by Alex Shobe
ALEX SHOBE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Alex Shobe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-1-7330236-1-0 (ebook)
Published by Vulpine Publishing
www.alexshobe.com
Contents
Chapter 1 - Leona
Chapter 2 - Colton
Chapter 3 - Leona
Chapter 4 - Leona
Chapter 5 - Colton
Chapter 6 - Leona
Chapter 7 - Colton
Chapter 8 - Leona
Chapter 9 - Colton
Chapter 10 - Leona
Chapter 11 - Colton
Chapter 12 - Leona
Chapter 13 - Colton
Chapter 14 - Colton
Chapter 15 - Leona
Chapter 16 - Colton
Chapter 17 - Leona
Chapter 18 - Leona
Chapter 19 - Colton
Chapter 20 - Leona
Chapter 21 - Colton
Chapter 22 - Leona
Chapter 23 - Leona
Chapter 24 - Colton
Chapter 25 - Colton
Chapter 26 - Leona
Chapter 27 - Leona
Chapter 28 - Leona
Chapter 29 - Colton
Chapter 30 - Leona
Chapter 31 - Colton
Chapter 32 - Leona
Chapter 33 - Leona
Chapter 34 - Colton
Chapter 35 - Leona
Chapter 36 - Colton
Chapter 37 - Leona
Drops of Havoc's Sneak Peek
Contact Alex
“Love the light, for it shows you the way. Endure the darkness, for it shows you the stars.”
- Og Mandino
Leona
A breath is a fickle thing—easy to hold and easier to lose. I exhale as I smooth my hands over the golden lace bodice, hoping to loosen the knots twisting within my stomach. My fingers trail over the silk ties keeping the bodice closed. In the corner of the floor-length mirror, I catch a glimpse of Gracen standing behind me, her forehead creasing with worry.
“Is it too tight, Your Majesty?”
I turn to face her, the frail hemline swishing silently over the marble floor.
“No. It’s perfect, thank you.” I offer a weak smile and return my view to the mirror. “It’s just my nerves.”
Gracen takes a step forward, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “If you’d like, I could get you a cup of tea from the kitchen? Jasper has a fresh stock of chamomile.”
I lower my eyes to the floor. No amount of herbal tea would be able to remove the gut-wrenching torment within me. If only it were as simple as drinking a tonic to make all my problems go away. After a moment, I lift my head and our eyes meet again. “That won’t be necessary.”
I turn and cross the room to the vanity with Gracen following behind. She pulls the stool from under the table. Once I’m seated, her hands are in my hair, a brush gliding down the length.
“Earlier,” she says, braiding the hair at my temples, “the Lord Commander was determined to see you.”
My hands clasp tighter in my lap. “What did you tell him?”
“That you were busy, of course, shoulders-deep in audiences with diplomats.” A soft chuckle escapes Gracen’s mouth and it vibrates through to her hands. “He almost had half a mind to go room to room looking for you anyway.”
“He does have half a mind. I’m still trying to figure out where he keeps the half that actually works.”
At this, Gracen’s full laughter carries throughout the room. It’s a nice sound to hear. There’s not much amusement in the castle anymore. She pins the plaits to the crown of my head, then moves to gather the rest of my hair. I reach up and she pauses when I touch her hand.
“I think I’ll wear it down today.”
She nods then uses her fingers to fan out my hair along my back. When she’s satisfied with its placement, she rests her hands on my shoulders. “I wish I could take this burden from you.” Her voice is faint behind me. “Your mother despised attending as well. And she, too, wore her hair like a blanket on these days.” She pauses. “I suppose it brought her some comfort.”
My eyes sting at the mention of Mother. I press them close, hoping to will the tears away. It’ll only do more harm than good for the Council to see me with puffy, bloodshot eyes. I turn around to face Gracen and her hands drop to her sides.
I clear my throat, pushing back the emotion from my voice. “That’ll be all, Gracen. Thank you.”
Gracen drops her head into a bow, her graying hair falling forward in front of her face. It’d been thrown up in a tight chignon at the start of the day, but loose strands have escaped during her morning chores.
She shuffles out of my bedchamber, the thick maple door closing effortlessly as she exits. There aren’t many people I like around here, but she’s one of them. I hate that I’ve recently been keeping her at an arm’s length, never allowing myself to feel the maternal value she once gave me. Now that my own mother is gone, it feels like a betrayal. Still, she’s one of the few people within these castle walls who doesn’t smile with kind eyes in my face only to utter their dissatisfaction of my reign behind my back. She’s an honest soul, more truthful than those whose allegiance should’ve been sworn to me. The others follow me only out of necessity, not support.
Six months have passed, and this hasn’t gotten any easier to stomach. When I claimed the throne, the nobles didn’t rejoice at my coronation. They looked on in polite disinterest, muttering words they thought I couldn’t hear as I passed. Mother warned me that might happen. I’ve held onto her hope that I could be the leader the country needs, a queen who could soften the firm edges of a man’s world. The country is entombed in its traditions—its games—and the nagging thought pulls at the corners of my mind.
