Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
FINLAY
She glares at Finlay like she’s already buried him in an early grave.
He knows Rhea hates him. He knows she would do nearly anything to see his head on a platter—a blade protruding from his chest. He knows and doesn’t care. Not even a little.
He hates her, too.
Hates her mixed blood. Hates her low status. Hates what he sees when he looks at her.
A low growl rattles in his throat before he glances at Draven, who is seething in a silent fury, making him entirely too unpredictable. Entirely too dangerous.
All bets are off when it comes to Rhea. It’s always been that way, and Finlay suspects it always will be.
“Did you know?” Draven asks, his eyes remaining glued to his father.
“I already told you,” Finlay mutters pointedly. “Yes, I knew Bathara was going to begin conscripting wielders, but I had no idea they were conscripting her. Frankly, I don’t even know how they became aware of her or her magic.”
“I do,” Draven murmurs with such bitter resentment, it even takes Finlay aback. He watches as Draven wraps his fingers around the railing enclosing their corner, his knuckles going white. Black stains slowly splotch his skin, creeping along his veins.
Finlay puffs out his cheeks and looks to Kiran, hoping he’ll say something to calm Draven down. Yet Kiran’s face remains pale, as if he’s just seen a ghost. His unblinking eyes watch Rhea as worry carves itself into wrinkles on his face.
Finlay rubs at his forehead. Draven is fiercely protective over Rhea and goes into instant fighting mode the moment he suspects anything awry.
But Kiran? Kiran has always been a nurturer, not wanting to fight, instead protecting in other sly ways.
For as much as Draven loves Rhea, Kiran loves her similarly, if not more softly.
Finlay resists the urge to heave a loud, drawn out sigh.
And this is why both his brothers are fools for allowing such useless affections to infect them.
Oh, but gods be damned Finlay knows he’s fucked.
He knows what’s coming next, and honestly, he won’t be surprised if they both gut him right here and now once they find out.
Yet Finlay has a duty to see through. He has obligations as both a captain and a member of Bathara’s council—not to mention his duty as the Fjolla Heir.
A member of the Archbloods. Obligations that both his brothers are always far too content turning their backs on, leaving the weight to rest heavier on his shoulders.
“The conclusion we’ve reached is simple,” Josiah continues, drawing Finlay’s attention forward once more.
“Each conscripted wielder will duel the Skyborne aggregate’s captain while Master Cahlmon, Master Strithmore, and myself observe.
Based on their performance, we will decide which aggregate the wielder is best suited for, basing it on where their skills are currently most needed. ”
He paces slowly as he speaks, letting the weight of it settle. Finlay glances sidelong at Draven, who still hasn’t released his death grip on the railing. Black spiderwebs slowly creep up his forearms, and Finlay flexes his jaw at the sight.
Not good.
Josiah glances up at the corner housing Finlay and his brothers. “Captain Fjolla, would you be so kind as to offer a live demonstration?”
Finlay dips his chin, his voice perfectly poised when he answers. “Of course, Master. Which wielder should I—”
Before Finlay can finish his question, Rhea steps forward. “I’ll offer myself as his opponent.”
Josiah seems to internalize a sigh while Finlay catches the slight twitch in Tynan’s lips, who undoubtedly had a hand in Rhea being here right now. Finlay has no doubts everything unfolding is going exactly as Tynan planned it—though why this plan is necessary, Finlay hasn’t a clue.
What game is Tynan playing at?
Finlay keeps his features carefully neutral as he turns away from the railing to head down the nearby staircase. Yet a strong hand clutches his shoulder, halting his movements. He turns and finds Draven glaring at him, the promise of something bloody and painful burning violently in his eyes.
“I swear to the gods, Finlay. You better not leave a single fucking mark on her.”
He wrenches himself free of Draven’s grip. “If I don’t fight her as I would any one else,” Finlay hisses under his breath, “you know he won’t let me stop until I do.” Finlay flicks his eyes to Tynan, glaring back at Draven after.
Finlay makes to move past him, but Draven tightens his hold, snarling something inaudible under his breath. Kiran steps between them and shoves Draven’s arm back down to his side, flashing him a sobering look.
“Go,” Kiran instructs softly, only sparing Finlay a glance. “I’ve got him.”
Finlay works his jaw before setting it into something immovable. Then, with a slight lift of his chin, he glides down the stairs, stopping when he reaches Josiah, who motions for Rhea to join him at his side. She obliges, stopping only a few feet in front of Finlay.
