Rise of a Fallen Man (A Look in the Mirror #2)

Chapter 10

Salas

I punched the bag so hard, my knuckles cracked. My blood smeared the canvas cover as my skin split open.

Lerrel insisted I practice fighting without a sword more often. She believed it fit the best with the character of the savage brute I played in the arena. But the raw brutality of this form of fighting repulsed me. It was impossible to distance my mind from the pain I caused to my opponents when I felt their muscle tissue crush and their bones creak under my blows.

Ever since the announcement of the royal wedding, however, I couldn’t stop punching.

“Raeb!” Noil marched across the courtyard to me. “The training is done for today.”

I ignored him, hitting the bag again and again. The blows hurt no one but me. Sadly, the pain from my damaged knuckles was nothing compared to the agony raging in my chest.

I thought I was prepared to lose Ari. I never had her in the first place. How could it hurt so much to lose someone who was never mine?

There was no scenario in which a former whore, a slave, and a criminal could publicly claim a crown princess as his own. I knew it all along. But it all felt exceptionally final now. Not only she wasn’t mine, but she officially belonged with someone else.

Of course, I knew my only option was to accept it.

But acceptance proved hard to find.

“Raeb!” Noil shoved a hand in my ribs to get my attention.

I snarled, twisting toward him with my fist raised.

“What the fuck?” He caught my wrist, stopping the blow that would’ve smashed his face in. “I said it’s done!” he yelled.

Lerrel appeared at his side, dressed in a pretty, white dress with bright red flowers. Noil had his best silk shirt on, too, his tawny hair and mustache trimmed and smoothed down in style. The palace invited all royal gladiators to attend the marriage ceremony of Princess Aniri and her chosen groom, Prince Leafar. Everyone was dressed and ready to go. Everyone except me.

The games master propped her hands on her hips, pinning me with her glare.

“Do we have a problem here?”

“Do we?” I jerked my arm out of Noil’s grip.

“You’ve been doing this for almost two weeks now, Raeb,” she stated. “So far, you’ve broken three training dummies and are about to decimate your fourth punching bag. More importantly...” she grabbed my hand, turning my bloodied knuckles to light, “you’re damaging one of my most valuable assets—yourself.”

“You’re done here, boy.” Noil unhooked the prolapsed, blood-smeared bag from the frame in the rink.

“Go back to your room,” Lerrel ordered. “Clean the wounds. Get the healing witch to look at them when we all come back from the ceremony.”

“And ask the witch for some mushroom powder to calm the fuck down,” Noil muttered under his breath, taking the bag away.

“You’re not coming with us,” Lerrel said to me. “Not in this state.”

“I wasn’t going to, anyway,” I snapped back at her. “I’m staying here.”

She poked a finger into my sweaty chest.

“Whatever is eating at you, deal with it. Or I’ll deal with it for you when I come back.” She pointed at my hands. “Save this shit for the arena. Audience loves you. Don’t fuck it up.”

My room quickly proved too small to hide from my thoughts. I felt restless, unable to sit still or to focus on anything long enough before the images of Ari with her highborn groom assaulted me. He was everything I wasn’t, which meant he was perfect, and she deserved the best. But that didn’t make me feel any better.

Long before the lunch hour, I left the room with no clear destination in mind. I didn’t feel thirsty, but maybe I should find a bottle of wine and drown the pain that burned through my insides like poison.

A moan sounded from behind the door of another gladiator. The sound wouldn’t be unusual on a night after the games when the court ladies visited. But it wasn’t even noon yet. Everybody had left the gladiators’ quarters for the day. I thought I was the only one left.

I stepped back, staring at the door. This was Regit’s room, the quick and always cheerful gladiator from the Tresed Queendom, who dressed as an elf in the arena. He had quite a few powerful women as his benefactors, but I didn’t think any of them would be visiting him at this hour, especially on the day of the royal wedding.

Another moan came from behind the door. It didn’t seem to be a moan of pleasure, I realized, as the sound descended into a sorrowful groan of pain.

“Regit? Are you alright?” I knocked on the door.

“Raeb?” His reply came in a subdued voice.

“Yes, it’s me. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” There was a note of resignation in his answer.

I pushed the door open.

Regit lay in his bed with the velvet curtains pulled back and tied around the carved mahogany bedposts. The thick embroidered drapes on the window of his spacious room remained closed. It looked like he hadn’t been up yet. In the dim light of the glowing incense lamp on his night table, his eyes appeared sunken into their sockets. His normally warm-brown skin had turned ashen, with perspiration beading on his forehead.

“What happened, Regit?” I crossed the room toward him. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he deadpanned. “You’re not the most gorgeous man out there, either.”