A breeze rushes in through the open balcony doors, carrying with it the spicy scent of the lilac garden down below. There’s warmth in the springtime air, yet an icy chill grabs my spine, leaving me paralyzed for a moment. Once the sensation passes, I walk over to the bedchamber doors and hold onto one last deep breath before pulling it open.
The guard posted outside in the corridor stands a whole head taller than me, and still, his body stiffens at attention when my eyes land on him. He peers down at me, eyes wide, as he waits for my instruction.
I give him a curt nod. “I’m ready.”
A thunderous crowd grows louder with each step I take toward the arena. They’re chanting, not my name—no. The word fight echoes like a ricochet around the stadium.
Everyone’s waiting, and when I step into view, the crowd falls silent. I pull my shoulders back as I emerge from the tunnel leading to the monarch’s gallery. A crimson chenille canopy, pulled tight between four stone columns, bucks when the wind catches underneath it.
I march past my Council, six men, whose judgmental glares are lost against the other hundreds of eyes directed toward me.
Everyone’s waiting.
My feet carry me to my chair, though they’d much rather had taken me somewhere else—anywhere else but here. I’m numb, my vision focused in front of me, with only the crowd’s expectations driving me forward.
I hate this.
I hate the dingy stench of the arena, an odor that
comes from hundreds of years of use. I hate looking upon the masses, knowing that they find enjoyment in their lack of humanity.
But none of that matters now, as I am here.
I stand in front of my seat for a moment, letting the noon sun caress my face and the tops of my shoulders. It’d be such a beautiful day, if not for the dread looming over me like a shadow. I lower myself onto the chair and a booming vibration rattles the structure as the crowd cheers.
It’s time.
Colton
I hook my fingers around the iron bars of the cell gate and rest my forehead against the back of my hand. The stone ceiling rumbles and dust falls onto my face as the crowd above me calls for blood and a good show. Very rarely are they left dissatisfied.
Cells line each side of the corridor under the arena. I share mine with nine other men, all of whom are staring at the ground in front of them. None of them blink, as though the ground might disappear if they take their eyes off it.
The other nearby cells are the same way with groups of men filling them. No one’s making a sound. Then again, the crowd is making enough noise for all of us.
We’ve found that this is the only way to cope with days like today. Any other time, we’d trade stories, maybe share a laugh or two. But today, we know better and we are silent.
By nightfall, the number of cellmates will diminish, at least until the guards replenish their losses with a new group of unfortunate men.
My attention shifts down the corridor. A man, with more hair coming out of his ears than the amount of hair on his head, is carrying parchment paper and speaking in loud tones with a guard. They stop cell by cell and glance down at the paper, then back at the inmates inside.
I wonder, for a second, how the man can even hear anything with all that fuzz. My mouth twitches as a grin struggles to break free. Stop it. Today, I need to be serious.
“Him.” The man nods his hairless head toward Kai.
Kai stands to his feet and brushes the dirt from his tattered pants. As he moves from the darkened shadows of his cell to the gate door, the purplish-red streak across his face becomes more prominent in the torch lighting of the corridor. His face is neutral as he eyes the man who selected him.
“All right, open the gate.”
The guard, dressed in burgundy and black garb, steps forward. The keys in his hand jingle while he plucks the right one from the set.
Kai’s size towers over the guard’s, yet when the gate is completely open and there’s nothing standing between the two men, Kai remains still. He’s been here long enough to know the consequences of trying to flee at the first opportunity.
The guards are like cockroaches. Where’s the one, there’s sure to be five more lurking around a corner somewhere. Even though Kai could easily outmaneuver the guard who stood in front of him, he wouldn’t get far before a half-dozen more cockroaches caught him and drove their swords through his chest.
The bald man, Kai, and the guard walk down the corridor, the shuffle of their feet being the loudest sound coming from them. The guard drapes his hand on the hilt of his sword, his stance at the ready in case Kai decides to turn around and snap his neck.
If only.
But he won’t.
Kai knows better than that.
They travel further down the corridor until they’re out of view. I can tell when they’ve reached the steps leading up to the arena grounds because the crowd erupts into another bout of celebration.
I sigh and find a bare section of wall to sit against. The coldness of the stone wall forces a shiver between my shoulder blades and the ground offers no heat against the draftiness of the dungeon.
I pull my legs to my chest and rest my arms over my knees. There’s nothing left to do now except wait. Wait to die, that is.
A guttural, almost animalistic, cry travels from the arena down to the cells, causing a different type of chill to course down my spine. I sigh and shake my head. The voice didn’t sound like Kai’s, so whomever they selected as his opponent from the other side of the dungeons doesn’t seem to be faring so well.
I’m not surprised, though. I’d hate to be the one who goes against him. Yet, it’s torture to have to go against any one of us here. My friends. My neighbors. And we’re forced to fight one another until one of us dies. As soon as we step before the crowd on the arena grounds, all relationship ties must be severed. It’s the only way.
