Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1) by Rebecca Grey (electric book reader TXT) 📕

Folded messily, the scroll of paper burns a hole in my pocket. It sears its way into my thoughts throughout the night. If I had power, true power, I could enforce a punishment for the mistreatment of Purist Humans. I could fix the wrong of The Bend’s poverty.

Power has never tasted so… so promising.

It’s different from the power I usually hold. This job earns me the respect I deserve. This power rids me of the mockery that is my Human existence. The only risk… is death.

Sleep doesn’t come as easily as I wish it would. My mind weighs the pros and cons. Not to mention I still have an unfinished job. Marcello Torres. The dead man is still walking around down by the docks.

Light from the rising sun enters through my shattered window and a few cracks along the wall. It pushes away the night and along with it, the few hours I had for sleep. With a growl, I fling my thin blanket off of me and stand. As they do most mornings, the flooring and my walls glisten in the morning light, sticky with dew. The floorboards creak as I try my best to brush off the dust collecting in the cracks and folds of my leather pants.

Instead of sleeping, I’d mainly spent my night thinking or praying. I didn’t want to waste the precious time away trying to think of every Saint and form a prayer for them, however with the pressing decision now only moments away, there was no other choice. I’d started the prayers to the nicer, kinder Saints; Luck, Self-Control, Patience, Courage, Strength… and the list goes on. After them I moved on to the darker Saints, the ones I more commonly pray to; Death, Judgement, Sin, and Punishment. If any of them are bound to answer, I have no response as of yet.

Sleep still stings in my eyes. I rub away the gunk along my eyelids before I pull my mattress up, glaring at the bound notebook underneath. I don’t need to put Marcello’s name in it just yet, but if I accompany him to The Oasis Games I could kill two birds with one stone. Quite literally. Next to the journal is a small burlap pouch. I grab it, letting the mattress bounce off the floor.

Small coins chime together in my palm as I count my legends. The lifespan of this outfit is coming to an end, and I’d have to invest in something new soon. To spend the money could mean that I don’t eat. Air pushes from my lungs. I shouldn’t have to choose between eating and wearing clothes that aren’t falling apart.

Arron wanted a better world than this. I want a better world than this. I think back to my gray-haired friend, the pure Human man who found me with my slaughtered parents, shaking and cold. I had been without food for days at the innocent age of five. Innocence doesn’t last long here.

Those years feel so long ago now. Arron had been old, fragile even, his Human bones betraying the muscles he worked so hard for. He’d taken me in, brought me to Joss. He cared enough to house me, to teach me in the ways my parents no longer could, until old age finally came for him. Arron had seen humanity in my young eyes, often telling me how much he admired it. My humanity died with him when I was eleven, then there was no one to protect me from the cruelty of the Hybrids.

I shove a few legends into my pocket, a payment to Joss for my boarding and a few meals here. The paper crinkles as I push the coins down. I stare at my hand, scarred and calloused, wondering if I really have any choice at all. Staying here as I am now, that’s just as bad as risking death.

If I don’t, then what does my life even mean? I’m fighting for something, right? Even if it’s all to spite the Immortals.

Brick is exposed along my wall, anything left of the plaster, or whatever materials they used to cover them once, has fallen to a heap against the old stained tile. My every movement echoes in the space. The only things to absorb any sound are my bed and an old guitar I’m self-taught on. Even the instrument is stolen. I could never afford something like that.

Above me, the inhabitants on the next floor have already begun to stir. I have yet to bother learning their names. At this point, Joss is the only person I work with that I should be worried about. Having friends is a thought that came and went in my youth. Now at twenty-four, I’m creeping toward my mid-life. That’s assuming I make it to sixty, or even fifty.

My boots sit next to the door. Without untying the laces, I shove my feet inside. Under my toes the souls have worn away making the perfect impression of my instep. Another item that’ll be costly to replace. Hanging on the wall, my belt still holds both daggers. The dreadful pit inside my stomach that forms every time I’m without them eases when I slip it over my hips and head for the door.

The hallway isn’t lit. The barest means of electricity are too much to splice together in such an unnecessary part of the building. For most Hybrids like the Vampires or the Elves, it’s of little concern. Their perfect eyesight in both the day and night makes things like that irrelevant. Orcs and Dwarfs are worse off with their eyesight, but still under them are the Humans.

Arron had been the only other Purist Human I’d met so far in my lifetime. He’d relished the similarities we held. And it would be my