Bloodguard

chapter 4

Maeve

I can’t believe this.

My leather slippers slap against the cool marble hallway that leads out of the arena with every furious step I take away from that horrible place and over to an alcove in the tunnel. This is the first time I’ve been to the coliseum in years, and I only came today for the formality of announcing the wedding banns. It was supposed to be easy—show up, allow the royal courts to see me and my betrothed together, say a few words to honor my grandmother’s memory, and leave.

Preferably with our damn heads still attached.

Filip, bless his heart, couldn’t even manage that.

Did I want to marry an egotistical, entitled oaf who had no qualms about telling me to “keep my neck covered”? No.

But I’m the daughter of “the Queen Killer.” In the wake of my father’s purported crimes, I’ve become a political pariah. While Filip wasn’t the brightest torch in the cave, he was the only marriageable person from one of the five noble houses who was willing to overlook my father’s imprisonment and my scars— and , more importantly, he wasn’t afraid of Soro.

So, I’d made a bargain.

“Leave ruling the kingdom to me, and I’ll leave the whoring to you,” I’d said. And Filip—again, bless his heart—was fine with it.

We were days from marrying.

I should have focused on that when I was in the arena. The future. My imprisoned father. My brokenhearted second father. Instead, my mind—and eyes—had wandered to that gladiator. Menace cloaked him as though the arena had taken everything from him but his pride. And his rage.

He’s young. No more than four or five years my senior—which means he likely volunteered for the arena at twenty-two, the minimum age of eligibility. It makes sense, given how embittered he seemed.

I could have kicked myself when Soro and Filip caught me gawking. Filip was already overly sensitive about our engagement—especially with Soro waiting in the wings, eager to marry me himself. So off Filip went into the arena…and off went his head across the sand.

My stomach twists as I pace and wait. I demanded to speak to High Lord Vitor, but my demands aren’t always met, princess or not.

The crowd’s excitement builds loud enough to echo against the stone walls.

“Where are you going, Maeve?” a singsong voice asks from behind me, then laughs.

I mask my expression as I turn.

Aisling, a heartless mage I’ve known since childhood, with lavender hair and eyes but no kind soul to match, must have followed me out of the arena.

Aisling huffs. “You really should take more care with your attire,” she says, waving an irritated hand. She saunters closer, like a red weaver spider ready to pluck a juicy beetle from her web. “A hat and veil could be particularly fashionable, and maybe you could actually pull it off.”

My grip on my cloak loosens. This is not the moment to try me.

Aisling, of course, does. “Honestly, Maeve, this is your first time in the arena in ages. Come—join Soro and me back in the stands, place a few bets, try talking to our peers.”

I couldn’t care less if that court of jesters ever speaks to me again. But to say “Soro and me”? Is she mad? Claiming Soro is like claiming a tiger. Yes, he’ll allow a stroke or two, but he will ultimately feast on your insides.

“I won’t support these games, Aisling. When I’m queen, by the phoenix, I’ll put an end to these horrors.”

“When you’re queen?” Aisling laughs. “You’ll never be queen without another noble for a fiancé.” The way she eases forward is more like a slither. “Maybe you should have thought of that before lusting after that young gladiator for all to see.” Her brows slash downward. “You know, the one who turned your last chance at the throne into an embarrassing memory?”

“Was Filip my last chance?” I ask and tap my chin, pretending to ponder marrying someone else. Aisling’s arrogance dwindles as she realizes Soro is my last chance. But that’s a chance I’m not willing to take. Yet . Not that Aisling needs to know. “No, I don’t think he was.”

Cheers echo from the arena floor, followed by a roar, and my head whips toward the sound fast enough to flutter my hair. Was that a… dragon ?

Aisling’s smile returns, pulling my gaze back to hers. This sadist is excited that the match has begun and likely giddy with the thought of what those poor fighters are about to endure. She can’t wait to get back, and I can’t wait to leave.

But as I turn, she reaches out to grab my hand, the elemental magic she’s known for crackling against her skin. I jerk free of her hold. “ Come on , Maeve. Let’s see what that handsome fighter can do…before he can’t , of course,” she says.

My stomach sinks like a boulder as I edge farther away. “What makes you think he won’t win?” Seeing how easily he took down a swordsman like Filip, there can’t be many his equal.

But she knows something—and the glint in her eyes says she’s dying to tell me.

“Just spill it, Aisling,” I say. I want to scream and shout—at her, at the world—but it’s been drilled into me from childhood: decorum, decorum, decorum. One day, I’m just going to decide to fuck decorum and say and do whatever I want. But probably not today. “Please,” I add sweetly.

Aisling plays with a curl in her hair, her conceit as evident as the sparks of lavender magic coloring her eggshell skin. “Well…” She draws the word out, likely knowing each second she delays telling me is making my stomach knot tighter and tighter. Dread is a living, breathing thing pooling in my stomach now, and I’m fantasizing about reaching out and shaking her when she finally continues, “High Lord Vitor is adamant that that gladiator, and the one standing beside him, can’t be allowed to live past today.”

“Why?” I gasp, remembering that the veteran fighter beside mine—great, now I’m calling him mine —had two of the four final Bloodguard tattoos on his forearm.

