ode?
Elio sits at the sidelines. General Ibrahim, father of the popular, debonair soldier Arno, is watching his old friend fight against children much younger than him. The general strokes his black beard, frowning thoughtfully as Serkan limps in that arena. Both prince and general are interested in Serkan's fight, but for different reasons.
"Come now, Cleaver!" Elio calls, disgusted by age, of how a hero could decay. Disgusted, but also fearful. Is that his future? Impotence. "These boys will learn nothing if you don't strike fear in their hearts."
Ibrahim steps forward at a nod from Elio. "Fresh bread from the kitchens for the boy who knocks the sword from General Serkan's hand."
The boys, hungry and starved of anything but hardened rice and slimy porridge, surge forward at that. Desperation is a wonderful motivator. Serkan takes the beatings from their dull swords, his elbows and knees trembling as his old war wound pains him. He can't move. This body is a prison.
But old age and experience is one thing the Cleaver has over these desperate young men. He can outsmart them. His experience on the true battlefield guarantees it. Serkan sways to one side and lets two of the boys crash into each other. He knocks the other one unconscious as he watches, dumfounded. The arena is silent, the rest of the boys cowed as they pull their comrades to safety.
Ibrahim smiles. "It's almost like seeing a ghost fight again."
Elio does not return the smile. "Bring in more boys from the villages." He waves his hand. "Patch these useless babies up. They'll have to fight again tomorrow."
"More food, milord?" A young kitchen maid with amber skin and a veil walks in just then, her eyes set on Elio's face. Brazen, isn't she?
Elio waves her away, simultaneously dismissing Ibrahim. He stops staring at that strangely bold kitchen maid, all his attention turned to the prince.
General Ibrahim bows, but before he goes, he turns to look at Serkan's duel again, lost in thought. "I wonder why he asked to be a General again with his war wound. It's folly, fighting when injured like that."
"General Serkan is loyal to the Empire." Elio bites into a date, savoring the sweet flesh. "Perhaps he's trying to make up for having a traitorous witch as a daughter."
General Ibrahim considers the prince. He's heard rumors from the lower servants that the Chosen One hasn't been sleeping well. At the break of dawn, he gets on his hands and knees, crawling toward the window with his arms outstretched. "No, not again, my god. Please, spare me this morning." He screams in pain as the sun touches him. One frightened new maid babbled about rivers of blood running into Elio's skin, of how Cato the Elder burns those tattoos into him each night to imbue holy magic within his blood. Unbearable pain traded for power, pain cleansed from his peeling skin every morning, a bath soaked with rose petals and red.
The Chosen One is chosen indeed.
But at what cost?
***
Hello Champions!
Anyone feel a teensy bit bad for Elio?
Best,
Sophia Whittemore