Page 7 of Bonded To The Arena Master

I expected something beyond the absence of conflict. That expectation belonged to a younger demon, one foolish enough to believe private desire could exist beside duty without weakening both.

The arena teaches clearer lessons.

Honor requires action, not comfort. A lord obeys the law, protects his house, and accepts the cost without asking another to carry it. Anything else invites disorder. Anything else gives rivals a place to strike.

For 10 years, I have shaped myself into exactly what my station demands.

Nothing reaches the place beneath the armor now. Neither the condemned demon’s curses nor the Matrons’ pressure disturbs it. I carry out the Council’s will, preserve my house, and require nothing beyond duty.

The emptiness remains quiet.

I call it peace because admitting otherwise would mean remembering what peace once was.

3

BEATRIX

“Lower.”

Jory lowers the drying tray by less than an inch.

“The other end.”

He adjusts it again. Three bundles of fylvek grass slide toward the edge, and I catch the nearest before it reaches the floor.

“This is why we practice with the morning harvest,” I say. “By afternoon, mishandling it would cost us half the medicinal oil.”

His anxious brown eyes move from the tray to my face. “I thought the frame needed to be closer to the brazier.”

“Closer cooks the grass.”

“The stems still look wet.”

“They are wet.”

I take one stalk and hold it beneath the blue light of the wall charm. Fine silver hairs cover its dark green surface. Clear sap glistens where Jory cut the stem.

“Fylvek dries from the outside inward. If the leaves curl before the sap retreats, the trapped heat ruins the oil.”

“How do I know when it has retreated?”

“You weigh the bundles.”

His shoulders fall. “I hoped the color changed.”

“The color changes after you ruin it.”

I return the stalk to the tray and point toward the scales. “Record the weight. Hang each bundle with space between the stems. Weigh them again after the midday bell. When they have lost one part in six, move them to the cooler rack.”

“One part in six,” he repeats.

“And wash your hands. You have rirzed on them.”

He studies the blue stains on his fingers as if they appeared through treachery.

“It is only rirzed.”

“Today.”