Crownfall

TW/CW: allusions to child neglect, off-screen death, attempted psychological abuse, and attempted verbal abuse.

“They hated us before they even knew us.”

Our entire legacy was gone in a night.

For Phoenix, it might’ve been easier. I wasn’t sent away to the Northern borders on military camp. I wasn’t gifted enough to master six knives within a month. I wasn’t deemed powerful enough to need protecting, taken away from the Elders’ wrath.

I don’t say more, because I was not there. I was blamed for it all. What a coincidence that the nobles who had borne a fire-wielding son had died in a raging fire, they’d said.

Blake Veyra, it’s all your fault.

My head bumps against the door as I enter the dimly-lit carriage. The door barely works and the wallpaper is peeling, but the Elders apparently did not see a need for better. They did not see a need for anything, really. Not for us, anyways.

“Remember,” Phoenix says, sitting across from me. “I hate your guts.”

It’s probably an exaggeration, but she has every reason to.

“I know,” I reply, because there is truth in her statement, even if she pretends otherwise.

The carriage shudders almost ominously, and she flicks one of her knives, steel glinting in fractured sunlight. Probably Vengeance. Or Sibling Issues. My hands stay empty, apart from the small satchel I was handed. There’s no point in fighting, not when we’re so close to the Arena, and weakening ourselves before we even meet our competitors.

It’s not as if they just deliver food straight into your hands, but we are not the only ones who know how to hunt. The others hunt more than Šaelvan and Thessryn-birds. When food is low, there have been records of Giftless going missing.

I am worse than Giftless, but another body gone missing would not be out of order.

A life is not equal to another here. Assassins team up and take down weaker teams, but there is always one that destroys their allies from the inside. It is the same as the all-consuming poisons my sister excels in, slowly rotting away entire armies.

“The Elders are not the only ones who can poison minds,” I say.

“No,” she replies, “They are not. But we are better.”

I agree with her statement, but do not say so. Her ego’s already inflated enough.

The carriage jolts, and crawls to a stop. It’s painstakingly slow. A girl about my age, if not a little younger, steps inside and flinches at the spider in the corner. Her brown eyes dart around the carriage nervously, as if the guards would reappear at any moment. Another farm worker accused of theft. I almost pity her.

She glances at Phoenix sitting across from me, all sharp edges and darkness and metal, and slides in next to me, mumbling an apology as she kicks my foot. I shuffle over and turn my gaze to the window, silently admiring the Senrael blossoms drifting from the undergrowth. Their scent is sweet and salty at the same time, reminding me of the dark water-grasses we imported from Thaloryn when I was younger.

There is a reason I don’t like making small talk with people. It’s so damn awkward because what the hell are you meant to say when they ask how you’re doing? “Fine, thanks” doesn’t quite make the cut. Neither does “Oh, you know, just the usual.” Phoenix sighs as if she knows what I’m thinking, after all. I can’t go around saying that everyone thinks I murdered my parents when I was a kid. If my supposed criminal activity hadn’t gotten me arrested so far, that surely will.

Outside the window, Zaevir trees and water-grasses thin out into smoother roads and sparse night-berry bushes. We are nearing the border yet again, and from there, the infamously beautiful Sesz Isles. Despite its name, the Isles are hardly true islands, considering the thin land bridge that connects them to the Ashen Cradle.

We rattle onwards across the land bridge, which is also held together more by enchantments and stone supports than actual land. The gates open, we move forward, close, and the next carriage is verified, before the process is repeated. I briefly consider setting the entire thing on fire, but this is literally a line of tinder boxes disguised as carriages passing through heavy metal gates. The outcome would be, needless to say, catastrophic at best.

Moving on from this line of thought, I contemplate the arena instead. It’s large, obviously, but what about the structures inside? Could Phoenix and I find an underground bunker to use? They’re easy to defend, even if they’re smelly. Or maybe hide in the ruins. I know she’ll find us somewhere safe, if that place exists. The jerky, uneven motions of our carriage tell me that we are nearing the entrance now, where we will be dumped in, along with everyone else from Veyrien and Thaloryn.

The bloodbath will start in under a minute, if not less, once everyone gets their bearings. Some of us are randomly given supplies, like me, and we are obviously meant to be easy targets. If my sister has my back, we can hopefully salvage or trade for useful items, and gather Crowns.

Our carriage enters the gates and unceremoniously rolls - well, creaks, to a stop. The door is finally unlocked and we step out, the Veyra twins and the farmhand. I step out, feeling the full force of the disorienting Southern heat that I was not prepared from. I see the other ‘competitors’ from Veyrien, mostly dark-haired like Phoenix and I. We step out and the farm girl separates from us, presumably to get higher up and safer from the crossfire. I almost follow her.

The gongs sound, and the arena becomes alive. As I dive for a sword someone dropped, hoping not to cut my finger on the edge, I hear my sister. Always right behind me, watching my back.

“You will not survive this arena, dear brother,” she states.

The knife twists in my back moments later.