Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

Up until now, the soldiers have seemed relatively docile. Marching day after day in perfect formation and setting up camp every night.

But this is like peeking behind the curtain to witness their viciousness, as if I’m seeing what lurks behind the glass. These men are trained fighters, and the excitement of the crowd shows how strong their bloodlust and penchant for violence really is.

A sharp whistle cuts through the din, immediately ceasing the fighting. My gaze finds the source for the noise, zeroing in on Osrik.

He’s standing at the front of the crowd, just outside of the fighting circle. Legs spread wide, massive arms crossed in front of him, his face is stony and authoritative. I know instantly that he’s running this show.

He says something to the fighters, making all eight of them walk out of the circle, some limping, others bleeding. Their bare chests are riddled with the marks they’ve sustained, cheeks pink from the cold, lips swollen from punches. But they grin. Actually grin, like tearing each other apart is fun for them.

I think this army needs a new hobby.

Hojat is down there, flitting around with his satchel, eyeing the injuries. He starts applying ointments and bandages to the wounds while the men clap each other on the backs and trade insults, the crowd tossing over taunts and applause.

I’m about to turn away, since I have no desire to watch people get hurt for entertainment, but right as my foot lifts, I see Osrik point to the crowd, picking new fighters.

My mouth drops open when the young serving boy, Twig, gets picked. Floppy brown hair, brown leathers that don’t quite fit him, he looks lanky and small, a stick amidst all the rough and gruff men. That’s probably how he earned his moniker.

Twig walks into the fighting circle and strips off his leather coat and shirt, tossing them in the snow. His bare, skinny chest makes him stand out even more than before. My hands curl into fists as the crowd cheers, while Twig shifts nervously on his feet.

Osrik seems to debate for a moment, and then chooses another fighter from the crowd. The man has blond hair that’s as yellow as a mustard plant and sticks out like a sore thumb. Nothing that bright and colorful belongs in this barbaric display.

His body is lithe and tall, but his slim build doesn’t matter. He’s still a grown ass man with muscles, age, and experience. He has no business fighting a child.

Before I know it, my legs are carrying me down the slope of the snowy bank. Then I’m slipping past tightly packed bodies, shoving, ducking, using my smaller stature to my advantage in order to squeeze through the crowd.

I reach the front just in time to see the yellow-haired man toss an elbow into the boy’s belly. The force of it takes the breath out of Twig, making him bend in half like...well, like a snapped twig.

Anger floods my vision until I’m submerged in a sea of red.

Twig brings his arms up to protect his head, trying to block a set of sharp, quick jabs. The mustard-haired man grins, like this amuses him. The air is tight with thrill from the crowd as they shout, their voices indistinguishable.

My ears burn with every violent encouragement.

Before Mustard can land another hit, I stalk forward and enter the fighting circle. Without hesitation, I implant myself in front of Twig, facing down the soldier with a furious glare.

Chapter 23

AUREN

The mustard-haired man jolts to a stop right before he would’ve struck me. His eyes widen as he drops his fists and looks around, like he’s searching for a reason for my sudden appearance.

The crowd jeers in confusion and irritation, their hoarse heckles flinging at me like slaps against my back.

Up close, I can see that Mustard is older than I first thought—his clean shaven jaw giving him a boyish look. But in his eyes, you can see the truth of a hardened warrior.

“Leave the boy alone,” I demand, and I’m impressed at how strong I manage to keep my voice, that it doesn’t crack under the pressure.

“Erm… What?” Mustard says, mouth gaping.

A sharp whistle sounds, and then Osrik is striding up. His damn body is so big I can practically feel the ground tremble every time he takes a step. Or maybe that’s just me shaking in my boots.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, stopping in front of me.

I lift my chin. “Stopping this. I won’t let you have a boy pummeled for your soldiers’ entertainment.”

Osrik’s mouth opens, the wooden piercing in his bottom lip shifting, the

vein at his temple pulsing with irritation. “Excuse me? Who the fuck do you think you are?”