While Waiting to Wake

She chewed on her lip, still holding his sleeve as she thought.

… She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to know more. Maybe she could get more magic training as well. You know, in case of an emergency, like Flint said.

And worse comes to worst, if she was good enough at either healing or magic, she could run away. Especially if he tried to sell her to someone.

Finally, she nodded.

“I’ll do it.”

Flint patted her head.

“Good. I’ll make the arrangements. Until then, just focus on settling in. And don’t give your maid a heart attack. I don’t know what I’ll do if she quits. Now off you go. Send Ralph back in.”

Was he teasing her? She couldn’t tell, since his facial expression had barely moved during the interview.

***

It took Em a moment to understand what was different.

Prince was in a small room, as usual. But it wasn't his small room.

Somewhere, she heard a roaring sound. She recognized it from movies and events she'd attended as Em. Places with big crowds and a competitive atmosphere.

She frowned and tried to walk through the door.

It was the first time she's tried to leave Prince’s side, and the result surprised her. Unlike trying to leave her body at the hospital, she wasn't yanked back. Instead, everything around her faded until there was only blackness in all directions.

Except in the direction where Prince was.

She returned to him, and her surroundings became normal again.

In the small room, Prince was sitting on a very uncomfortable-looking bench. Crouched forward on his knees and covering his head with both hands.

His hands were shaking.

What the heck was going on?!

Abruptly, the crowd noises rose, and she heard a separate voice rise above it.

“And Vulture lost! Can you believe it, folks? Who could have predicted the undefeated newcomer would lose so dramatically?”

“Prince?”

She tried to project her emotions. Concern and curiosity. But he didn't respond. She could hear his breathing becoming erratic as his panic heightened.

“Hold tight, friends. We'll be beginning the next round of newcomer matches as soon as the arena is cleared. Our coming lineup-”

Em sat next to Prince as she listened to the announcer.

“Four barbarians from the deep north. Captured when the bastards tried to raid Duke Caviet’s lands and sent by the esteemed Duke as a gift for your enjoyment. Two spyders, captured in a monster battle to the east. Five Lycan, sponsored by various nobles in the stands…”

Em racked her mind. Trying to make sense of the announcements.

None of her experiences, as either Em or Emmaline, could immediately answer the puzzle. Some sort of contest?

“And don't forget our finale! The Gloom against Scar. It should be a historic match! Vying to take the lead and a chance to win their freedom. Now to our freeman lineup…”

Win their freedom?

No way.

No way!

Was this…? Was this a gladiator event?!

She hovered her imaginary hand on Prince’s shoulder. Stomach twisting.

What should she do?

What could she do?!

First, don't panic. Second, try to get Prince to stop panicking.

Her eyes zeroed in on his hands. They were bandaged in brown soaked wrappings. Poorly wrapped, dirty bandages. He probably had to do it himself.

Injured hands wouldn't help him in a fight for his life.

Taking a deep breath, Em placed her hands over his and imagined the golden rope. Wrapping itself around Prince's hands and enveloping them.

At first he didn't realize what was going on. Too panicked to notice anything.

Then he jerked his chin up but didn't move.

For once not protesting the help.

When Em was done, Prince slowly lowered his hands to his lap and unwrapped them. Wearily, Em slumped on the bench. It was all she could do not to slide right through the seat and onto the floor.

Being a ghost was hard!

Stupid dream!

Prince flexed his healed fingers. Studying his palms for any of the debilitating blisters that had been there before.

“Thank you, Angel,” he whispered. He swallowed. “Could you… heal some of my other injuries?”

“What about not getting caught?”

Prince stared at his hands. Unaware of her question and still apparently unable to feel her.

Frustrated, Em took a deep breath as she stood up and looked Prince over. Unlike most of the other times she's seen him, he had a shirt on. Actually, he was clean and dressed in a flamboyantly colored uniform.

Costume. It was a costume.

He looked like a guard or knight or something. But in bright yellow and pink. It was an awful combination, but no one could miss him.

That was probably the point.

It didn't make it easy for her to figure out where he needed help.

Finally, she put her hands on his head and just fed him the golden rope. Forced to trust the magic or his body to know what to do with the flow of magic.

Long before she wanted to, she stumbled back and fell to the floor. A wave of dizziness and exhaustion hit her.

The walls of the little room shimmered like a heat wave.

“Thank you, Angel. I feel much better.”

He sounded calmer, too. After taking a couple of deep breaths, he tried to smile. Then frowned.

“Angel? Are you alright?”

Now he can feel me? She stuck a grumpy tongue out at him. Even that imaginary movement worsened the dizziness. The walls were no longer moving… but they were no longer there, either.

Everything was turning black.

Everything except right around Prince. She reached over, trying to touch his knee reassuringly.

Her hand went right through. She was too tired to even hover.

“Angel!”

She didn't know if he could still feel her or not. He was looking around, not knowing where to look.

“I'm… alright…”

She tried to project bursts of sunshine at him.