“I know.” I shrugged. “Falo holds that title.”

“Right. That handsome son of a—” Shifting under the quilted covers, he groaned again and winced in pain. “Fuck...”

“What’s going on?” I touched his hand. It was feverishly hot. “Did you catch a trembling fever or something? It’s common this time of year.”

Regit’s high cheekbones darkened with a subtle glow of blush. “No. Not a trembling fever. But it does feel hot and gives me shakes...” He peered at me intently, as if gauging how much he could divulge.

I didn’t push him either way. We all had our secrets to keep. But if Regit felt I should know his, I was there for him.

After a moment of hesitation, he shoved away his silk cover.

“Does it look bad?”

“Fuck,” I exhaled, staring at his bruised and swollen crotch.

Ink-black blotches covered his lower stomach and upper thighs. His cock bloated to several times of a normal size, its surface uneven and bumpy. His ball sack had completely disappeared behind his enormous cock. A black pearl of liquid beaded in the opening of his crown like a drop of seed. By the glossy silver sheen to it, I recognized the liquid onyx.

Now I knew exactly what Regit was going through. His pain resonated with a phantom ache through my own pelvis area.

I lowered myself into the chair by his bed.

“Why did you do it?”

“You know what it is?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

I nodded. “I’ve seen it before.”

I’ve lived through it too.

I didn’t say that part out loud, afraid of questions I didn’t want to answer.

“Where did you get it done?” I asked. “Where is the warlock who did the surgery? Did he give you anything to take after?”

I was certain the surgery had been performed by a warlock. Few witches had the skill to do this, intentionally so. The healing witches viewed operating on male “private parts” as something below their status.

“He gave me some powder for the pain.” Regit reached for a silver tin on the side table. “But I’ve almost used it all.”

Just a thin layer of pink powder covered the bottom of the tin. Even if the tin was full, however, a simple pain medication wasn’t enough. Regis needed a healing ointment for the stitches and a special tea with a spell of magic to help his body absorb the liquid onyx.

The warlock who did this to Regit must be a hack, like so many of them were. The surgery was complex and required skills that warlocks often lacked.

Witches enjoyed the advantage of a far more thorough education, the apprenticeships with the best healers of the country, and the support of many affluent benefactors.

Warlocks studied the healing arts on their own. They often practiced in secret out of fear of being arrested and prosecuted for criminal ignorance in the profession they weren’t allowed to study for in the first place.

“Why did you let a warlock touch you?” I scolded. “Why did you need to have it done? You’re a gladiator, not a whore from a fun house.”

Regit exhaled a humorless laugh through a grimace of pain.

“Do you think only whores earn their living with their cocks?”

“You’re a gladiator, Regit. You earn your living in the arena. Your occupation is far more honorable than that of a whore.” I knew that for a fact because I’d done both.

“Honorable, all right,” Regit scoffed. “For as long as I can leap like an elf to the delight of the audience, I’m fine. But what about when I can’t do that anymore?” He peered at me. “How old do you think I am, Raeb?”

Regit was tall but lean and agile. His body was wired with ropy muscles. In the arena, he wore a pair of iridescent wings and was so light on his feet when leaping over the obstacles, it often looked like he indeed was flying over them.

“Umm, you’re twenty-three? Twenty-four maybe?” I ventured a guess, scratching my beard.

He relaxed in the pillows with a sigh.

“Good. That’s what you say when anyone asks. Deal?” He waited for my nod before continuing. “But I’m actually turning thirty this year. Thirty,” he moaned as if that number hurt him even more than the pain from the surgery. “I found a gray hair last week. Already. Can you believe it?” He touched his hair that was neatly woven into the slim, long cords that reached his waist.

“I’m thirty-two,” I admitted, trying to console him.

“And you look it. No offense.”

“None taken.” I shrugged.

Regit shook his head with a somber expression. “Your ragged charm and recent success may carry you through for a while. But at our age, we can’t count on being a gladiator that much longer. The crowd feeds on our youth. The arena swallows us young, devours our health, and spits us out old and injured within just a few years. If you don’t die, you’ll get out of here with enough aches and pains to last for the rest of your life, however long or short that may be. And then what?”

“The crown pays a pension to the retired gladiators.”

“That it does. But the money is only enough to rent a room in the city or a small house in the country.” Distaste etched on his handsome face. “I’m not a country boy. I need the excitement of the city, Raeb. But I don’t want just a plain boring room in a boarding house somewhere. Look at all I have now.” He gestured at the lavish furnishings of his bedroom—the silk sheets on his enormous poster bed, the priceless rug on the floor, and the glistening pile of jewelry on a silver tray on his night table. “How can you give it all up after getting a taste? I want to keep sleeping in silk and eating the best food out there. I want to have servants to look after me when I’m old. I’ll need more than the crown will pay, and more comes from women. I need benefactors to sponsor the lifestyle I’m accustomed to. But rich women prefer young boys with wrinkle-free skin and energy in spades. To stay in their favor when I’m past my prime, I must offer them something they’ll be willing to keep paying me for.”

