Chapter One

One year later

V elaria sat in the darkness, her heart pounding. All around her, she heard the crowd screaming for the next match. It didn't matter that each week, new competitors were brought in. One would die in every fight.

She was glad Brian of Penrith had not been one of them. After he'd healed from his shoulder wound, he'd spent the first few months building up his strength in secret. Thankfully, he already knew how to fight, just as she did. And now, he had become Kadir's greatest fighter.

Savas, the crowd had nicknamed him. War.

Savas or Brian—it didn't matter what they called him any more. He'd become their champion whose victories were forged in blood. But to her, he was the only friend she had in this pit of hell.

A deafening roar resounded from above, and she wondered whether they were cheering for his victory—or his death. She'd tried to remain indifferent to his fighting matches. But even now, her nerves tightened with fear. If Savas didn't return, she would be alone once again. And the thought was a gnawing shadow of emptiness that threatened to bury her.

It wasn't wise to let herself feel anything for anyone. But he had made the prison bearable, giving her someone to talk to. Someone to pray for. And for now, it was all they had.

Their prison was below ground in a large chamber with only one narrow entrance and a single locked gate. Each day, they wore manacles, their wrists chained together in front while they awaited their turn to fight. Velaria never knew when her name would be called, and it only added to the anxiety of wondering whether this would be her last day alive.

She'd fought here every three days during the past year, ever since Kadir had sent her to the pits as punishment. She'd gone from serving girl to fighter after defending herself from men who believed she would offer them more than drinks. She'd survived those early fights, and like Savas, she'd battled for her life.

But at the cost to her immortal soul.

Six heavily armed guards patrolled the entrance leading to the fighting arena. Last spring, one man had tried to escape after he'd won his match. He had wielded his sword against the guards—only to be slaughtered in front of everyone, his body displayed for days as an example.

No, there was no means of escaping this prison. At least, not yet.

The noise of the crowd died down, and footsteps approached through the dark passageway. Velaria held her breath and only exhaled when Savas emerged into the prison. He gave his sword over to the guards, who kept their own weapons trained upon him until his manacles were locked upon his wrists once again. He walked inside their prison and sat down beside her. She didn't have to ask if he'd won—he was alive.

His dark hair was damp with sweat, his beard ragged. They never gave Savas a blade for shaving, but she'd seen him shear off his beard just before a fight so his opponent could not use it against him. It was the same reason why she kept her own hair in tight braids during a match. Most women cut off their hair, but Velaria had found a way to bind it up. It was her one vanity, the reminder of the lady she'd once been.

‘Are you hurt?' She didn't see any visible wounds, but she couldn't tell for certain in the darkness.

‘No.' But his voice held the weight of guilt that he'd been forced to take another man's life. He picked up the sharp stone and carved a mark into the wall behind them. She couldn't even count the marks any more, there were so many. Yet, he somehow knew.

They never spoke of it, but it was only a matter of time before one of them didn't come back from a fight. An ache caught her deep inside, but she forced the fear away.

He reached for her hand and squeezed tightly. ‘Are you ready for your match? They're calling for you.'

No, she wasn't ready. Not at all. But there wasn't a choice, was there? She squeezed Savas's palm in return, stealing comfort from his touch.

He touched his forehead to hers. In a low voice he said, ‘Walk with God, Velaria. And win.'

She kept his hand in hers, as if she could somehow take strength from it. And when they called out to her, she forced herself to let go of him.

Velaria stood and walked through the narrow opening of the prison until the guards opened the door. Their weapons remained pointed at her back while she continued towards the row of swords. She chose a thin, lightweight blade and steadied herself.

Her aunt Honora had trained her to fight with a sword, years ago, believing that every woman should know how to defend herself. At the time, Velaria had enjoyed sparring with her brother, never imagining that the skill would become her means of survival.

For a moment, she breathed in and out, making her peace with what was to come. At first, they'd only given her other women as opponents—those who had been imprisoned, like herself.

During her first fight, she'd merely wounded the young woman, not wanting to kill her. But after they'd dragged the girl away, after they'd raised Velaria's hand in the air as the champion, they had slit the girl's throat.

With one stroke of a blade, her own hope had died. There would be no mercy in these fighting pits. They were here to die, God help them.

