The Beast of Salt (Saga of the Gods #1)

18. Avina

18

AVINA

October 29th, Year 100, 9th Era

Treland Arena

T he roaring cheers from the Arena are deafening. Avina tries in vain to stifle the growing smile after watching Sigvid fight with his bare hands. His prowess as a warrior never ceases to amaze her.

Her heart had taken a barrage of emotions after discovering Sigvid Thordsson's true identity all those weeks ago. Ever since he nearly ravaged her in her father’s office, he has become her fantasy mystery man—the Salt warrior, whom she imagined would slay Rendel, then break down the doors of Scarwood Citadel and whisk her away to a happier place.

And then, against all odds, he does remove Rendel’s head from his shoulders. However, he left her alone in Timber to pick up the pieces.

She painted him as her mythical Salt warrior without knowing her fantasy man, and Sigvid are the same. His letters spoke to her soul, tugging at the part of her that wanted nothing more than to be loved.

To be desired.

To be seen.

Bertie’s dour opinion of her dark obsession with the Salt Prince will sober her from these thoughts. Even her father can’t help but notice her sick fixation with the Beast.

I cherished our shared moments of passion like a summer storm. Explosive, beautiful yet fleeting, leaving nothing but destruction. During those tumultuous flashes of lightning, I was the only woman alive to the only man who mattered.

What a foolish girl I was to think the Salt Prince was more than any other man, that perhaps he could see me as just Avina and not Queen Avina of Timber, Rendel’s wife.

Her childish notions of a happily ever after are long dead, buried with the marriage accord she uncovered as a child. The same document that fueled her fascination with him in the first place.

Now she knows it must have been a mistake. A draft of a life that will never be, with a man whose sole focus is on blood and pussy.

She slips from her box seat to escape to the inn before the madness of the crowd swamps the halls.

Not a soul wanders the outer corridors of the Arena as she treks to the main floor from the lower viewing seats. A glance through the arched open windows into the ring shows the other combatant’s body carefully removed.

She turns her gaze toward the front doors.

How fast would the inn staff draw a hot bath with extra lavender salts?

She is debating which book to reread in her bath when she stops dead in her tracks.

Samson?

Duke Samson Manchineel leans against one of the ticket windows, chatting away with an Arena worker as if they are old pals.

She glances at her escape options when he spots her and zeroes in.

His hand slicks back his perfectly windswept hair. “There she is!”

He advances on her as if they are long-lost friends. Only when he is halfway to her does he catch his presumption and respectively bows to his Queen.

“What are you doing here, Samson?”

What the actual shit are you doing here, Samson ?

“After we announced our engagement to the public, I have not heard a word from you. It’s been almost a week. I hope you are not avoiding me.” He reaches out to clutch her upper arm, but she rolls her shoulder so he grasps the air.

She swallows, recalling their last interaction at her newly opened animal sanctuary. Samson’s theft of the would-be proud moment left her shattered into a million pieces. She would not have given him a second thought had her Council not immediately warmed to the idea and commenced planning his coronation.

Of course, I am avoiding you. If I could get away with drowning you in the South Sea, I would shove you off the cliffs this moment!

“Let me use the powder room, and then we can speak.” Fuming, she darts away before he can utter another word.

Once in the confines of the public washroom, she splashes cold water on her face and glimpses into the mirror. Deep blue eyes stare back at her, filled with terror and fury. The thought of returning to the Timber Province as Samson’s wife makes her want to end her existence.

How did he find me?

No one except Bertie knew about her fixation with the Beast, and he is somewhere in the Arena escaping his personal drama.

Are others watching her movements?

No matter what happens next, she adamantly refuses to return to that life where a male member of the Manchineel line rules her every move.

After ensuring she is alone, she locks herself in one of the private stalls. She settles on the floor, rocking back and forth to stimulate herself while considering all her solutions.

Returning to Scarwood is out of the question until she can undo the faux engagement and that subsequent mess. But there is Nellie to consider.

There is always the possibility of abandoning everything in favor of a cabin in the woods with her cat.

And then a thought strikes her.

She can turn invisible and slip out to the inn. Before running into the woods, a quick change into peasant clothes could guarantee anonymity. Then she can go home to the Ridge. Her father would talk sense into the Council and Samson—whom he’d loathed for as long as she could remember.

Escape seems much more possible.

She quietly undresses until she is unnervingly naked. An annoyance of her power that always left her more vulnerable than she felt necessary. She crosses her arms over her bare chest, staring at her busty form in the mirror and wishing she was curvy in the right way.

If she looked more appealing, perhaps Rendel would not have been so cruel.

Perhaps Samson would have held more respect for her.

Perhaps Sigvid… she twists her head away from the mirror to hide the shame of her secret affection.

“Thordsson’s type will only destroy you. You are a conquest. Entertainment for his sick, twisted little mind.” her father's words sear through her mind.

She considers Samson standing outside, waiting to use her to take the Timber throne. Her skin crawls at the thought, urging the trickling sensation until her body is entirely invisible. Trembles shake her body as she slips back to the ticket booths.

How eerie this feels .

She stares directly at Samson, but he cannot see her. He taps his foot, glancing over his shoulder.

Boldly, she slips around him, a thrill riddles under her skin, knowing his gaze cannot find her.

Her bare feet pad across the stone floor toward the front doors when nearly twenty Arena guards rush the hall, flattening her to the outer wall.

“What is the meaning of this?” Samson demands as if his title means anything at the Arena.

“Apologies, sir, there is a situation outside. No one may leave.”

Avina slips around the sentries and down the steps two at a time. As she approaches the arched doorways, she observes a battle raging across the path leading to the main road.

She squints and can see the Arena emblem stitched across less than half the fighters. The majority wear ragged leather armor and fur and bear no loyalties .

