Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

in worlds beyond the touch of men
before the reach of time, back when
Lady Hope was formed from clay
she vowed to own all souls someday

- "Never Enough," Verse 1

"You look like you haven't slept, Da," Brid says, her voice timid. "Maybe you should reschedule this bout."

I meet Killián's eyes across the stronghorse train. It's different from the last one I took from Bathune to the First Circuit, maybe because it's headed northbound. Like the other, it's pulled by twenty impossibly large and muscular horses—but it has wooden benches instead of seats, one on either side of the compartment, and there are no windows. Brid, Miro, Linden, Kempe, Billi, Rowan, and I are seated across from Killián, Bardic, Lefe, Péri, Torrense, Segolé, and Belén. There were other people on the platform—including Jebah, King Audrin, Lord Galtero, and Lord Ra'mes—but the train has multiple compartments, and we have one to ourselves.

Brid's right—Killián doesn't look like he slept much. Dark circles slash like scythes beneath his eyes, and his shoulders are slumped. Then again, it's not like I got much rest either. I laid in Jebah's bed for hours, listening to the wind rattling the window pain and the occasional murmur of Leómadura's voice. It's horrifying, hearing him—horrifying in a way I can't describe or escape from. Mostly he just told me to get some rest, said I'd be needing it. Every time there was an intrusion that became more impossible, and on the few occasions I let my eyes close I was jolted back to consciousness moments later.

Killián and I didn't speak much on the ride back to the di Vivar palazzo last night, but I know this is bad. Really, really bad.

After a long moment—too long— Killián turns his gaze to Brid.

"I'll be fine." He wipes his palms on the knees of his leathers. "This isn't my first fight in the Colosseum, mon ange."

"Remember, Jebah is left-handed." Bardic is polishing one of his titles obsessively with a handkerchief—he doesn't look like he slept much either. "His attacks will come from positions you aren't naturally conditioned to defend. Make sure to position yourself to the right—he'll have to adjust his stance, which may give you an advantage."

"He'll come in aggressively—the man fights like a boar," Péri agrees. "Keep your guard up and stay on the defensive. He'll tire himself out."

"Pay attention to his lead foot," Segolé growls. "It'll tell you what he's planning, where he's going."

"You'd think I've never dueled before," Killián complains. "Need I remind you all that all I need to do is brush him with Yosif's scythe? One touch of the metallite, and I'll have his soul—I'll be able to take his life with my mind. He wields Bjorn's old blade—it's a good sword, but it's not enchanted."

"You're not fighting with blade guards?" Miro asks, his voice small.

"This is a death duel, son." Killián's smile is grim. "We're not trying to get into the academy."

"You'd really take his soul and kill him?" I ask. My stomach churns, and I feel faintly nauseous. "I mean…he's your brother."

"May Brid Naya'il forgive me," is all Killián says. "They'll be together soon."

It's cold, even for him. Even knowing what he did last night—and callously, at that. I'll never forget how much enjoyment he got out of torturing Leómadura. I can still hear the sound of his bones snapping when I close my eyes.

Imagine how I felt. His voice in my mind—I flinch instinctively. You'll know my pain soon enough, Whoreson. Death will come for you, and then you'll be mine. Forever.

Killián's staring at me.

"Voices?" he asks quietly.

I can barely hear him over the sound of hooves, the grating of wheels against metal tracks.

"It's nothing," I say.

He has enough to worry about.

###

We exit the train on the platform in Bathune. Scattered in the distance are ruins from the old world—crumbling buildings, rusted vehicles, an overgrown guard tower. Trees with twisted branches line the tracks, and wind whispers through the leaves. The desert stretches out before us into the barrack complexes and walls that line Bathune—in the distance, the magnificent skeleton of the sandstone Colosseum stretches high into the sky.

The station itself is a blend of old and new, with ancient stone pillars supporting steel beams. The platform is bustling with activity, and soldiers clad in grays surround us on all sides. Killián pushes his way through the throng, and the rest of us follow him. We take the steep, dusty, winding path in the direction of the Colosseum—soldiers part before us, murmuring behind their hands, their gazes penetrating. Killián ignores them, speaks to no one. Kempe takes my hand, presses close to my shoulder. I squeeze. She squeezes back.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As we approach the architectural masterpiece, the atmosphere is electric with anticipation. The massive structure looms ahead, its stone walls illuminated by torches that cast flickering shadows that seem to dance. The sound of the crowd grows louder with each step, a roaring sea of voices that reverberates into the morning. The main gates are adorned with intricate carvings depicting legendary battles and historic figures—a massive statue of Yosif the Great looms over us, his scythe raised. Killián presses two fingers to his lips and touches the boot as we pass. I'm reminded of completing the same ritual—along with my fellow trainees—before each of my four bouts. Being here takes me back—the raw anxiety, the eye-watering sunlight baking down onto sand, the thrill of the fight.

We stop just inside the gates— Killián turns to us, and we circle around him. He leans down to press a kiss against Brid's cheek, pulls Miro into a one-armed hug. Soldiers have to move around us to get up to the stairs—we're creating quite the wall.