Ever since Constantinople had fallen, the people of Byzantium loathed the crusaders and any other foreigners. Kadir had found a way to build his own wealth by feeding that hatred. Like the ancient Roman coliseum, he'd built his own smaller arena with enslaved gladiators. It didn't matter that the fighting tradition had been outlawed centuries ago. Whether Kadir bribed officials to look the other way or whether no one cared, it didn't seem to matter any more. The people flocked to the matches, eager to see crusaders suffering at the hands of their own fighting champions.

From the moment she had first met Savas, there had been an innocence about him, of someone who had never experienced fighting like this. She still found him handsome, even after they'd both endured this prison. His dark hair was cut short with his own dagger, and his blue eyes were solemn. In them, she saw a man who wanted to become someone better. And she knew why Kadir had wanted him.

He'd planned to make Savas fight a seasoned warrior in front of the crowd to entertain them. She'd seen it happen, time and again. Crusaders or travellers...young or old, it was all the same. They were all brought here for the same reason—to fight and die.

But Savas had won his match.

The crowd had been furious, bloodthirsty for his death. Kadir had brought him back a second time, then a third. And after Savas continued to win and grow stronger, something had shifted. Now, he'd become a hardened warrior with no emotions at all.

Velaria had learned to do the same. It was the only way to survive.

But sometimes, in the darkness, she would rest her head against his shoulder and imagine being home again. His quiet strength brought her comfort during the endless nights. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like if she allowed herself to love him.

It was a foolish thought, and Velaria shut it off when she made her way through the tunnel to the fighting arena. She hated killing opponents who were fighting for survival, and sometimes she wondered if she ought to simply surrender. She had given up on her family ever finding her. There would come a day when she would lose, and that would be the end.

But then, she thought of Savas and steeled herself to fight again. They had an unspoken vow to survive, to be there for each other.

The gate opened before her, the sunlight blinding. Velaria took slow steps, giving her vision time to adapt. Then she held the sword in her right hand and accepted the shield another guard handed to her.

Time to fight. Time to empty herself of all regrets and every part of her that was human.

She shielded off all emotions, tightening them off until nothing else remained. Slowly, she walked towards the arena amid the noise of the crowd. She wore a short tunic that hung to her mid-thigh and trews, and she had braided back her hair.

When her vision adjusted and she saw her challenger, she realised that Kadir was losing patience with her. This time, she wasn't facing a woman—it was a man. And from the look of his lean arms, he knew how to fight.

A shuddering breath of nervous energy caught her. She would have to play a role if she meant to survive. Velaria bent her shoulders, lowering her blade to touch the sand. She averted her gaze, feigning fear. And from the uncertain expression on his face, her opponent wasn't eager to kill a woman.

She didn't want to take his life either. But there was no choice, was there? The only thing she could grant this man was a quick, merciful death.

She wore the mask of a terrified woman, one that was slightly real. If she made a single wrong move, today might be the day she finally died.

Savas would be waiting for her, back in the prison. She would see him again if she fought for it. And that was something to live for.

Velaria started to lift the sword but lowered it again, as if the weapon was too heavy for her. The man appeared filled with regret. He was a new slave, one who had been kept apart from all of them. Another crusader.

‘I do not wish to kill you,' he said in English. This time, it was no effort at all to show her regret. But this was what Kadir wanted—for her to slay one of her own countrymen.

Or, more likely, he meant for her to die.

As the man drew closer, Velaria continued to keep the tip of her blade in the dirt, waiting for him to make the first move. She hated the woman they'd made her become. Someone who fought to win, all pretence of honour gone.

She'd never been taught to fight like this, not by her father or her aunt. But now she had no choice at all—not if she wanted to survive.

Now, every time she faced an opponent, there was only one way to push back the horror—to remember the man who had seduced and abandoned her. Because of him, she'd been found by a group of merchants who had sold her into slavery.

As she fought, she imagined the face of the knight who had ruined her life. She pictured Sir Drogan's mocking smile and released her fury and grief, letting it fill her up until she saw only the face of her most hated enemy.

When the Englishman's blade slashed towards her, she dove to the ground, lifting her own sword. There was a moment of shock before her opponent realised what had happened and dropped to his knees.

A hollow ache caught in her heart, and tears burned her eyes. God above, she hated the monster she'd become.

