An Heir Comes to Rise

by C. C. Peñaranda

  “Next fighters!” a voice bellowed.

  It shook Faythe awake. She took a deep breath, and the pair exchanged a nod of understanding. It was a final good luck from him.

  Faythe turned for the entrance down to the pit and began to calm her turbulent mind into a smooth river of focused calm. The loud pounding of her fear faded to a quiet hum, leaving only enough to awaken her senses, not shut them down. With every step, she counted her breaths, slowing them to steady the tempo of her heart. She dove deeper and deeper into the well of lethal tranquility that forced her to hone in on every teaching, every practice, every trick that made her a force to be reckoned with in the face of threat or challenge.

  She would not be weak.

  She would not cower.

  She would not lose.

  Her foot hit the stone floor of the fighting ring, and she emerged a different person than who she was on the balcony. The crowd had gone utterly silent. Faythe stood tall, unflinching, and cast her bright gold eyes up—the only part of her identity on display—to scan the onlookers. Everyone watched her, even those who had been chatting idly with mild interest before.

  Death incarnate, Ferris had described her. And it was exactly what she would become in this arena; how she would win.

  The pit master, a tall, skinny man, stood in the center of the ring. His eyes grazed over her, and at the promise of pain in her eyes, his throat bobbed.

  “And the opponent!” he hollered.

  She looked over at the other entrance to her left. After a short pause, a dark-skinned, dark-haired man stepped out. The crowd broke into murmurs and gasps as they took in the sight of the tall brute—pitted against her.

  He stood over a foot taller than Faythe, and he was built like stone. He wore a beaten-up brown leather tunic, completely sleeveless to show off his incredibly muscular arms and draw attention to the fact he wouldn’t need much protection against any challenger. He was a fool, and it was a weakness Faythe had already noted.

  If they wanted blood, she knew exactly how to give it to them.

  Another weakness was his sandal-clad feet. Faythe felt insulted by his obvious confidence he would to be able to wipe her out without much movement. A fool indeed. She had every intention of making him dance.

  His eyes scanned her, and his look was nothing short of feral. “Is this all you can give me?” he called loudly, throwing his arm out as though she were a mere cockroach for him to crush. He wanted to rouse the crowd and assert his status as the victor before the match had even begun. Faythe knew the tactic and let him belittle her as she kept still and silent.

  Ferris was right. No one would bet on her given these odds, and it would work right to their advantage.

  Beneath her mask, she smiled deviously but didn’t let it reach her eyes.

  Her opponent got the response he wanted as the crowd roared their laughter. Some even booed at the weak competitor who wouldn’t offer up much of a spectacle before she was wiped out.

  “Last bets!” the pit master yelled before motioning for them to take stance.

  Chatter rose on the balcony, and she looked up again to see people flashing their coin in a wild frenzy, likely not in her favor. She couldn’t blame them. To anyone, this looked like a shoo-in for the wild beast against the tame doe.

  Then she spotted Ferris leaning on his forearms over the rails as he stared at her. He was grinning, but she could also see his look of concern. She gave him a subtle nod to assure him she was not about to fall apart upon seeing her opponent. She even surprised herself as she felt the complete opposite.

  “Weapons?” the pit master said.

  The brute scoffed as if he didn’t think he would need any but drew a simple steel sword from his side in one hand and took a dagger from his belt in the other.

  Slowly, deliberately, Faythe drew Lumarias from its scabbard on her back, not taking her eyes off his for a second. They were wild as he stared at her, a hunter primed to strike his feeble pray.

  “Good luck to both. You may begin.” The pit master made himself scarce quickly at his final announcement.

  They circled closely, and Faythe watched his every flicker of movement. Just as she predicted, he launched forward in a lazy attack meant for a quick knockout with brute force. She ducked and stepped right, missing the blow with ease.

  He grunted and immediately swung with his blade this time. She stepped out of his path in a steady motion. His nostrils flared at her taunting maneuvers.

