Aureate Fates

8

          THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY IS...

                                 —DREW—

The arena was the oldest building in Ziralem. Not many bothered to learn this fact, but it was one that Drew thought was important.

He also could not forget it, not just because the fact could not quite escape him, as with any fact he came across, but because the fact was slightly unnerving. There was rumored to be skeletons of children underneath this arena, ones that dated back to the beginnings of this divided country.

Skeletons that were laced in blood, still.

"Am I to call you captain, here?" Drew inquired, facing his oldest brother—once his greatest aspiration.

Erik said nothing, only shoved the considerably weighted mechanism into Drew's chest. He'd heard many scholars call this exact mechanism a pistole.

Drew closely remembered the name of the inventor. Rhoe Royale. He was a sinister man, one who created a weapon of malice. Drew fought to keep the weapon in his arms, to keep his hands from trembling.

"Do as I tell you," his brother ordered, already on his next task. The voice of a commander.

One of Erik's lackey's in the The Ghostly Five, Leroy, chuckled at Erik's coldness towards Drew. Erik snapped his attention toward him, and with one look, Leroy averted his gaze and busied himself with opening another paint tin.

Leroy had no special gifts, but he sure was good with a pistole. The chancellor capitalized on his talent for aiming.

There were two teams, and The Ghostly Five were distributed among them. Erik and Leroy would occupy Drew's team while three others would suit the other. It was an unspoken fact that Erik was counted twice, as two bodies. A man of great power, made to make others cower and bow. Drew hated it.

Erik handed Amara, their youngest teammate, a pistole. She didn't meet his eyes, and her hands shook so violently that she nearly dropped it.

"Look at me," Erik demanded, face still unfazed. Composure was something he did well. Amara slowly peered up at Drew's brother with tawny eyes.

Once Erik knew Amara was listening he said, as he rolled up his sleeves, "If you drop that weapon, I'll shoot you myself. Understand?" It might not have killed her, but the paint would certainly hurt.

Drew watched as the girl's eyes became wide as saucers. Tears began to spill, but Erik had already walked away, to greet the chancellor who sat near his father. Members of their team straightened at the threat, some even gripped their weapons tighter.

Bastard.

Casting a glare at his brother, Drew tentatively approached the trembling girl, deliberately choosing not to greet his father and the chancellor. Before he could speak, however, he caught a glimpse of Fenton on the other side of the arena.

Drew watched as he loaded the paint into his pistole with a grim set of his mouth. Marisol, Reese's friend, was beside him and doing the same, except she conversed softly with Nyall, a fair-haired healer from Blue Quarter.

Drew recognized the dangerous gleam in Fenton's face, the look of unchecked rage. He planned to never encounter him throughout the game that was about to start. Drew would stick to the walls and reside under the false trees if it meant avoiding him.

In a sudden whip of his head, Fenton met Drew's eyes. Drew became so startled by his abrupt action that the pistole clattered out of his ungainly hands. The sound echoed throughout the arena, and the chattering voices of the space slowed to a hush.