The crowd erupted in fury that the fight had ended so soon. But she didn't care whether they were entertained. Instead, she strode towards the first row to where Lord Staunton sat. The drunken baron stared back at her, and she said the same words she always said to him. Little good that it did.

‘Send word to my father. Sir Ademar of Dolwyth. Tell him where I am.'

As always, Lord Staunton ignored her plea.

No sooner had she spoken when a fist struck her ear. Her cheek stung from the blow, and she turned and saw the guard who intended to bring her back to her prison cell.

In one motion, Velaria grabbed his arm and flipped him on his back. She rested her foot against his throat with her sword in her hand. Then she stared up at Kadir—as if asking whether to kill the guard.

The crowd cheered their approval, and Kadir raised his arms as if he were a benevolent emperor, allowing his subject to live.

Velaria knew better than to rebel against him. And so, she lifted her foot, stepping back from the guard. She met the baron's gaze once more before she walked back into the darkness of their prison.

She returned her weapon while the other guards held their swords to her back. Then they chained her hands and forced her back into the enclosure. Savas was waiting for her in the shadows. Though he said nothing, she sensed his thankfulness that she'd survived. Velaria sat beside him, leaning her head against the cool stone wall.

‘That was a quick fight,' he said quietly.

‘It was a crusader.' She closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer for his soul. ‘He...didn't know what I could do.'

Savas didn't ask questions, for neither of them wanted to talk after a match. Sitting beside him, with his body pressed against hers, brought her a comfort she couldn't name. She took one deep breath after another, trying to hold back her emotions. He seemed to sense it, and put his arm around her shoulders, bringing her close. ‘Did you speak to him?'

She knew he meant the baron. ‘He won't help us.' After a year, Lord Staunton had become even more distant. He'd given up on everything after he'd failed to find his wife.

‘Why doesn't he return to England?'

She shrugged. ‘I don't know. He may not have the funds for the journey.' And yet, he continued to pay coins to see their matches each week. It made no sense at all.

In the darkness, Savas continued to hold her close, resting his head against hers. She savoured the touch, for no one else understood what she endured each day or the person she had to become in the arena. But she was grateful for his presence. Without him, she couldn't stand the loneliness or the imminent threat of dying.

‘We'll find a way out,' he said quietly. ‘I promise.'

‘I hope so.' But she already knew the futility of hope. Their fortune and skill would end one day. She breathed slowly and rested her hands upon his heart. It was a forbidden embrace, but she knew better than to imagine more between them. Death was the only certainty here, and unless they somehow escaped, they could never be more than friends.

From the gate, she heard the clatter of a sword dropping, and the guards chained the wrists of another fighter. Eligor had been among the Italian crusaders months ago when he'd been sold into slavery. He strode inside and smirked at the sight of them. ‘You look comfortable with Velaria, Savas. Why don't you share?'

She stiffened the moment she heard his voice. She'd never liked Eligor, and his arrogance irritated her. Slowly, she eased out of the embrace to sit against the wall.

‘Leave her alone, Eligor,' Savas warned. His voice held the edge of a warning. Even so, Velaria wasn't about to stand aside and let Eligor speak to her like that.

‘You don't interest me.' She raised her chin in defiance.

Eligor smiled slowly. He took a single step closer, and Savas cut him off. ‘Don't.' He could easily kill Eligor, and the man knew it.

Velaria sensed the tension, and Savas stood in silent protection. Though she could defend herself well enough, his reputation as a fighter was far greater. He remained in front of her in an unspoken threat, and she moved to stand by his side.

Resentment brewed in Eligor's face, but thankfully, he backed off and returned to the opposite side of the cell.

The next fighter didn't return. Neither did the one after him. Kadir deliberately kept the Byzantine and crusader opponents apart. If they had been imprisoned together, at least half would have been dead by morning.

Here in the darkness, the stillness unnerved her, of men waiting to die. The next fighting match was in three days. She could only pray that she and Savas would both survive.

His reassurance, that they would find a way out, meant nothing. She'd been in Constantinople for two years now, and they had outlasted the other prisoners. Despite her pleas to Lord Staunton, it seemed hopeless to imagine she would ever return home to England.

The last fight ended, and three more prisoners were dead. The guards extinguished the torches, and she remained beside Savas. Neither of them could sleep.