  Faythe was yet to lift her sword, instead getting a feel for his steps and going on the defensive until she tired him out. Not out of breath, but patience.

  It wouldn’t take long. She could already see his temper rising.

  He swung his sword again, faster, going in with his dagger straight after in an attempt to catch her unaware. But she knew that trick. Jakon had been the first to show her how to block and maneuver around the attack of two simultaneous blades, and Nik had built on that knowledge significantly.

  She ducked and dodged around his onslaught of quick jabs and long swipes, enjoying the look of absolute rage and disbelief on his face that he had yet to strike her.

  The crowd had long disappeared to Faythe as she honed in on her moving target with cool calm. Deciding she’d grown tired of the foreplay, with his next lunge forward, she twisted around him, concurrently bringing her sword up and slicing down toward his exposed left arm. She felt the slick tear of flesh under her blade and repositioned herself once behind him, noting the deep cut that began to bleed from his shoulder to his elbow.

  Once, she would have balked at the sight; at the fact she’d caused the wound. But this was a fight, and it was either he or she who had to wear the scars when it was over.

  She vaguely heard the gasps and murmurs above but didn’t dare look up or lose focus as he whipped around with a loud, animalistic sound that would send any sane person running. She stood her ground as she faced off with the bull. He saw red as he dragged his feet across the stone, poised to charge.

  And he did—fast. Faythe barely had time to register the movement as she instinctively ducked low, pivoting. He practically flew over her, and she swiped her sword to catch his upper thigh as they switched sides again.

  He roared once more and didn’t leave a second before he was upon her. Their steel connected over and over in a battle of feral rage against cunning defiance. Faythe had to recall all her teachings with Nik to deflect with her sword while being aware of his dagger and veering from that too. But with all her tricks and training, she would soon falter against his brute strength if she continued this way for much longer.

  She feinted right, and where he went to strike, she raised her sword skyward, bringing the pommel down to connect with the wrist that held his dagger. It went flying from his hand, and in the same breath, she leaned back and put all her might into a kick that sent him stumbling back. In his shock, he didn’t recover fast enough before she brought her sword up and sliced low across both of his thighs.

  Crying out, the giant fell to his knees.

  In a flash, Faythe was standing over him, the point of her sword resting over his heart. She panted heavily as she looked down at her opponent. His face contorted in rage, and she could feel it coming off him in waves mixed strongly with embarrassment and disbelief.

  “You’ll pay for this, bitch.”

  The thought was so loud she couldn’t have blocked it if she tried.

  Despite the heat and the sweat that had formed a layer under her suit, Faythe went utterly cold at the promise in those words. Her senses opened up as if she had just remembered they were in an arena and there was a crowd cheering and shouting.

  “The victor!” she heard the pit master announce as he emerged into the fighting ring once again.

  She backed up a step, lowering her sword. Her eyes flicked to the skinny man beside her who stared back with wide-eyed disbelief. Some people cheered for her, but many, she noticed, were livid at her victory; at their loss of coin for betti
ng against her.

  All of a sudden, Faythe realized the real danger was never in the fighting; it was in the repercussions of winning.

  She looked to the fallen man still on his knees and the threat that lingered in those eyes. Had anyone lost enough coin tonight to also want a target placed on her back?

  Twisting on her heel, she hastily retreated to the exit and hurled herself up the stairs where no one could see her. Once she emerged at the top, she didn’t pause, marching for the exit. Onlookers parted, opening a clear path for her as she passed.

  Lumarias was a dead weight in her hand, the edges of the blade still slick with its first taste of blood in real combat. She hadn’t drawn too much from her opponent and doubted it was enough to satisfy the more bloodthirsty members of the audience like the previous fight. But she had done what she needed to do.

  And she had won.

