Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Vennkor

I barely register the door to the hypogeum sliding open. What catches my attention is her scent—blood, sweat and something else. Something which I instantly recognise as being distinctly Female but which I have not smelled before.

She is strapped to a transport board, cuffs restraining her ankles, wrists and waist. It hovers about an arm’s length off the ground and follows the three Hov guards accompanying her. When they stop at the empty cell beside mine, I inhale, drawing her scent into my lungs, trying to recognise the unrecognizable.

She is unlike any species I have encountered—either in the Arena or before, when I was blissfully unaware of how easily I would lose my freedom, family and future.

Her head lolls to one side. Her eyes are closed. Reddish blood has dried to her face, around the base of her nose and over her narrow lips .

With a click, the restraints release her, and the transport board tips her onto the ground, feet first. She does not wake, not even as she slides a little over the smooth floor, coming to rest against the far wall of her cell.

We share many similarities, the Female and I. We have the same number of hands, feet, fingers and toes. We even share many facial features, although the line of her chin is a little rounder than mine, and the cut of her cheekbones somewhat softer. She is also considerably smaller than I am, and where my skin is such a dark blue that it appears almost black in shadow, she is a pale creamy brown with undertones of pink.

Her head, hands and feet are bare. The rest of her is hidden under cloth—breeches that reach down to her ankles and a tunic that is only as long as her hips.

Her pale hair fans out around her head and shoulders. She has no horns. No tail. No claws. No wings. She does not appear to have any natural protection—no scales or exoskeleton. Even her clothes offer her no protection.

Not that I am so na?ve as to think that just because she appears vulnerable means she is vulnerable. She could easily have two forms as the Arrok do, or perhaps she has retractable spikes like the Anor’os. The possibilities are countless, and I refuse to be caught unawares. That is the type of mistake which gets a gladiator killed.

The Hov guards leave unceremoniously, as if they no longer think twice about delivering fresh slaves to the Arena and to their inevitable death.

Then the lights click off, and darkness shrouds the room.

As every muscle freezes, I strain to hear any sounds that might alert me to an oncoming attack. The Hov never turn off the lights in the hypogeum during the day.

I can hear the other gladiators shifting uneasily in their cells. Someone is holding their breath. Someone else is pacing their cage, using the bars as a guide. There is a slight thud, thud, thud as their hand trails along the metal.

Beyond the bars of my cell and beyond the bars of the Female’s cell shine two bright eyes. One blue, the other gold. The pupils are nothing more than narrow slits. Reke. I am sure he can see more than silhouettes and shadows. I think he is staring at the Female. And then he blinks, and even those two spots of light disappear.

Held immobile, I cannot judge how long we wait before a single light flickers to life. It is the one directly over the Female’s cell, and it illuminates her petite frame with startling clarity, leaving the rest of us in semi-darkness.

Still she does not wake, not even under the unforgiving relentlessness of her spotlight. Not when the first fights of the day are announced and pairs of gladiatorial slaves are lifted into the Arena overhead, some for the last time. Not even when patrons gather on the viewing platform in the center of the hypogeum and peer at her unconscious form, appraising her features as if she is an inanimate object to be bought and sold at a galactic market.

In the cell on the other side of the Female, Reke remains crouched low to the ground. He has his head tilted to one side, and his ears twitch. He is probably listening to her breathing. Although the look of concentration on his face suggests he is listening to her thoughts.

Then his gaze snaps up to meet mine, and I am presented with the absurd idea that it is my thoughts he is listening to.

He moves closer, using his hands as much as his feet so he can keep low to the ground. He moves as a predator moves, and in the half shadows cast by the spotlight over the Female’s cell, his eyes continue to glow softly.

Of all the gladiators, he is the only one I fear.

Teeth clenched, I force myself to release the bars and present my back to the Female (and to Reke). Experience taught me long ago not to become emotionally invested in anyone.

A gladiator’s life is not their own. We are all just waiting to die.

It might be today. It might be tomorrow. It will certainly be soon.

And now that the Female has come to Reke’s attention, her days are limited, even by Arena standards. For Reke always gets what he wants, and he always eats those he kills.

She cannot be saved. Therefore, I dismiss her from my thoughts.

Distant cheering penetrates the hypogeum, signaling the end of a fight. The floor of my cell creaks as it slowly rises, and the ceiling overhead parts. I can hear the floor and ceiling of another cell near mine also moving, but I do not bother searching for my opponent. If it is Reke, today will be my last fight.

If it is not Reke … Well, I have killed more gladiators than I can remember. One more death will do little to disrupt my sleep tonight.

Instead, I pick up the double-edged sword lying abandoned at my feet. The grip is too small for my hands. The sword was not made for me. My head and shoulders rise beyond the open ceiling, and I am presented with the all-too familiar sight of the stadium, its floor sanded so no gladiators will slip on the blood of those killed before them.

The cheering is almost deafening, but long practice leaves my face expressionless as I continue my ascent. I was taught at my mother’s knee not to betray feelings beyond those of aggression, anger, determination and resolution on my face. It is a lesson I never realized would one day serve me well in the Arena.

I brush aside the distant memory of my family as I would brush dust from my shoulders. Memories of my life beyond these walls give me nothing but false hope and longing, and I can afford neither of those if I wish to keep my head on my shoulders, where it belongs.

Giving the sword a few experimental swings, I accidentally catch sight of the unconscious Female still lying on the floor of her cell. She at least is not my opponent, and I am immediately angered by the strength of the relief which flows through me.

I should not care about her.

I do not care about her.

Caring only brings unnecessary pain, and I have had nearly two Common years of unbearable pain already.

Her eyes twitch beneath her eyelids as if she already knows she is trapped in a nightmare, and there is something otherworldly about the unfamiliar features of her face—so similar to my own, yet different enough that she is clearly not a Ves’os.

The floor of my cell continues to rise. In another few heartbeats, she will be lost from my sight. Surely there can be no harm in my looking now? Not when this might be the first, and last, time I ever see her.