The first few hours after a fight were the worst. Even on the days when he wasn't fighting, Savas trained. His discipline was unmatched, and she admired that, so she often trained alongside him.

But after a match, her muscles ached. And she knew Savas felt the same way. She had found a way to ease the pain, but they always waited until after sundown. In the darkness, no one would see them.

Velaria knelt beside him and waited in silence. Savas took her chained hands and brought them to his shoulder as he turned his back to her. She was careful not to let her chains touch his skin as she massaged the knots from his shoulders and neck, pressing against the tension. There were a few scars, but most of his skin was ridged and taut with muscles. During the past year, the fighting had transformed his body from a lean strength into that of a fierce warrior.

Savas inhaled when she reached a sensitive place, and she softened her touch, gently working out the pain. She continued down his back, finding the places that hurt. But she couldn't deny that she enjoyed moving her hands over his bare skin. Then she began massaging his arms.

She was grateful for the darkness that hid them from view. Aside from the sound of their chains, she could almost imagine they were alone, somewhere far from Constantinople. She knew this was wrong, to touch a man so intimately. But it was more than a means of easing his pain. The touch helped ground her once again and made her feel human. In the darkness, no one could see her weariness or the guilt she bore. When she stopped, she rested her forehead against his back, taking comfort from the warmth of his skin.

‘Your turn,' Savas murmured.

He moved her braid to the side, but his chains brushed against her spine as he did. His hands moved to her nape and slowly, he began to massage her neck. The sensation was so good, her skin prickled with goose bumps. She revelled in his touch, nearly moaning in thanks. Instead, she closed her eyes and bit back any sound. As he continued to stroke her shoulders, the heaviness of emotion slid over her.

There had been a time when she'd given her heart and had known another man's touch. But it was nothing like this. Drogan had used her—whereas Savas had only treated her with gentleness. If they were living a different life, one not shadowed in death, she might have wanted more from this man. She might have...wanted him to touch her elsewhere. She might have reached up to his face and brought his mouth to hers. Or perhaps brought his hands to her bare skin.

Instead, she simply accepted what it was—the only comfort they had in this place of captivity.

When he'd finished, Savas turned her to face him. He rested his forehead against hers, and she could feel the warm breath against her cheek. It was this moment she savoured, one where she imagined something more between them.

Then at last, he pulled back and moved to the far end of their prison cell, leaving her to sleep alone with her nightmares.

Sleep was fitful, caught in fleeting moments. His body ached, but his mind grew even more restless. Brian tried to blot out the memory of what he'd done this day and the man who had died at his hands. This wasn't the person he wanted to be.

But if he gave up, Velaria would suffer. He had sworn a year ago that he would find a way to get her out—a way for them to go home to England. She was one of the bravest women he'd ever known. Her courage made him want to be a better man, to somehow get her out of this prison. In a way, she offered him a chance at redemption after he'd failed to save Robert.

Brian tried to return to sleep, but memories pulled him back to the night when his sister, Morwenna, had been imprisoned. The Earl of Penrith had punished her for stealing a golden pendant, but it wasn't theft—it had been a gift from their mother.

Robert had come up with a plan to rescue Morwenna. Brian had hidden food for their journey while his friend had disguised himself among the guards. At first, the escape plan had seemed plausible. They had arranged a pathway through the underground tunnels that led outside the castle walls. Brian had mistakenly believed that they could get her out before anyone found them.

But that night, he'd heard his sister's screams.

Lord Penrith had sentenced her to be whipped, and the moment Brian had heard her cry out, he'd lost sight of everything except rescuing her. He'd been ready to break down the door to fight off the men who held her captive.

Robert had tried to stop him.

‘Wait,' he'd warned. ‘We have to have a plan.'

But Brian had had no intention of waiting—not when he'd been able to hear his sister suffering.

‘We don't have time for a plan. He's killing her while you're standing there trying to think of what to do.'

He'd been raging with impatience, frustrated that Robert was trying to hold him back.

Yet his friend had not been deterred.

‘If you go in there right now, the soldiers will kill you, and it won't stop her flogging. We're outnumbered. We need more men to help us.'

‘There are two of us, and we can fight,' Brian had pleaded. ‘We're strong enough.'

