Fate of the Mage (Skyelorn Chronicles #3)

The Girl By the Well

The Sieving arena buzzed with a renewed vigor in the week following the Empress's announcement and Sabin's promotion. Where the games had previously been held at random throughout the day, there was now a rolling schedule of competitors so that hardly any amount of time passed without a spectacle to watch.

Because of this, the palace halls were crowded day and night with local spectators, and no matter where you were on the grounds you could hear screams and jeers.

The Empress's soldiers had the unrewarding job of traveling into neighboring towns and villages to collect all of the young Mages who were of the Sieving age, while Sabin was busy forming the lineups at the palace and recording who was to be admitted into the royal army. Every night he went to bed with new names running through his head on an endless loop, victors and losers alike. Their faces blended together, though.

"Why the long face, Archduke?" Jon growled, snapping him out of an exhausted daze. "Miss hearing your name on the tongues of adoring fans?"

The son of House Mazeris stood shirtless behind the closed gate that led to the arena floor, and while his limbs reminded Sabin of twigs more than anything, there was a surprising amount of muscle that clung to them. He jumped back and forth on his feet, restless. Since Sabin had been so busy with the logistics of running the Sieving itself, he hadn't had much time to fight under his alias as the Reaper. In his stead, Jon had quickly become the popular champion.

Sabin told himself that he didn't really care.

He did. Quite a lot.

"I have my priorities set elsewhere," Sabin said, stock-still as he watched servants clean the remnants of the previous fight from the arena. It was a gruesome sight that Sabin had quickly gotten used to. Some of the audience members tossed rubbish down at the servants as they worked: buttery kernels of popped corn, empty cups of ale. "On a more respectable position, one might argue."

"Ooh, so self-righteous." Jon grabbed roughly onto the metal-latticed gate. The bars clanged loudly, and a few fans squealed when they caught sight of Jon. He might not have looked as impressive as Sabin in the arena, but when he used his powers, it didn't seem to matter. Jon had the ability to render his enemies immobile, and it was rare for him to lose in a confrontation.

He was significantly more insufferable outside of the arena, if such a thing was possible.

Jon's family had risen to power and wealth for mining electrum, the natural metal—nearly indestructible—that was found in the mountain underneath the palace. It formed buildings, infrastructure systems, armor, and even reinforced the hulls of airships. So, naturally, Jon acted like the entire kingdom should bow to him in thanks. Sabin certainly wasn't going to oblige him.

"You know," Jon said, licking his pointed teeth. "At first I thought you were a bastard. You came here from far away, then suddenly the Empress was obsessed with you. No family, no title. Just a piece of Karvothian dirt."

"You make me blush."

"But then, I realized. You didn't do a single thing to deserve it. You didn't earn anything. The Empress is fascinated with what you can do, not the Mage behind the magic. You're a weapon to be shaped and used. Nothing more." Jon flashed a wicked grin, one that made Sabin's hands curl into fists. "And I bet the Shadow Witch felt the same way. She used you and discarded you in an instant, then left you behind. So no matter what you try, I won't be intimidated. In fact, you should be afraid of me."

"Oh, trust me. I am." Sabin turned slightly, his gaze passing over the receding purple puffiness around Jon's eye. "By the way, you should get that bruise looked at. I think it's still pulsing."