Excerpt from Khyven the Unkillable:

Chapter One

Khyven

Two knights threw open the door of the tavern, and the scent of last night’s rain blew in with them. Khyven heard their boots thump on the rough planks, heard the creak of leather and clink of chainmail as they shifted. He sat with his back to them, but he didn’t need to see them to know where they were.

The room went silent. This dockside drinking hole didn’t see knights very often, and their appearance had rendered the entire place speechless. That was respect. That was what being a knight meant in the kingdom of Usara.

They paused just inside the threshold, perhaps hoping to spook the fearful, but Khyven wasn’t a jumper. He had more in common with the newcomers than those who fled from them.

Ayla, the pretty barmaid sitting across from him, looked past Khyven, her eyes wide. She had been a lively conversationalist a moment ago and he’d been daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss those lips.

Now she looked like an alley cat who’d spotted an alley dog. Reflexively, she stood up, the wooden stool scraping loudly on the floor. She froze, perhaps realizing belatedly that when the powerful—the predators—were in the room, it was best not to draw attention to yourself.

Khyven heard the metallic rustle of the fighters’ chain mail and Ayla’s face drained of color. He envisioned the alley dogs turning at the sound, focusing on her.

She needn’t have worried. They weren’t here for her or any other patron of the Mariner’s Rest. They were here for Khyven.

He had killed a man in the Night Ring two days ago, and not just any man—a duke’s son. The entitled whelp had actually been a talented swordsman, but his ambition had outstripped his skill. And the Night Ring was an unforgiving place to discover such a weakness.

After Khyven had run the boy through, Duke Bericourt had sworn revenge. No doubt he had been waiting for an opportunity to find Khyven alone, vulnerable, to send in his butcher knights.

Men like these, sent to enforce a lord’s will or show his displeasure, were called butcher knights. Usually of the lowest caste—Knights of the Steel—butcher knights didn’t chase glory on the battlefield or renown in the Night Ring. They were sent to do bloody, back-alley work at their lord’s bidding.

Khyven took a deep breath of the smoky air, sipped from the glass of Triadan whiskey, and enjoyed the fading burn down his throat.

The booted feet thumped to a stop next to his table.

“Khyven the Unkillable?” One of the men spoke, using Khyven’s ringer name—the flamboyant moniker the crowd had laid upon him.

Khyven glanced over his shoulder. Indeed. He had guessed right. The pair were Knights of the Steel.

There were three castes of knights in Usara: Knights of the Sun, Knights of the Dark, and Knights of the Steel, which was the lowest caste and the only one available to most lords. The pair wore chainmail shirts instead of full plate, conical steel caps with nose guards instead of full helms, and leather greaves and bracers.

As predicted, they wore Duke Bericourt’s crest on their left shoulders.

There was a code of honor among knights—even butcher knights. Except in cases of war, civility was required before gutting a man, especially when there were onlookers. Often a knight would give a flowery speech—including the offense he’d been sent to address—before drawing weapons. This was enough to justify murder.

Sometimes there was no flowery speech, but a knight would always at least say their victim’s name. If the victim acknowledged their name, that was all it took to bring out the blades.

Khyven didn’t give them the satisfaction. He took another sip of his whiskey and said nothing.

“Did you hear me?” the knight demanded, his hand touching his sword hilt.

If Khyven had been a normal ringer—a caged slave thrown into the Night Ring to slay or be slain for the sport of the crowd—these men would probably have forgone their code of honor and drawn their swords already.

But Khyven wasn’t just any ringer. He was the Champion of the Night Ring, and the king had afforded him special privileges because of that fact, like a room at the palace. Khyven had survived forty-eight bouts, the longest string of victories since…

Well, since Vex the Victorious had claimed fifty, won a knighthood and become the king’s personal bodyguard.

Steel scraped on steel, bringing Khyven back to the present. The second knight drew his dagger and placed it against Khyven’s throat.

Ayla gasped and backed away.

“You think you’re protected,” the second knight growled in Khyven’s ear. “You’re not.”

Of course, if Khyven didn’t acknowledge his name, there were other ways for the butcher knights to start the fight. If Khyven attacked them, for example, they could retaliate. The powerful could always push a victim into a corner when they needed to. That’s what the powerful did. Khyven had learned that long ago.

That was why, when Khyven had won his fortieth bout and his freedom from the Night Ring, he’d continued fighting, risking his life in every bloody bout. For the prize at the end of ten more bouts. For the power that would come with it.

When Khyven won his fiftieth bout, he would be elevated to knighthood, just like Vex the Victorious. And no one would look at him as a victim again.

The blade broke the skin, just barely, and a bead of blood trickled down Khyven’s neck. His pulse quickened. The familiar euphoria filled him, the rush of pleasure that came with the threat of death.

The euphoria brought vision, and Khyven saw with new eyes, his battle eyes. He saw his foe’s strengths and weaknesses as a swirling, blue-colored wind.

“You are Khyven the Unkillable,” the man breathed in his ear.

Khyven chuckled.

The second knight’s face turned red. He slashed—

But Khyven was already moving.

He shoved his palm against the man’s fist, arresting the strike. The blade nicked Khyven’s neck, but that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t nearly enough…