I glance over at Aiden across from me in the cell. He’s not much younger than I am, but there’s an apparent difference in his body size compared to mine. I’ve spent my life working on my father’s farm, tending to animals and hauling bundles of hay. My body is primed for the physical nature of our situation. His is not, though. But what he lacks in muscle, he has made up for in his intelligence. Most the time when he speaks, his words are grounded in intellect. He was meant to be a craftsman—yet he’s here, awaiting death like the rest of us.
I watch carefully as Aiden twists his fingers into swollen red logs on his hands. This is only his second week of being here, and I want to tell him, Don’t worry, it gets easier, but that would be a lie, so I keep my mouth shut.
Truth is, he’ll learn quick once he’s out there enough that he’ll need to let his humanity fall by the wayside if he expects to live another day. When he’s standing before a packed arena, no length of a fancy word will save his ass. The crowd is relentless, and he must match their brutality.
A commotion comes from down the corridor and I snap my head in that direction. Two guards drag Kai back toward his cell while a third guard unlocks and opens the gate. He lands with a thud when the guards release their grip on him.
Kai struggles to roll over to his back, but when he does, his chest rises and falls rapidly as his lungs attempt to fill with air. His face is slick with fresh blood. He drags his arm across it, wiping away the red with his sleeve.
“And, him.”
I hadn’t noticed the hairy-eared man standing in front of my cell. My eyes shoot to his, which are concentrated on mine. Shit. He means me.
I rise to my feet, though in no hurry to leave the twisted safety of my cell. The guard opens the gate and steps aside so that I can pass. Eyes peek from the other cells as men watch with nonchalance. I don’t expect a goodbye or a good luck from them. Here, those are pointless words that never do any justice in bringing comfort. Even if I win the fight, I still lose.
The guards escort me down the corridor and up the stairs, where another guard is waiting with a sword. My sword, at least for the moment. Semi-dried blood coats the blade, but I take it anyway.
As I walk across the grounds—alone—the gentle heat of spring isn’t enough to thaw the ice forming in my chest. The crowd surrounding me is deafening that I can hardly hear myself think. Not that I’d even want to think right now. Thinking leads to feeling and feeling out here is a surefire way to death.
I narrow my eyes and spot my opponent approaching from across the field. It’s Henrik. The last time I saw him, we were sitting around a fire pit near the shoreline, throwing back pint after pint of ale, while talking about the various women in the village we would never stand a chance with. I taught him how to fish, and in exchange, he shared his knowledge of literature.
Back then, he was my friend. Now—my enemy.
They did this to us.
I glance upward toward the gallery where the royal and political people sit. It’s hard to see around the columns, but as I continue to walk to the center of the arena, the queen comes into view.
Her gray eyes follow me across the field. I remember those eyes, back when we were younger, back when we shared a laugh between us. But things are different now. Long hair falls over her shoulders like a black curtain, and I wonder for a moment if it covers the hole where her heart should be. Even from down below, I am certain that she doesn’t have the same eager expression on her face as do the ones next to her, anxious for the combat to begin. Regardless, she’s sitting idly by while Henrik and I fight for our lives. A
nd for that, she’s my enemy, too.
Henrik and I stop nearly thirty feet away from one another. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, savoring the last calm breath I’ll have before my adrenaline takes over. There’s a switch when I’m out here, as simple as turning on a lantern. I’m no longer myself, but who they’ve made me to be. I flex my wrist, the sword’s tip cutting circles in the air, and I wait.
Ding.
At the bell’s first sound, Henrik sprints toward me. I follow suit.
The crowd whoops and hollers, but I drown them out, focusing only on the task at hand. Our swords clash together as I block his advance. There’s nothing but anger in his eyes, as it should be. One of us will take the other’s life today.
He wields his sword. Left, then right. I dodge each move, using my sword to deflect his.
With my free hand, I push him over my outstretched foot. He stumbles but quickly regains his balance.
He’s huffing, the telltale sign of exertion. Slow down, Henrik. Conserve your energy.
He begins to slash his blade through the air, desperate to make contact. His persistence pays off. My shoulder goes cold when a breeze touches the open wound. I glance down just long enough to assess the damage. Superficial injury. I’ll live.
Our swords clash once more until I pin his to the ground. My foot digs deep into the sand as I spin, my elbow colliding with his jaw. His sword comes out of his hand as he reaches out to brace his fall. He spits out a mouthful of blood, the sand in front of him turning a muddy red.
I sidestep around him, stalking him like he’s my prey. My eyes dart to his abandoned sword, then back to him.
Come on, Henrik. Get up!
He remains on hands and knees, heaving endlessly.
I look up into the crowd, distinguishing face by face the people who are shouting Kill! from the comfort of their seats. The queen’s face hasn’t changed since the match began—a mix between disgust and sorrow. She leans over and says something to a smug gentleman. He responds to her words with a careless shrug and scoots to the edge of his seat.