I squinted, making a guess. “Your cock?”

He nodded.

“A better cock than most have. The best that money can buy.”

“So, you let a hack warlock cut you up, stuff you with fish bladders, and pump you with liquid onyx, all for women’s pleasure?”

“Exactly.”

I didn’t judge. I’d done the same years ago. My reason for that had been even simpler than Regit’s. I didn’t care for silk sheets or jewels, I’d just tried not to go hungry and hopefully save a coin or two for a rainy day. Men with those bodily modifications tended to earn more in the fun house. It seemed to apply to the gladiators too.

Regit put the covers back over his mangled member and growled, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“I’ll need more of that pink shit,” he squeezed through his clenched teeth.

“You’ll need more than the pain powder if you want to recover fast enough to even walk before the next games. Without the proper aftercare, I’m afraid all the magic of the queendom won’t make you well enough to do your usual act anytime soon.”

“The games master will kill me,” Regit moaned.

“The black puss building up in your cock will kill you before she does if we don’t do something about it.” I got up to my feet. “Tell me where to find the warlock who did this to you.”

Regit peeked at me from under his arm. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll go to the city, find the bastard, and get from him what he should’ve brought to you already.”

“I’m not sure he’d appreciate your visit. He doesn’t want the public to know he offers this kind of service.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t, but I don’t care how he feels about it. If he doesn’t want any follow-up visits to his place, he should’ve done his job and come here himself.”

“What if he refuses to give you anything?”

“Then, I’ll make him. Don’t let my sweet appearance fool you.” I smirked, making him smile, too, despite his pain. “I don’t like hurting people, but I can be very persuasive if I have to.”

“Well...” he sighed. “It’s not like I can ask the healing witch for help here.”

“No witch will get involved in this now,” I agreed. “The warlock started it, he needs to do it right.”

Going to the gladiators’ healing witch would get Regit in trouble. As much as the court ladies might end up enjoying the “improvements” to Regit’s cock, surgeries like that weren’t approved by the crown.

“When was the last time you took the powder?” I asked.

“Just now.”

“Don’t take more, then. Too much of this stuff can be bad for you. Take the rest with dinner, and I’ll bring you more to take for the night.”

“Raeb,” Regit stopped me as I placed a hand on the door handle. “Take a horse from the stables. It’s allowed. And... Thank you. A lot.”

I nodded before leaving his bedroom.

After grabbing a cloak from my room, I left the building, but I didn’t go to the stables. The less I saw of a riding crop, the better off I was. Ever since leaving Lady Lana’s manor, I couldn’t bring myself to hit another living being with a crop, be it myself or an animal.

Instead, I walked past the tall red barn where the games master supposedly held a three-winged dragon from the faraway Ekans Isles, then circled the wide dome of the underground terrarium with the fire-breathing mud worms, and made a brief stop at the animal enclosures.

The bear I’d nearly choked to death while fighting for my life in the arena had recovered by now. The lazy bum was napping on a flat rock over the pond in his special enclosure. A black-and-white beetle buzzed over the bear’s ear before landing on his nose. The bear swatted at it with his paw and rolled over on his other side without even opening his eyes.

The games master strictly forbade the gladiators from approaching the animals. We weren’t to form any kind of relationship with them for two reasons.

One, it wouldn’t work for the show if the predators recognized us in the arena and acted friendly while being presented to the public as wild.

And two, if we had to kill one in the arena, it was easier to do so when the animal wasn’t raised as a pet.

Watching the bear relax in the sun, I found it hard to believe that this was the same beast who’d nearly tore my arm off less than two weeks ago. The games master mentioned the attack wasn’t the bear’s normal behavior. She hadn’t allowed for the bear or the lion that had mauled me to return to the arena since, worried that they had become unpredictable, unmanageable, and therefore too dangerous.

“Bye, buddy,” I said quietly enough for the bear not to hear me.

Before leaving the grounds, I pulled the hood of my light linen cloak lower over my face. The chances of someone from my distant past recognizing me had been going down, the more time had separated me from those years and the more occupations I’d changed since, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

I hitched a ride with the family of a teacher who was returning to Egami after visiting relatives in the country. Her wagon moved slowly toward the city center, as the road was already congested with both carriages and pedestrians.

“We should’ve left earlier,” the teacher lamented. “I knew the royal wedding ceremony was today, but I hoped we’d make it home before the crowds gathered.”

