I blink a few times to clear my head, then pant out one word: “Sure.” Hell, at this point it’s faster to get the thanks and go home.

Finally dropping my hand, Sharkie turns to face the Arena’s main archway. “Angels and demons, the Arena fighter will be congratulated on her victory.”

An ocean of people pour onto the Arena floor, all of them dressed like they fell out of the Middle Ages. I slow my breathing and inspect the crowd. Who in blazes are these characters? They aren’t angels, demons, or ghouls. Why would they be hanging out with Verus?

A line of heralds with silver trumpets step onto the Arena floor, creating a make-shift entryway. Delicate women in brocade gowns step through, followed by sturdy men in long tunics.

Whoever these folks are, they sure take their time to do anything.

I roll my eyes. Enough ceremony. Let’s get with the congratulating so I can go home and talk Mom into making me some brownies. That fight was a bitch.

Moving past the line of heralds, two figures step onto the Arena floor, both wearing chain mail covered by formal tunics. First, I see a sturdy older man with white hair to his shoulders, a silver crown glistening on his head. Beside him walks someone younger with wavy brown hair, a muscular frame and square shoulders. Every inch of my body goes on alert.

I know exactly who these two are: Lincoln and his father.

Crap. These oddballs in medieval get-ups are all thrax. No wonder I’d never seen them before. Thrax only run around earth fighting demons. I feel like Verus is moving more playing pieces around her game-board with Armageddon, and these thrax are part of some masterstroke. My mind wheels with all the implications, but after such a crazy morning, I can’t quite process what it means.

The last herald in line lowers his trumpet, announcing in a booming voice: “King Connor and his son, the High Prince!”

My stomach swaps places with my mouth. Lincoln’s the freaking High Prince of the thrax? Thousands of eyes stare as the two men approach; a million years crawl by as the pair march across the floor.

Finally, they stand before me.

Sharkie’s voice lowers to a hiss. “Remove your mask, slave.”

Pulling the mesh away from my face, I shake my head so my auburn hair flows down my back. My gaze locks with Lincoln’s, his eyes widen the slightest fraction. The Prince speaks one word. “You.”

I start staring at his mouth again. Maybe I need therapy of some kind. “Yes, me.”

The King eyes us both for a moment, and then turns to Sharkie. “What is this girl’s name?”