  Chapter 26

  Faythe sat on a discarded wet crate in Crow’s Lane under the safe cover of darkness. She had removed the scarf, pulled back her hood, and unzipped her suit from under her neck. She almost moaned at the cold lick of air that swirled around her head and over her chest, feeling her breath start to come easier. She discarded Lumarias on the ground next to her, needing to find something to clean off her opponent’s blood before she returned it to its scabbard.

  She leaned over, putting her head in her hands while her mind replayed the events of the night.

  “You’ll pay for this, bitch.”

  Such promise and malice in his thoughts—in his feelings—it made her uneasy he might try to fulfil his wish one day. She might not be so lucky next time.

  Faythe had humiliated him. A giant brute taken down by a woman. His mind had told her he was not going to let it pass without punishment and retribution. This was a man of little forgiveness and much vengeance.

  Hearing a scuff of boots to her left, Faythe rose to her feet, swiping up Lumarias and extending it toward her intruder in a single breath. Still skittish and hostile in the aftermath of her first real combat, when her eyes adjusted, she beheld Ferris holding his hands up in surrender with a wide grin.

  She lowered her sword with a disgruntled sigh of relief, and he came closer. Then she felt a surge of anger and pushed his chest with both hands. He stumbled back a step in surprise.

  “You bastard!” she hissed, careful to keep her voice low. “You’ve put us all in danger! A man like that isn’t going to bow down and accept a humble defeat, Ferris!”

  “Whoa, relax! Faythe, you’re forgetting no one knows what you look like. You’re as good as a shadow to those people!” he defended.

  She retreated in realization and relaxed slightly, but she maintained her edge as the echoes of her opponent’s feelings haunted her. Her ability was a blessing and a curse—though she was finding it far less positive.

  “You’re safe. Don’t worry too much about it, okay?” Ferris said calmly.

  She nodded warily and took a seat again, still not trusting herself to stay upright.

  “Here.” He held a small package out to her: a coin pouch.

  Faythe took it in her palm, and her eyes widened. It was heavy. Drawing the strings, she emptied some of the coins onto her hand, and her face blanched at the silver. These were no mere coppers. She could already tell this was more than what she’d make at Marie’s stall in a whole month.

  “That’s for your participation and victory. And this…” He reached into his tunic and pulled out another brown leather pouch, which she took from his outstretched hand.

  More silver coins—and a couple of gold, she realized in absolute shock.

  “This is your share of the betting profits. After I took back what was owed for the outfit and claimed my cut from what was left, of course.”

  She gaped at the money. There was so much coin she didn’t know what to say. They had already made enough for her debt to Ferris to be paid off in full. This was all completely hers.

  “Are you sure this is right?”

  He chuckled. “You did a lot better than I thought. People were betting like crazy for the other guy to make a sure handsome return on their coin.”

  Her face fell, and her stomach turned. “Won’t a lot of them be pissed and want to get back at me?” She winced.

  “Like I said, no one knows who you are. Besides, this business is a sport to them. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. They’ll get over it, and it won’t stop them from betting in future, trust me.”

  Ferris was not one to coddle or sugarcoat situations—another trait she admired when the circumstances called for it. Like now. She eased a little as he continued.

  “Keep it up, and we’ll be living the good life in no time.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  Her face fell in dread. “You want me to fight again? I think we made more than enough tonight,” she said quickly.

  “And when it runs out? Do you want to go back to running pastries all day for a wage that can barely keep you fed?” He looked her over.

  Faythe knew he was talking about her particularly lean stature. She didn’t respond.

  “One fight a week, and you can keep your day job to maintain appearances. Just tell that guard dog of yours you got a raise or a promotion.”

  It was tempting. Too tempting. She could do this once a week and make a better life for herself and Jakon. When she thought of what it could do for him, there was no question anymore. After all, it wasn’t blood money. She hadn’t killed anyone or done anything criminal to earn it. No—she’d put her own life at risk and won in complete fairness thanks to her skill with steel and her stealth.

