The Blood Tithe
The iron bells tolled like death itself.
Seris stood in the mud-caked streets of Arvane, the stolen armor chafing her skin, the weight of her sword hidden beneath the battered cloak across her back.
The line of conscripts stretched endlessly before her—boys too young to bleed, men too old to fight—each branded and sent off to die.
She was not here to mourn. She was here to kill.
“Next!” barked the steward, his branding iron hissing in the coals.
Seris stepped forward, hiding the smooth lines of her body under the bulk of stolen gear. She kept her chin low, her stance wide—trained to look like a soldier, not the witch she truly was.
“Name?”
“Seren,” she lied.
The steward barely looked at her before shoving the red-hot iron against her forearm. Pain seared through her nerves—bright, clean agony. Seris gritted her teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. Around her, others howled and whimpered like gut-shot dogs.
The sigil of the Blood Tithe burned into her flesh—a crude lion’s head swallowing the crescent moon. A perfect mark.
Perfect bait.
She yanked her sleeve down and climbed into the wagon without looking back. The wheels turned. The city gates closed. And the lambs were led to slaughter.
The journey across the Wastes broke most of the prisoners before they ever reached Velos. The heat by day boiled the marrow from their bones; the cold at night froze it solid again. The guards—brutal, silent men in black plate—tossed food into the wagons like slop for pigs.
Seris caught a glimpse of one prisoner trying to flee into the dunes. The man’s head decorated a pike before the sun had finished setting. Seris watched it all with cold eyes.
She had not come to run. She had come to bleed the Black Lion dry. Her mother’s voice echoed in her dreams: “Kill the line. End the curse. Or die trying.”
By the fourth day, the Arena of Bones loomed on the horizon— a colossal maw of stone, ancient and hungry. The crowd roared even before the prisoners stumbled through the gates.
Nobles leaned over silk-draped balconies, gorging themselves on wine and anticipation. Coins changed hands. Names were whispered. Bets were laid.
Seris licked her cracked lips, tasting blood. Good. Let them feast. They would choke before she was done.
The prisoners were shoved into the pit—barefoot, weaponless, bleeding. Across the arena, on a dais of black marble, sat the man she had come to kill.
Prince Kalen. The Black Lion of Velos.
He lounged like a predator, armor gleaming darkly, one massive hand resting on the hilt of a blade. And when his golden eyes swept across the pit—when they landed on her— Seris felt it like a physical blow.
Recognition. Challenge. Possession.
The horn sounded.
The blood tithe began at dusk.
The roar of the crowd shook the very air, filling the crumbling coliseum with an overwhelming hunger. Their cries bled into one continuous cacophony—cheering, screaming, howling for blood.
Seris stood shackled with the others—filthy, starving, half-dead slaves—beneath the black banners of Velos. The iron collar around her throat bit deep, heavy enough to bow her spine. Her chains heavy against her throat, the air thick with dust and the scent of death. Her skin was slick with the grime of the battle, her breath ragged from the fight and the brutal heat.
She’d survived the pit. Barely.
The Blood Moon hung heavy and bloated over the mountains—an omen of ruin. An omen of her.
The guards dragged the prisoners forward one by one, throwing them into the arena like cattle, letting the beasts tear them apart. Seris didn’t flinch as screams split the night.
She barely even blinked when blood rained down on the sand. She was waiting. Waiting for the Black Lion. Waiting for her moment. Waiting to burn this fucking kingdom to the ground.
Chaos exploded around her—screams, blood, the sick wet sound of steel punching through flesh.
Seris ducked a wild swing from a boy barely old enough to shave, slamming her fist into his throat. He crumpled with a gurgle. Another came at her, wielding a broken spear.
She moved fast—fast enough to dodge, not fast enough to avoid the ragged edge raking across her ribs. Pain bloomed. Hot. Blinding.
The magic buried deep in her bloodline stirred, thrumming under her skin. No, she snarled inwardly. Not yet.