Instead, Robert had told him to go and fetch help. He'd warned him.

‘If you open that door now, they'll kill us both.'

Brian opened his eyes, staring back into the darkness. The familiar shame of his mistake cloaked him, for he'd ignored Robert. His impulsive attempt to save Morwenna had resulted in disaster.

Robert had sacrificed his own life to save theirs. Brian had never forgotten the look of resignation in his friend's eyes—the look of a man facing death. All because of him.

The heaviness of regret pushed against his conscience. Even now, he was haunted by the mistakes of his past. Never again would he act without thinking.

And yet...during the past year, he'd failed in his quest to find an escape. They had already witnessed the deadly punishment for those who attempted to raise a weapon against the guards. But although he was no closer to finding a way out, he tried to keep faith for Velaria's sake.

They needed an ironclad plan, one where he had the answers for any potential problem. And Eligor was definitely one of those problems.

Late last night, Brian had overheard the fighter talking to one of the guards in a low voice. He didn't trust the man, and his instincts had gone on alert. Eligor was plotting something, likely to raise himself up in Kadir's eyes or to seek his own escape. But Brian didn't know what it was.

Velaria lay curled up on her side, sleeping quietly. A faint light emanated from a torch at the far end of the cell, and he could barely see more than her shadow. A tightness caught in his chest, though he tried to shut it out. She was in danger, even more than last eventide.

Although she had been paired with a male fighter, she'd won the fight too quickly. Kadir wanted his crowd to be entertained—and that meant drawing out the fight, feigning injuries, and playing to the people. He would punish her for her opponent's swift death, even if it had been merciful.

Brian's gut twisted at the thought of her coming to harm, though he tried to suppress the fear. One of them would die, sooner or later. For that reason, it wasn't wise to become her friend. And yet...the emptiness inside him and the need for human touch and comfort were too strong to overcome. The isolation in this place was so vast, he'd seen men succumb to the darkness, yearning for death.

Velaria understood his torment, for it mirrored her own. She knew what it was to lose hope with every passing day. But she gave him a reason to keep going, if for no other reason than his promise to get her out. He savoured the moments at night when she massaged his shoulders, and he did the same for her. He couldn't deny that he was attracted to her still. Despite her thin frame, she captivated him.

Sometimes when she wasn't watching, he studied her features. He'd memorised the beautiful curve of her cheek, the blue eyes that held courage beyond that of any woman he'd known. Even her braids framed a face that haunted him.

Yet despite their companionship, it was unwise to ever seek more. They were prisoners, friends, and he had to keep a slight distance from her. For if he dared to lower that boundary, it would kill him every time she stepped into the arena.

She turned to her side and was just waking up when the guards arrived. ‘Velaria!' one called out. ‘Kadir has summoned you.'

Brian tensed but made no move towards her. She glanced at him, and he kept his face expressionless except to give her a nod of support.

She walked towards the narrow entrance where the guards were waiting. Four had their weapons trained on her, and they kept her wrists chained as they escorted her out. Brian waited until they were gone before he turned to Eligor.

The man wasn't asleep, and when Brian glanced at him, Eligor's face curled in a sneer.

‘Worried about your woman, are you?'

‘What did you do?' Brian stared back, his hands clenched into fists. Though it was a mistake to confront the man and demand answers, he couldn't stop himself. Velaria was out of his reach, and he couldn't protect her. His mind imagined the worst, and he wanted to take out his anger on Eligor.

‘Kadir will give her to his men,' Eligor taunted. ‘She should be entertaining them instead of fighting. She's nothing more than a wh—'

Brian struck him hard before he could finish the insult. Eligor leapt to his feet and wiped the blood from his mouth. ‘So you do want her. Interesting.'

‘Leave her be. We're all dead anyway.' Brian kept his voice cold and detached.

‘She should have been dead months ago,' Eligor spat. ‘But if she doesn't please Kadir's men well enough, no doubt she'll die during the next match.'

Fury ripped through Brian at the man's words. He struck out again, and this time Eligor blocked the blow, following up with his own punch. Brian welcomed the pain, for it made him focus. He heard the guards ordering them to stop, but like Eligor, he ignored them.

He avoided the next blow and swung his fist into the man's gut, cutting off Eligor's breath. Then he followed it up with another strike to his ear—and as he'd hoped, Eligor dropped to the dirt, unconscious.

Brian flexed his fingers and glanced over at the guards. They spoke among themselves quietly but seemed unconcerned. Eligor lay motionless for a while, but as time dragged onward, he regained consciousness. Then he leaned back with his hands chained.

In the darkness, Brian could feel the man's silent hatred brewing. And yet, he didn't care, for Velaria still had not returned. As time passed, his worry heightened, transforming into frustration. He began his training exercises, falling into the familiar pattern of exertion. He needed the physical imaginary battle to take his mind off what was happening to her.

‘Savas!' a voice called.

He walked towards the entrance, and the guard stepped aside, revealing Alexander Berys, Baron Staunton. It was the last person he'd expected to see.

‘My lord,' he said quietly.

For a moment, the Norman stared at him. ‘Your next fight is in two days.'

‘It is.' He wasn't certain why the man was reminding him of what he already knew. But when he studied Lord Staunton's face, he saw the spark of...something. ‘Will you be there?'

The man shrugged. ‘Possibly. But I need to return home to England. I've been here long enough.'

The slight shift in his tone brought a flare of hope Brian hadn't felt in years. This was it, then. Their one and only chance to escape.

The Norman lord stared at him once more. ‘You need to win, Savas. Don't fail.'

He bowed his head, hiding the emotions that threatened. ‘I will.' But before the man turned away, he asked, ‘What about Velaria?'

Lord Staunton met his gaze in silence, promising nothing. All he said was, ‘The ship leaves the morning after your fight.'

Then he turned his back and departed. Brian understood what he hadn't said—there was a chance both of them could leave, if he could find a way to help her escape.

This time, he would not be reckless or impulsive. He needed a strong plan, one that accounted for every possibility. Her life depended on it.

He returned to the far end of the cell to make his plans. He was so caught up in considering the arena and how to get her out that he lost track of time, until the guard finally returned with Velaria.

She stumbled inside, and when she started to lose her balance, he moved to her side and caught her. In the dim light of the torches, bruises swelled against her face. She looked as if she'd been beaten and tormented for hours. Some of her braids had come undone, the wild strands falling against her shoulders.

He held her for a moment, fully aware that she was trembling.

‘Let go of me,' she whispered.

Brian obeyed immediately while a coldness poured through him. ‘What did they do to you?' Part of him didn't want to know. And she didn't answer, either.

Only yestereve, Velaria would have returned the embrace. Her aversion to touch could only mean one thing. And it made him want to tear Kadir apart.

‘Here.' He removed his tunic and rolled it up, making a slight pillow. ‘Lie down and try to rest. I'll get you some water.'

She curled up on her side, pulling her knees to her chest. This wasn't the same woman who had fought and killed a crusader only a day ago. They had done something to break her spirit, and if she couldn't find the inner strength to keep going, she would die.

Brian refused to consider it. Somehow, he would find a way to convince her to fight. She couldn't give up so soon—not when they were so close to winning their freedom.

He went to the bucket and dipped out a wooden cup of water, but she didn't take it. Instead, she remained huddled on her side, her knees drawn up.

His gut tightened, and he tried a different tack. ‘Lord Staunton came to see me,' he told her. ‘He's returning to England, so he said.' Velaria didn't look at him, though she'd heard him. ‘He told us we have to win our fighting matches in two days.'

Again, her silence stretched out. Within it, he sensed her hopelessness and surrender. And he couldn't stand by and watch her fade away.

‘You cannot give up. Not now.' He pulled her hair away from her cheek and poured a little water on it to cool her skin. ‘Lord Staunton can take us back with him. You'll see your family again.'

She didn't react, didn't flinch. Her lips were bruised, and he washed her face gently.

‘Rest now. In the morning, we train again.'

Her shoulders trembled, and he realised then that she was crying softly. He tried to find words of comfort, something he could say that would make things right. But there was nothing that would take away the pain she'd suffered.

He didn't truly know why her punishment had lasted so long. It seemed overly harsh, but he supposed she was fortunate to still be alive. At last, he leaned in close and murmured, ‘Don't give up, Velaria. Fight and win this battle so you can have your vengeance on Kadir.' His forehead touched hers and he said, ‘Walk with God.'