  With a deep breath, and without giving herself a chance to second-guess, she said, “All right. I’m in.”

  Ferris beamed darkly, and in his eyes, there it was: the understanding she had just signed away her soul. Whatever lay in the pits of the Netherworld would claim her soul instead of the blissful Afterlife.

  Chapter 27

  Faythe fiddled with a strange compass device she’d picked up from the workshop bench in the blacksmiths. Next to her, Marlowe was completely engrossed in the old book of words and phrases that was apparently older than the king. She was at least halfway through translating the strange note they’d found in her mother’s watch.

  It had been nearly three weeks since her first fight at The Cave, and she had fought and won two more fights since, with her fourth only a couple of days away. Faythe had never felt more alive and confident in herself. She finally had a way of putting her skills to use that would benefit her and her friends.

  They had spent many evenings together in Harbor Hall, dining and drinking wine. Jakon had bought into her story that the bakery had picked up and Marie had entrusted her to run the stall alone on a higher wage. He was skeptical at first, so Faythe had to be careful with just how much she spent to avoid raising his suspicions about her unsavory weekly activities. She had also been shopping with Marlowe during the week and purchased a couple of new gowns, tunics, and pants. Again, not buying anything too expensive to keep her roommate from finding out about her new unorthodox source of income.

  She had not heard from Nik since their last encounter in the woods, and while she didn’t expect him to think of her enough to warrant even a short visit to her subconscious, she felt his absence more than she cared to admit. Had she messed up whatever friendship they’d formed because of her stupid overactive thoughts and emotions? Maybe he thought he had nothing more to teach her—and besides, she was not at risk anymore, so perhaps he no longer saw it appropriate.

  Her mind had been too occupied by the fighting to think about him, but now the initial thrill and adrenaline of an approaching challenge was wearing off, she found herself missing the fae guard.

  “Have you heard the rumors of the Gold-Eyed Shadow?” Marlowe’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Apparently, she’s like a deadly ghost and haunts the town.”

  Faythe scoffed. “Sounds like an arrogant fool who’s in over her head.” She fla
shed Marlowe a grin.

  Her friend chuckled. “I thought so too.” She was quiet for a moment before she added, “You need to be careful, Faythe. I’ve never seen a set of eyes quite like yours before. Unless you fight blind, it’s the only thing you can’t hide, and it’s your most distinguishing feature. Luckily, Jakon doesn’t tune in to petty gossip, or he would have put the pieces together by now. But I’ve heard mention of you here—clients inquiring about new weapons to challenge you with—so you should know.”

  Faythe cursed herself. She hadn’t thought about her eyes possibly attracting attention and had tried not to stare at anyone for so long they would take notice. But with Marlowe’s warning, it seemed she hadn’t done a very good job of that.

  “Don’t worry about me. As Faythe, no one is exactly looking in my direction for anything anyway. No fool in this town would be able to make the connection.” She gave her a reassuring smile—the best she could muster while also trying to convince herself she wasn’t in danger of being discovered. Changing the subject, she asked, “Is everything in place for tonight?”

  All concern wiped from Marlowe’s face in an instant at the mention of Jakon’s birthday. “Of course! He’s going to be so surprised. I can’t wait to see his face.” She beamed.

  They had planned a surprise party at Harbor Hall and invited everyone they were acquainted with in town, some friends closer than others. Faythe was to meet Jakon at home and take him down there for a meal, just the two of them. Little did he know, Marlowe would already be there with everyone ready to surprise him.

  The profit from each fight was still substantial despite Faythe’s reigning title of victor. With her winnings, she had been able to afford the whole space for the night as well as hire the hall to cater a spread of food, treats, and wine. Jakon would never suspect anything like it. They usually celebrated each other’s birthdays by going out for a modestly priced meal and exchanging a small gift if they could afford one. She already planned to say Marlowe had helped with the costs when he undoubtedly asked.