But when a brute three times her size roared and charged, Seris had no choice. She unleashed it. The air around her cracked.
The brute’s body lifted from the ground—smashed against the arena wall with a sickening crunch. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Blood dripped from Seris’s fingers as she straightened, eyes locked on the dais. On the Black Lion.
Kalen rose to his feet, his expression unreadable. He stepped onto the balcony above the killing pit, black armor gleaming like oil, golden eyes burning like suns. No crown sat on his head—he didn’t need one.
He pointed a gauntleted hand at her. “That one,” he said, voice carrying over the arena. “Bring her to me.”
Hands seized her—grimy, brutal. She didn’t fight. Not yet.
The time for fighting would come. They dragged her across the sand, through the iron gates, up winding corridors that stank of blood and piss and old death. The world narrowed to pain—the bite of iron cuffs, the sting of rough hands, the heat of a thousand burning eyes. The humiliation didn’t touch her. She’d been through worse. She’d been made to bleed for less.
And above it all, the Black Lion watched her.
Watched her like prey.
At last, they flung her down at the foot of the black dais. The court buzzed like flies over a fresh carcass. Kalen descended from his throne, his steps measured, slow, deliberate. His dark armor gleamed with each step, the sound of his boots a staccato beat against the stone.
When he reached her, he didn’t speak. Instead, he circled her, sizing her up as if she were nothing more than a thing to be observed. He simply walked a slow, brutal circle around her, studying every inch of her bloodied, defiant body. Seris bared her teeth in a bloody grin.
“Like what you see, Lion?” The crack of his hand across her face snapped her head to the side.
The crowd gasped. Seris laughed. Low. Bloody. Defiant.
She should kill him now. Drive a dagger through his ribs. End the curse before it tightened its noose.
“You’ll learn respect, bitch,” Kalen said, his voice rough with a primal growl.
Seris wiped the blood from her lips and laughed softly. “I’ll learn nothing from a butcher playing at king,” she spat. Another blow. Harder. The sting exploded across her cheek, rattling her teeth, making her vision blur for a second.
The taste of blood flooded her mouth, but Seris still smiled. Because every blow, every humiliation, every drop of blood— it brought her closer to her goal. Closer to the cursed bond simmering under her skin.
Closer to him.
Kalen grabbed the chain around her throat and yanked her to her knees. The crowd howled approval. Seris stared up at him, hate and hunger warring in her gut. He leaned down, so close she could smell the leather and blood on him.
“You’ll crawl,” he said.
“You’ll beg.”
“You’ll bleed for me.”
Seris smiled sweetly. “Make me.”
His golden eyes flared. The chain tightened. And Seris laughed again— because she knew something he didn’t.
She wasn’t kneeling because she was weak.
She was playing the long game. He yanked her upright—too hard, bruising. He dragged her against his body—armor to bare flesh—and dipped his mouth to her ear. The crowd roared, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a blade.
“You’ll wish you’d died in the arena,” he murmured, voice like smoke and steel.
Seris smiled—slow, bloody, wicked.
“I doubt it,” she whispered back.
And with that, his fury snapped. His lips crashed down on hers in a brutal kiss, teeth and blood mingling, as if he could taste the rebellion on her tongue. He kissed her as though he meant to destroy her, devour her, crush her into submission.
And still, Seris kissed him back, defiant, hungry. This was her game. Her rules. And it was only just beginning.
He pulled away, his golden eyes glinting with something darker now—something closer to possession. The crowd roared as Kalen threw back his head and laughed—a wild, savage sound. The Black Lion had claimed his prize. He didn’t need her to submit. Not yet. But he needed to break her. And he would.
But in the deep recesses of her mind, Seris was already making plans. She was patient. She was ruthless. She would make him bleed before it was over.
And the world would burn for it.
Next: The Arena of Bones — The first true domination begins.