Quicker than she thought possible in bare feet, she runs back up the stairs and around to the darkened staircase furthest from the gathering crowd of spectators.

Under any other circumstance, this staircase would be off-limits to anyone outside the Arena because it leads directly to the combatant holding level.

There must be an exit on the lower level I can use.

Body odor and wails welcome her as she enters the Arena's lowest level. She claps a hand over her mouth to stop herself from retching at the stench.

To her left is the first corridor. A few closed doors line the way, which leads to a bright light illuminating a portcullis.

That must be one of the combatant gates .

She trudges onto the next corridor, bearing rows and rows of cages holding an array of animals, from chickens to bears. On the right, a smooth wall continues, curving away from the combatants' unsettling noises.

I hate that I have been here before.

She drapes her arms around her midsection despite her invisibility.

The outer wall wraps around until she finds her exit leading directly to the South Sea coast. She throws it open with all her might to reveal a stormy sky overtop of a large man and a petite, intense-looking woman dressed in the Salt Province garb of leather and fur. They snap their attention to her as the door slams against the outer wall.

Realization threatens to drown Avina as she silently faces off against them, even if they cannot see her.

Those warriors around the front bear the same armor as these. They are all from Salt.

No, this can’t be.

Salt soldiers would bear the nautilus if they represented the region. None of these warriors have an emblem.

If they are not from the province army, that can only mean they are Sigvid’s Drengr.

She heaves as the cold air continues to slap at her naked form.

His two-hundred-strong army held the fiercest men and women out of the province. No one on these Endless Shores rivals their strength of arms. And all two hundred swore a blood allegiance to Prince Sigvid alone.

Not King Thrain.

Not the Salt Province.

And now they have come for their Prince.

She feels that familiar tightening in her throat and a sudden sensation as if she is floating above her body, looking down upon it. Her life will surely be forfeit–and not quickly–if they discover that Queen Avina is within their grasp.

She has read stories of warriors getting their hands on enemy Kings and shivers at the thought.

I will remain invisible as long as I need.

A heartbeat passes, and then another as the two Drengr stare at seemingly nothing. She releases her hold on the handle, letting the door slam shut.

No one has ever escaped in Treland Arena's history, and no fight outside of the ring is ever political. She is safe in the holding cells.

No one can escape Treland Arena.

Right?

Avina runs the length of the corridors filled with hundreds of cells until she dead ends into a stone wall, signaling the end of her search for a hiding spot.

Diving to the left, she finds the final sets of cells. Each is much nicer than the others and includes four solid walls instead of exposure to adjacent cells. The only window is a group of bars higher up on the door. Looking through, she sees each furnished with a cot, blanket, pillow, and rug.

These must be the cells for sponsored fighters.

Why is all this familiar?

Oh yeah, I stumbled down here while I was drunk to tell Sigvid off, and he devoured me like a god.

Good going, Avina.

Which means his cell is nearby.

Somehow, that knowledge calms her more than anything else. Hiding outside his cell still seems the safest location. At least, for her, it will be .

Now, her footsteps are more intentional. She will hide at the end of Sigvid’s corridor until the battle ends. Along her way out, she will knick clothes and then sneak out through the backdoor.

When she reaches the end of the row, she approaches two sealed doors. The first looks lived in, with no one inside. A shiver runs up her spine as she realizes this is the cell of the previous Champion.

The one Sigvid just defeated.

Which means the final cell belongs to the Salt Prince.

Her heart now beats as if it is determined to leave her chest. Each step closer brings excitement between her legs despite her near-crippling fear of being discovered.

She slaps her cheeks in an attempt to gather her senses.

He is a dangerous war criminal, no matter how warm his gaze felt on mine. I must tread carefully here.

Standing on her tiptoes, she peers through the bars to find Prince Sigvid Thordsson.

The broad-shouldered warrior hunches on his cot while he sharpens the axes she designed for him. His armor still clings to his chiseled muscles like a second skin. His russet braid and beard are both frizzed and coated in dirt. She gasps, drinking in his rugged features, coated red with blood.

He looks like a god.

Either hearing or sensing her presence, his head snaps up.

She hunkers down, pressing her back against the stone wall.

Everything from that erotic night came flooding back in a fury of shame and arousal. The tightness of the cold chains against her body. How drunk she was on that damn wine. His touch was like lightning across her skin. Even more than the sexual connection they ignited was the sensual caress of his words. No matter how dirty or degrading they were.

Resigning to pass the time quietly, she slides to the ground and stretches her legs out in front of her. She can hear the satisfying strike of metal on metal from inside his cell as he sharpens his blades. Laying the back of her head against the wall, she lets her eyes flutter to a close.

This is my life now. I am running from my father, Samson, and the entire bloody country. Perhaps if the warriors unlock Sigvid’s door, he will end my miserable existence with the axes I had crafted for his hands.

The thought feels terrifying, yet a rare peace washes through her mind at the notion of joining her Goddess rather than living a life everyone wishes would be swapped for someone better.

Her father always wanted a son. Rendel wanted a beautiful, fertile woman. Samson wants someone pliant. Sigvid wants her to die.

Perhaps it was the comfort she felt at distancing herself from Samson or the far-off breathing of Sigvid, but a cooling sensation slid over her skin.

She relaxes too much and allows her power to wear off.

Oh no.

As if the moment cannot get any worse, an eruption of shouts and clanging metal sounds from deeper in the lower bay. Heavy footsteps echo closer to her hiding spot.

She jerks to her feet. Where can she go? There are empty holding cells along the hallway. Hiding in one until the Drengr left logically is a good idea.

She tears down the grimy hall until she runs smack dab into the same two guarding the side door.

All of her fears spiral into a horrible reality.

They are here for their Lord Commander.