"Find good seats," he tells us, then clears his throat. "Serving with you all has been the highest privilege. The greatest honor of my life."

"Don't say goodbye," Segolé snaps. "It's bad luck."

"Wasn't planning on it." Killián has to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd. He turns to Bardic, and his expression grows uncomfortable. "Watch the children," is all he says.

Bardic nods, expression impassive.

"Bard, I…"

"Tell me after," Bardic says quickly. "We don't have to do this."

Killián nods. His hand moves to the scythe strapped to his back, curls over the hilt. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"Ko is the future of Lady Death's guard," he says at last. "This troth is our family's way forward, even now. Especially now. What we talked about last night…remember that. Worst comes to worst, we attack the problem from two worlds. United front, as always."

"You're being stupid—we need you in this world, not the lands above." Bard steps forward, places a hand on Killián's arm. "Use his momentum against him. The more he presses, the more openings he creates."

Killián's eyes are shadowed by his helm—they look black. "You're my eternity," he says. If I wasn't directly next to him, I wouldn't have heard it—it's barely a murmur.

"Forever and always." It's as if they've said this thousands of times—Bardic's response seems automatic.

They lean their foreheads against each other for the briefest of moments—they barely make contact before Killián jerks away, blinking rapidly. Bard moves swiftly, grabbing Brid with one hand and Miro with the other. He leads us up the first set of stairs to the imperial box, a luxurious and elevated seating section. Guards in ceremonial attire stand at the entrance—they nod at Bardic and let us pass. Directly aligned with the main entrance to the Colosseum, there's an unobstructed view of the entire pit. Plush seats and draped banners—one for each of the royal families—decorate the area. Awnings provide shade from the beating sun. I sit between Kempe and Linden. I catch a brief glimpse of Jebah following Killián down the stairs that lead to the basement waiting area, and then they're both gone from my view.

C'mon, Killián. I'm not sure if it's a thought or a prayer, but either way, I can't stop my hands from clenching into fists. Don't leave. Not now. Not when everything else in this realm feels so wrong. You have to win.

So much faith. The voice in my mind is smug, amused. What do you think he'd do if he knew what you were thinking about while I was fucking you? Think he'd still want you to marry his daughter?

It's as painful as a physical blow.

I clear my throat.

I shift on my seat.

I hate this, every part of this.

I don't want Killián to die.

###

"Ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves for an epic confrontation!" The announcer is screaming into a large tube—even though his box is directly beneath ours, I can barely hear him over the noise of the crowd. "In this sacred arena, where legends are forged and destinies are decided, we bear witness to a duel that will decide the general of Lady Death's guard! May she watch from the lands above and decide her victor. Who will she deem worthy to lead her army?

"Let's welcome our challenger to the arena! Thirty years old, a veteran of twenty-four battles, three-titled, and denmaster of Staffmaster Torrense's top hive—put your hands together for Jebah Mortcorvus di Vivar!"

The audience roars. I clap my hands over my ears to obscure the onslaught of screams and stamping feet. In the imperial box, none of us applaud. Linden actually boos—he's not the only one. There are a few jeers scattered among the shouted praise.

Jebah enters the arena. He's in the same clothes as Killián, save the jacket and the feathered cloak: A sleek helmet with a visor, intricately carved with the wings of a deadcrow. A fitted, black leather cuirass with padded sections for comfort and mobility. Shoulder guards that allow for a full range of motion, slightly flared and with decorative rivets. Bracers and gauntlets that extend from elbow to wrist. Gloves with reinforced knuckles and metallite fingertips. Fitted pants with articulated knee guards and reinforced sections along the thighs and shins. High boots that reach up to the knee, with sturdy soles for traction.

He raises his scythe above his head, and the noise doubles. The announcer has to wait several moments to continue.

"Finally—our defendant!" He yells at last. "He's led Lady Death's guard for twenty years and has accomplished more than any predecessor since Yosif the Great! In the Battle of Whispering Woods, he stabilized the Fourth Circuit's border while outnumbered seven-to-one, taking over 400 captives. In the Siege of Ironhold, he captured the Xobratic city of Niezm and razed it to the ground. He's led thirty-two battles, twenty-six of which were victorious, held our borders through countless offensives, and served in the Septemvirate since he was 17. Let's give a warm welcome to Killián Médéric Isador di Vivar!"

If Jebah's reception was loud, Killián's is deafening. I'm making noise too—Linden, Kempe, and I jump to our feet, clap our hands, whistle, yell. He enters the Colosseum with confidence, raising Yosif's scythe above his head—the audience loves it. He's ditched his jacket and cloak, but even though they're dressed identically, it's easy to tell Killián and Jebah apart— Killián's broader, taller. Jebah's braid, trailing out beneath his helm, flows to the end of his back— Killián's hair is loose around his face and only to his shoulders.

"Combatants, take your places!" The announcer yells.

They square off.

"Begin!" the announcer says, and the battle starts.