She does not avert her eyes from him for a single moment, her gaze filled with a scorn so tangible, it almost stings Finlay’s skin like a living flame.
Josiah glances between them, as if sensing the current of loathing streaming between them. He cocks a brow, eyeing both of them pointedly after. “Your rules are as follows: no dirty shots and no fatal blows. Past that, you are free to duel using whatever means you’d like.”
Without averting her gaze from Finlay, Rhea asks, “Daggers?”
“Perfectly acceptable,” Josiah answers.
Rhea smiles a tight-lipped grin, more mocking than it is anything else. “Fantastic.”
Josiah glances at them both a final time, appearing a bit weary.
Ultimately, however, he lifts his hands, and he uses his magic to slide the floor panels back, exposing the large fighting pits filled with sand.
Finlay kneels down and unties his combat boots, removing one after the other.
When he rises, Tynan stands before him, his arm hooked loosely around Rhea’s waist.
It is an act of sheer will not to glance back at Draven, who must be beside himself with a honed rage hotter than Illithious Lake and sharper than an Arellian steel blade.
“Finlay,” Tynan drawls diplomatically. “I’m sure you are well aware how crucial it is that you do not go easy on Rhea here. She must be treated as anyone else. Do not let your…” He pauses, lip curling slightly. “...attachments affect your judgment or diminish your combat abilities.”
Finlay keeps his expression level. “Never, Commander.”
Tynan smiles, the gesture entirely insincere. “Excellent.” He pushes Rhea forward, and anger flashes in and out of her expression within a blink, so savage and wild, she looks like she wants to snarl in his face. Yet her training sends her mask snapping back into place just as quick.
Tynan rejoins Josiah, who is whispering something to Master Strithmore.
In his absence, Rhea cocks her head, her grin now devilish. “Long time no see, asshole.”
“An eternity could have passed, and it still wouldn’t have been long enough,” he quips back, his mild tone carrying an air of disgust.
Her lips flatten into a saccharine smile, and she tugs them up at Finlay. “Cute,” she mocks, bending down to remove her combat boots. When she stands, she motions toward the exposed sand pit. “Well, what are you waiting for, Captain? Are you going to fight me or not?”
Finlay’s lips twist, yet he catches his scowl before it tugs at too much of his expression.
“Of all the fucking people,” he mutters under his breath, stripping his tunic from his body, exposing his bare chest to the world—including his wielder’s mark, which curves along his back.
Not that he minds. Finlay works hard for his body, and he has no problem displaying his wielder’s mark for all to see.
He is a Fjolla, after all. Power is expected of him.
Rhea drags her eyes along the length of his chest, down his torso, all the way to his toes—an arch wedged deep in her brow.
Finlay cocks his head, his smile nothing short of taunting. “What? I go away for a few years, and suddenly you like what you see? Want a touch?”
“I’d sooner fuck myself with my dagger than have your body come even close to touching mine.” Without another word, she pads into the pits, assuming the south end as her base.
Finlay grits his teeth and follows, standing on the north side.
He studies Rhea carefully. Her soot black hair is half drawn back with a silver hairpin wedged through her bun, revealing a section of silver hair that she dyed to match the two front pieces.
She wears a pair of black pants that are loose in the legs and taper at the ankles—not too far off from Bathara’s standard uniform.
Her cropped black shirt is tight against her chest, swooping at her neckline, exposing the sweeping lines of some tattoo plunging beneath her shirt.
Her softly angulated blue eyes are ringed by lines of dark kohl.
His eyes snag on the three silver piercings lining her left ear first, and then her wielder’s mark inked on her right arm next.
She smirks at him, the gesture anything but warm. “Like what you see?”
He snorts a hollow laugh before dropping his voice into a harsh whisper. “Why are you here, Rhea?”
She doesn’t answer, instead choosing to glare at him in silence.
“Do you know what your presence here is going to do to him? Do you even understand how complicated you just made things? How—”
“I know,” she snaps quietly, so no one else can hear her but Finlay. Her voice drops into a harsh whisper, as if she’s speaking more to herself now. “I fucking know.”
“Captain Fjolla,” Tynan calls out. “Is something the matter?”
Finlay glances at the Commander. “No. I was just briefing the girl on Bathara’s—”
“There will be time for that at a later point,” