The Bound (Ascension #2)(83)

“What is this exactly?” Cyrene asked.

She watched the two men rush toward each other. Their swords savagely collided. The last time Cyrene had seen this happen, it hadn’t been for sport. It had been deadly. Just watching it made bile rise in the back of her throat.

“The soldiers put on a display in the arena,” Brigette explained. “It’s tradition and the primary way to move up in rank.”

“Do people…die?”

“Sometimes,” Alise said dismissively.

“But they shouldn’t, if they’ve been training,” Brigette said.

“I see.” Cyrene tried to ease up.

Things were different here, but that didn’t make them wrong. The soldiers who fought for rank and royalty considered it sport. The clothing was practically see-through and put her dresses back in Byern to shame in the modesty department. Their people were more affectionate. She had noticed that as well. Maybe Dean’s kiss hadn’t meant anything after all.

“Ah…you’re just in time,” Brigette said with a smile.

One of the swordsmen in the sand pit won by pinning the other to the ground with a sword placed precariously close to his heart. He’d yielded, and the other was named the victor. They ambled out of the arena, and then the next two soldiers were brought out.

These men were different than the last two. Cyrene could see it as soon as they walked out. Their steps were more measured, more precise. Their bodies—Creator help me—were more toned and built. She could see the definition in their chest and abdominal muscles. Their legs were like tree trunks, solid and sturdy. Their arms looked like they’d been carved out of stone.

Cyrene’s gaze snapped up to one of the soldier’s faces, and she jolted backward. “Creator,” she breathed in disbelief. “Is that…Dean?”

Alise cocked her head to the side. “Did he not tell you he was competing today?”

“He’s a soldier?” Cyrene asked, confused.

“It’s tradition for Eleysian princes to join the military. If he wins today, he’ll be instated as captain.”

Everything seemed to click into place at once. It explained so much about him, like how he had survived a Braj attack and nearly taken down Kael. He had been born with a sword in his hand and grown into a man with it affixed there.

And she was watching him compete…mostly naked.

Her eyes burned, and she wanted to look away, but she also wanted to keep watching. She felt as if she shouldn’t see him like this when everyone believed they were romantically involved. Yet Alise had brought her here for a reason.

The pair in the sand faced each other, each holding his sword as if it were an extension of his arm. They were the weapons, deadly and unyielding. The sword in their hand was just the tool at their command.

Without knowing what she was doing, Cyrene leaned forward in her seat, anxiously waiting for the fight. Perhaps there was a thing or two to this sport.

A man flagged for them to begin, and then they were a blur of practiced steps. Their moves were synchronized, as if in a dance that they both knew to perfection. Swords swung and arced. They clashed together, ringing over the crowd who cheered with each thrust, block, strike, and parry. It was mesmerizing.

The other man seemed to get the upper hand and forced Dean backward. Dean dodged the blade and then rolled in the sand pit, grunting when his injured shoulder collided with the ground at an irregular angle.

Dean stood from his roll. He was cradling his hurt shoulder, the one Kael had sliced through, making it clear to his opponent that it was his weakness.

Cyrene almost couldn’t watch what happened next.

The man lunged for Dean, thinking he had Dean now. But Dean pivoted at the last minute and swung down with all his might, and the sword went flying from his opponent’s hand. He whirled around and drove his sword toward the man’s chest, stopping just before impaling him with the deadly weapon.

As they stared at each other, their chests heaved. They were slicked with sweat from the exertion of the activity in the hot, humid Eleysian air. The other man should have surrendered by now, but he just lay there, glaring at Dean.

“Call it,” Dean commanded.

“Take the final blow.”

Dean pressed the sword against the other man’s chest, and Cyrene thought he was going to kill the man, but he stopped.

“Creator, Rob, just call it.”

Cyrene was tense as she watched on with the rest of the crowd. “What’s happening?”

“If Robard doesn’t call the game, then Dean must finish in proper fashion,” Alise explained.

“Which means?”

“Kill him.”

Cyrene gasped.

“Do it, Princeling,” he taunted.

Dean shook his head. Then, he swung his sword, ready to take off Robard’s head. Robard didn’t even flinch. He just waited for the killing stroke. But, at the last second, Dean threw his sword down into the sand pit.

“I call,” Dean said.

The crowd jeered and booed.

Robard smirked at Dean, stood, and held his head high. Cyrene had the distinct impression that Robard had planned for this all along.

“If I have to kill my own brother in arms, then I would rather forfeit,” Dean said.

Another man walked out into the sand pit, dressed in a black uniform with a blue Eleysian royal crest on his breast.