The ceremony wasn’t until the afternoon, with the special reception beforehand for the invited guests. It’d be followed by a celebratory dinner and a ball later tonight. But the crowds were already flowing toward the palace.

Their excitement was palpable. This wedding was a joyous occasion that the entire country had been waiting and praying for.

The city had been decorated with colorful banners and ribbons. Posters with the portrait of the couple hung in almost every window. It was hard to avoid looking at them, no matter how hard I tried not to look.

There hadn’t been time to paint a proper official portrait of the bride and groom. Instead, the artist appeared to have joined the two existing individual pictures simply by linking their hands.

Dressed in her formal attire, the princess wore the same dignified expression she had in all her official portraits. The prince was staring straight ahead, with his arm bent and his bride’s hand resting on it.

I tried to steer my feelings away from the matter. There was nothing I could do and nothing I could change. I just wished I could feel nothing too.

On the outer edge of the city center, I paid for the ride and said goodbye to the teacher and her family, then found the address that Regit had given me.

The door to the warlock’s place was at the end of a deep stairwell of an old decrepit building that housed a storage facility for broken carriages and horse tack. It felt like I was descending into the depths of the afterlife when climbing down the narrow, crumbling stairs.

No answer came when I knocked. I slammed my fist into the door harder, refusing to leave without the tea and ointment that Regit needed.

“What do you want?” finally came in a rasping voice from behind the door.

“I heard you perform certain body modification surgeries,” I said carefully.

Warlocks might not be well skilled in magic, but their ignorance often made them even more dangerous, like a child with a sword they didn’t know how to use. It didn’t hurt to be polite, at least until I had a good reason not to be.

The small window in the door opened, and a wrinkly face appeared in the rusty frame.

“Maybe I do,” the old man said, squinting at me.

“I came from a client of yours. You haven’t finished your job.”

A quick wave of reflection momentarily obscured his features. He attempted to close the window, but I shoved my hand against the shutter.

“All I want is for you to honor the agreement you made with my friend.”

He darted a frightened glance at my hand, pausing it on my ring. “You’re from the arena.”

“Yes. You operated on a gladiator—”

He brought a finger to his lips, cutting me off. After peeking over my shoulder at the staircase behind me, he stepped back from the window. Next, I heard the lock on the door clink open. It took several more clicks and clanks, as there must have been several locks and chains, before the door finally opened.

A stale, musty smell drifted from the dark space inside.

“Come in,” the warlock ushered me through the door, then promptly closed it behind me. “No need to chat about my business out loud, where everyone can hear,” he muttered grumpily.

“I wouldn’t be here at all if you conducted your business properly,” I said, taking a look around the dwelling.

Despite the warm summer day, it was cold inside with a hint of moldy moisture in the air, but the metal stove in the only room remained unlit. The tiny, cramped place with a packed dirt floor and low ceiling was illuminated by a single candle on a rickety table next to an open book and a collection of glass vials.

The old man drew a tattered blanket tighter around his hunched shoulders. “I do my work well. The surgery was a success. Your friend will please all his women once he heals.”

“How can you be so sure about his healing when you abandoned him with no means to manage the pain or to bring down the swelling after your spells?”

He shuffled over to a chipped wooden cabinet and opened one of its many drawers.

“I didn’t abandon him. I made it all the way to the gladiators’ quarters last night. They never let me in and refused to pass to my patient the ointments I brought for him.” He took out a paper wrapped bundle from the drawer and glared at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows. “But you don’t believe me, do you? Of course, what would a handsome gladiator like you know about the way warlocks are treated?”

I’d only had to deal with one other warlock before, and that was a quick and painful encounter I didn’t care to remember. But I was no stranger to being treated like dirt.

“I know more than you think.” I stretched my hand out for the parcel he was holding. With my other hand, I reached into the leather purse on my belt. Another significant difference between a slave and a gladiator was that I got paid regularly now. “Here.” I offered a coin to the warlock. “For your trouble.”

He shoved the parcel into my hand but shook his head, refusing the coin.

“It all has already been paid for. I just couldn’t deliver it.”

“It’s not a payment, then.” I placed the coin on the table, next to his short candle. “Get yourself some wood for that stove and a few more candles.”

“I don’t need charity. I have a practice.” He hiked up his chin with pride.

“It’s not a charity. Let’s make it a compensation for the poor treatment you endured at the gladiators’ quarters.”

He chuckled. “If I were compensated for every ill treatment I’ve endured, I’d be living in the palace by now.”

I knew for a fact there were no warlocks in the royal palace, and it wasn’t the matter of riches or skills.

“Good day.” Leaving the coin on the table, I hurried back into the fresh, warm air outside.