“ Because ,” Aisling says like I’m the dim torch, “only the gladiators of Vitor’s choosing win Bloodguard. Obviously.”

“What did I choose?” a male voice asks from behind me, and Aisling startles.

Her eyes widen with genuine fear before she dips into a demure bow before Arrow’s regent. “My lord,” she addresses him. She gives my hand one last squeeze. “Join us in the stands, Maeve.”

Vitor narrows his eyes at her until she dashes away, and then he turns an indulgent smile on me. “Maeve, you look lovely. I’m so glad you decided to come today.”

“Hello, Uncle Vitor,” I say, my tone clipped as he draws even with me. I want to ask about his plans for the two gladiators, but I’ve known Vitor my whole life—and asking the High Lord to explain himself is the quickest way to never get answers.

“My condolences on your fiancé’s sudden demise,” he says.

He isn’t sorry, of course. In fact, he looks delighted.

“Soro goaded Filip into that arena.” I don’t need to insist. We both know it’s true.

“So what if he did?” Vitor asks, his visage spilling with relief. “You were saved today, my daughter. If your intended was that easily riled, he would have made a terrible king.”

I can’t argue that logic, but he continues, “If you want to marry a simpleton, marry Soro.”

“Uncle,” I admonish out of habit.

It’s no secret Vitor prefers me over his son—it’s always been a difficulty between us.

He grins like he’s made some great stride and we might somehow return to the way things used to be between us. But there is no going back. Not while Papa is dying in prison. And Uncle Vitor the one who put him there.

“Won’t you consider releasing him?” I whisper, unable to bite back the question.

“This again? Maeve…” Vitor shakes his head. “Our kingdom thrives on laws. We can’t bend them just because you’ve asked me to.”

His admonishment makes my hands curl into fists, but I continue in an even tone. “I’m not asking to bend the laws or suggesting we break them. My father is innocent .”

Papa would never have harmed Grandmother. He loved her. We all did.

Vitor’s eyes soften. “I know this is hard, Maeve. But we didn’t just cast Andres into a cell without consideration. And in the end, the prince confessed to striking down our great Queen Avianna. You know this, dear.”

“No,” I disagree for the hundredth time. Only the council was present during my father’s supposed confession, but I will deny he ever said it at all until he admits the deed to my face. My father is a gentle and decent man, and I cannot imagine him capable of murder, much less murdering his own mother.

“I understand your doubts,” Vitor says. “The truth can be painful.” His expression turns pensive before he glances back at me. “I know you love your papa, but can’t you extend that love to Arrow, too?”

I gasp. “Of course I love my country. I was willing to marry Filip for Arrow,” I remind him.

But Vitor just stares down his nose at me. “Covering yourself up? Hiding your face in the stands?” He tips my chin up with his finger. “Avoiding these games as if you have something to hide? The people need to see you, to embrace you and know you are capable…”

He isn’t trying to be callous or cruel. While Vitor isn’t a blood relative, growing up in the castle with him made him as close as family. As acting Regent of Arrow, he rules in my stead.

He’ll stay in that role until such time as I come of age and marry within my class. Should something happen to me, as heir to the throne, the crown would revert to the five noble houses to be shared equally. And that…that would be anarchy.

“Now, come back into the arena with me,” he says. “And by the great phoenix, try to smile and at least act like you enjoy the games.”

Vitor believes this is best for me—and for the kingdom. I recognize why…because these games are a tool.

He’s a smart man, my uncle. He uses the arena to entertain the people— all the people—showering them with food and drink and a chance to change their fortunes. It’s made him popular among the classes and solidified his position as Lord Regent. Everyone buys in. The nobles spending their time and money on this “sport.” The common people betting in the hopes of a better life. The fighters willing to die to win the riches that Bloodguard brings and citizenship for their families, not to mention its coveted royal title.

My eyes widen as the words “royal title” ricochet in my chest, my heart racing.

Vitor’s eyes sharpen. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” I lower my gaze and try for a meek expression. “You’re right, Uncle.” I tuck my arm through his and lean into his shoulder. “If I want to be queen, I must act like it.”

He nods approvingly and kisses the top of my head.

“Come home,” he tells me. “Marry Soro, as your grandmother would have wanted, and I will believe she would understand if—sometime after the wedding, of course—I pardoned your father. The kingdom is flourishing under my rule. What Arrow needs is stability and strength, and I can continue to give it to them with my son and you by my side.”

Part of me is willing to do it—I would do anything to save my father. But as much as I love him, I know he would never forgive me if I married Soro. There’s something just not right about that man. He was cruel when we were children, and he’s only grown worse over the years. As much as I want to believe Vitor would still be able to control him were Soro and I to wed, Soro would be king —and able to do so much worse. I can’t risk it.

Besides…I have a better plan.

Uncle Vitor ’s grip tightens around my hand to steady me as we return to the arena, but I barely notice. I can’t even hear the roar of the crowd over my heart pounding in my ears when we take our seats in the royal box.

I find the young gladiator, his boots digging into the sand, his body poised to sprint, and I refuse to look away. He will win today.

He owes me a fiancé.