And didn't know if he received it before darkness claimed her.

***

Asher. His name was once Asher Wyn.

The youngest prince of Wyngarde.

Once he was the one Father had confidentially believed would become the next Guardian mage. Heir of the surname of Wyngarde itself.

All of that was now gone.

In the last three years, he thought he’d gone through every possible nightmare. Except, mercifully, outright torture.

Starvation, harassment, terror, and tears.

Today, despite knowing he couldn't afford it, he'd frozen. Memories crashed into him, taking his breath and his awareness.

Believing that today was the day he'd finally die.

Then he'd felt the warmth.

He didn't know how long it was there before it penetrated the darkness of his mind. Wrapping him in a light so tangible it almost shocked him he couldn't see it.

Then he'd become greedy. Desperate to continue feeling that light.

As soon as he calmed enough to sense it, he immediately realized Angel was in trouble. Helplessly, all he could do was try to maintain calm so he could continue to sense his invisible friend.

When the presence vanished, the only thing that didn't tip Asher back into darkness was knowing Angel wasn't panicking. Even exhausted, Angel was peaceful.

That meant nothing.

Can ghosts or angels die? He didn't think so. They were spirits of a sort, weren't they? They could be banished but not killed.

But he didn't know what Angel was. Did he just kill his only friend?

He swallowed and stood up.

The only way he'll find that out for sure was if he stayed alive. He owed Angel that much

He started stretching and warming up. And also putting himself through his uncle's routine and drills, minus the weapon. He'd been secretly practicing it ever since he was captured three years ago. But hadn't dared use it during training with the Mistress’s knights.

It was his one advantage. He couldn't risk anyone knowing too soon and preparing for it.

He'd just heard the announcer call out a Spyder as the winner, when the door handle rattled.

Asher froze.

Then he straightened up and clenched both fists at his sides. Ready to be taken away.

Except he wasn't taken away.

An unexpectedly mousy man with glasses and a hunch stepped into the room. Closing the door behind him.

For a long moment, Asher endured the man's scrutiny.

The man snorted.

“Can Lady Arnold's taste be any more gaudy?”

Asher blinked. What?

The man didn't expect a reply. Muttering under his breath, he took two steps to the side and put his bag down on the bench.

“I can't believe I have to do this. All this work for a Lycan whelp! I hope I get a big bonus. You, boy, sit.”

Asher clenched his jaw.

“No.”

The man looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“You're not my mistress or her subordinate. I don't have to obey you.”

There was a long tense moment, filled only with the announcer’s voice as she entertained the crowd between bouts. The man abruptly smirked, which only made Asher tense even more.

“Someone is paying a lot of money to fix your bouts. I've seen your stats. I have no doubt you'll make it far on your own. But if you want a near guarantee, I suggest you sit.”

“Someone is paying to cheat?”

The man snapped open his bag.

“You'd be shocked how often it happens. The gladiatorial games are as much a political arena as a warrior one. There are a few outlier competitors who defy all methods of fixing the bouts. Usually, the only slave gladiators who live are chosen from the beginning. The freemen are the ones who truly win by skill alone.”

Asher felt an icy chill spread through his stomach.

So it was a lie? They told the slaves they could earn their freedom, but in truth, that was only a farce to keep them fighting?

“How do I know you're not here to hurt me instead?”

“If I was going to do that, I would've slipped it into your meal. Not tell you the secret of a slave win.”

Asher looked unconvinced.

“Boy, I'm telling you, the arena received 40 billion zen to keep you alive until you're free. Do you need me to shoot myself first to believe me?”

“Yes.”

The man unexpectedly chuckled. “Fine. I was feeling low anyway. Sit.”

He pulled out a glass bottle and two needles from the bag. Cautiously, Asher sat and watched as the man filled each needle with half the bottle’s contents. Then he administered one to himself.

Asher clenched his fists. Not liking at all the brief look of ecstasy on the man's face.

“It's a drug.”

“For me, yes,” said the man cheerfully. “A boost of strength that could make me pass for a warrior for an hour. And only ten years off my lifespan in exchange, no matter how much I use.”

“I don't want even one year off mine.”

The man snorted.

“It doesn't make a Lycan give up lifespan, boy. Take it too long and you could lose your sanity. But you won't be taking it that long. Now, arm.”

Still, Asher resisted.

“You said this was a political move? What does my mistress have to gain from me winning?”

“I never said the player was your mistress.”

Asher narrowed his eyes. “Then who is it? What do they want?”

“I don't know. Something worth 40 billion zen.”

Asher considered. The stranger could still be lying. The drug could have a negative effect on Asher and be what kills him. Even if it helped Asher in the short run, it could still kill him.

On the other hand, if it gave him a boost as claimed, it could be what saved his life.

Asher only took a few more seconds and the announcement of the next bout to decide. He stood up and moved warily away. Shaking his head.

“No.”

The mousey man shrugged and picked up the full needle. Then shot Asher a smirk.

“Fine. It’s more fun this way.”