Page 25 of Ash Storm

Ash

Afsan’s palace lived up to its name. Even the back entrance was sumptuous, with tall archways and graceful columns arranged in military formation.

There were three guards at that entrance. Ash noted they were all armed.

“Andrea Romano,” he said, laying on a thick Italian accent. “I’m here to fight.”

A smirk crossed the guard’s face as he checked his clipboard.

“Ah. The Roman Stallion.”

Damn you, Rogue.

As the man crossed his name off the list, Ash stretched his neck, hoping to see how many other fighters were here already. But the man was too quick putting the clipboard away.

“Leave your bag there,” the guard commanded.

“But my things—“ Ash complained, even though he’d expected something like this.

“Leave your bag there, or get out.”

“Okay, okay,” Ash said, stretching the vowels.

“Now, stand against the wall.”

“Really?” Ash smirked. Unamused, the guard slammed him against the wall before patting him down briskly.

No sense of humor.

He found the knife Ash had known they would find and took it, grumbling. It was a good knife, and Ash was sad to see it go.

“If you need it for the fight, you can get it back then,” the guard said, still looking pissed off.

Ash flashed him his best smile. “These are my best weapons,” he bragged, raising his fists.

Eventually, the youngest of the three guards led him across a courtyard and past several beautiful, manicured gardens. Leaving the main palace and the Bosphorous behind, they walked past something that looked like a greenhouse and eventually arrived at yet another courtyard, this time overlooking a smaller building.

“Those are the fighter’s quarters,” the guard said. “You’ll be assigned a room. For now …” he pointed to the courtyard, where a group of men were already gathering.

Most were training, or rather, showing off their training. One slim man wielded what looked like a freaking Samurai sword with ease. A thick-waisted boxer was pounding the living daylights out of a bag hanging from a metal stand.

“Your bag will be delivered to your room.”

“Thank you,” Ash said politely, turning to watch the guard leave. He felt the stares of several men on the back of his head.

Time to dance.

The more they feared him, the less he’d have to hurt them later.

Ash turned to look at the closest man, a ruddy-faced freckled fellow who didn’t look like he was a day over eighteen. “Hai un problema?” he growled.

In response, the boy spit on the ground—inches from Ash’s feet.

“Careful,” Ash said. “These are my good boots.”

“Feck you,” the boy said in a thick Irish accent. The fear hidden behind the boy’s cocky stare made Ash sick to his stomach.

Ash readied his fist, steeling himself against he was about to do. Just then, an enormous man came out of the building. He wore a traditional jubba in light gray and moved like he owned, if not the palace, then at least the fighting grounds.