Page 80 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
Leaving Cato to mentally prepare himself for the trial after breakfast, Dru heads down to the competitor barracks for the first time, hoping the vague directions from him will get her there.
Taking the path to the Ammaliare Arena through Cato’s garden calms Dru in a way she didn’t expect. The arena will be chaos, but among his plants and tended soil, she finds peace.
It also helps that this path keeps her out of sight from the crowds of spectators no doubt flooding the arena at this very moment. She’s never performed in front of a horde of strangers before, and she wants to avoid them for as long as possible.
Once she nears the bottom, she chooses the narrower path to the right, directly beside the arena’s stone wall. There, she finds a second, smaller entrance to the arena and the set of stone steps Cato mentioned to her, disappearing beneath the earth. The bright glare of the morning sun casts the opening in empty shadows.Is this the right place?
Recognizing the muffled echoes of someone speaking, she makes her way down.
Her eyes take time to adjust to the firelight, until she finds herself surrounded by nothing but huge empty rooms and lit torches. The air is cooler here without the heat of the sun, the smell of the stone reminding her of the underground tabernae last night. She also recognizes the faint stench of sweat, piss, and shit, forcing her to breathe out of her mouth.
Listening for the sounds of what she soon realizes are Marcus’s instructions, she continues through to her right.
By the time she finds the other competitors huddled in the main gathering area, Marcus has nearly completed his presentation ofscazzottata, the Durevolian fighting style they’ll be required to use in the first trial.
“As you can see, it’s a very simple style of fighting and should be easy to follow. That’s all,” Marcus grunts, dismissing the Durevolian competitor he sparred with as an example to the others.
The Durevolian gamemaster, Ettore, steps in beside Marcus and regards them. “Any deviations from the rules set forth in this presentation will result in disqualification from the first trial, which will in turn affect your ranking on the leaderboard. Any deadly weapons smuggled in will result in your timely execution.”
The competitors mumble in agreement, some talking among themselves in small groups, others standing alone. She can’t remember seeing so many different peoples in one place. The trials have brought out competitors of all shapes and sizes—most have clearly trained for years, while others appear weakened by hunger.
Each person bears an arm band: blue for Anziano, red for the Imperium. Dru takes a blue one for herself from the pile on the table spanning the room.
Someone, likely from the palace kitchens, set out a breakfast of bread and boiled eggs. But much of it remains untouched.
Dru approaches Marcus warily, not wanting to disturb his conversation with the gamemaster. Ettore glances over at her, murmurs a few words to Marcus, and promptly leaves the barracks.
He regards her with a harder gaze than she expected, his brow laced with pain and fatigue. Standing before him, all she can think about is asking him what he planned to confess to her earlier. But she knows now’s not the time, nor are the barracks—with nearly a hundred competitors within earshot—the place.
“How do the competitors shore up?”
Marcus looks out into the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s clear which ones volunteered and which ones were chosen, I can tell you that much.”
Following his gaze, her eyes catch on the most vulnerable competitors sitting by themselves, trembling in their tunics.
She swallows her indignation. “Anyone stand out as a tough opponent?”
Grabbing a small roll of clean linen beside him, he sets to wrapping his hands.
“Many of them will be tough in their own way,” he answers. Dru takes over when he has some difficulty tying the end of his wrap. To her surprise, he doesn’t fight her on it, even when she moves on to his other hand with another roll. “It does no good to exclude someone simply because they appear docile.”
Thinking about Cato and his humming magic, she smiles as she gently ties off the second wrap, purposefully avoiding touching his skin. “There’s the prudent teacher I remember.”
She feels the weight of his gaze boring into her, but she ignores him, moving on to wrapping her own hands.
Keeping her mind busy from how close she stands next to him, she recalls a specific lesson where Marcus took the time to teach her how to use a Gladius sword. He stood directly behind her, pressing his body against hers, strong, calloused hands grasping her forearms. She hadn’t built up enough muscle at the time to wield it, but she didn’t mind. Not when the only time he would touch her was during training.
Marcus takes over at the end of the first hand-wrapping; she sucks in a short breath, leaving the memory in the past where it belongs.
Tying hers off as she did his, his fingers brush the inside of her wrist. The skin tingles long after he removes them.
Holding out her other hand, she watches his deft fingers move with each turn around her knuckles—when something flashes out of the corner of her eye. The looping mark the high priestess placed on her at the festival last night blazes red before settling back into her skin, unchanged by the dragon’s fire. In her haste this morning, she forgot to cover the symbol the same way she does her Faithless tattoo. She hopes Marcus didn’t notice it.
If he did, he doesn’t say anything to confirm or deny its appearance.
Once he ties off her hand, she looks up at him, his gaze searching hers.
“Are you ready for this?”
