Page 118 of Fearless

He shrugs stiffly. “I’ll see her again. One day.”

I debate scoffing at his words, because I doubt Lenny will end up wherever Blair has. But he’s suddenly spewing another sentence, this one lighter than the last. “Don’t be nervous today. You’re going to kill it.”

I groan slightly. “I’d rather not do any more killing, thank you.”

I step out into the streaming sunlight, now made all the more blinding by the dozens of crisp white uniforms reflecting it. Imperials swarm tocreate a cocoon of bodies around me as we head for the Bowl. The long path to the arena stretches before me as if to join the past with this bleak present.

The first time I walked between this row of drooping trees, it was for survival.

The second, a promise.

And now, a title.

The pink blossoms that once fell from these trees are long dead—not unlike so many other things since then. They crunch beneath my boots, a mere decaying memory. I tug my promise to Adena more tightly around me, feeling the frayed edge of what is left of her. I see the flowers beneath my feet that once littered a prince’s head, crowning him long before my brutality made him king.

My eyes wander over this tunnel of trees, each end leading me into the unknown.

Once, I risked my life for a piece of Adena.

Now, I stride toward a kingdom who doesn’t want me.

Soon, I may sacrifice myself in the hopes I mean something more in death than I did in life.

We walk in silence down the path, nothing but the sound of crunching petals passing between us. I spin the ring on my thumb incessantly, pleading with the band of steel to calm me. Lenny lingers at my side, occasionally offering a sidelong glance at my fidgeting.

But silence flees at the sight of the Bowl.

A distant rumbling grows with every step. The stomping of feet swells, followed by an orchestra of shouts and cheers. My heart beats in time, drumming in my ears as we stride into the Bowl’s menacing shadow.

My gaze lingers beside one of the many tunnels leading into that stony structure. The king’s lifeless body is long gone, the blood washed away, but the scar above my heart still sears with the memory of amud-streaked girl at the mercy of a monster. Until she became one herself.

Everywhere I look, the past lingers.

There, an Enforcer was born. Hovering over his father’s body, he threw a blade with the aim of a warrior, but the damning heart of a fool. I can still feel that knife cut through the air beside me, intention alone steering it from my flesh.

Here, he told me to run. And I did.

Right back into his arms.

Our footsteps echo off the stone tunnel now, the expanse of gray leading us into an explosion of chaos and color. This arena was once filled with Resistance members, covered in the blood of those brave enough to fight for themselves but too weak to win.

The muffled cheers of thousands grow into a gentle roar as I emerge from the surrounding stone. The sun peers down at me, forcing my hand to lift above watering eyes. Bodies pack every inch of the Bowl, and I tip my head toward the sky, following the slope of this crowded arena.

Fear seizes my heart in this familiar place. I haven’t been back in the Bowl since Adena died within it, since a piece of myself died beyond these walls. The roaring of thousands hungry for a show makes my stomach flip violently. Every fiber of my being recoils at the thought of setting foot in that arena once again.

Imperials usher me along the path as a deafening shout washes over us. The audience is craving a bloody act of brutality, and with the sudden crescendo of spirited shouts in my direction, they are likely hoping I will be the casualty.

My gaze drifts to the railing beside me, then farther still to the stretch of sand below. The last time I saw this Pit, it was streaked with Adena’s blood. My stomach lurches once again as I scan the sea of white sand for any sign of a scarlet stain.

Nothing.

All trace of her death is gone, having abandoned this place to dwell inside me. Every drop of blood, every cry for help, every moment that passes without her is etched onto my soul.

Our lap around the raised ring leads us to the glass box beside it. Kitt sits cozily within, filling the seat his father once had. And just like the king before him, those green eyes pin me to the path.

It’s like looking into the face of a ghost.

Past and present collide to create the confusing concoction that is him. Not quite his father, but not quite the boy I once knew. He tips his head, a near reflection of the man who made me a murderer. And I nod back, a mere mosaic of each jagged piece of strength and cutting recklessness it took to have me standing here once again.

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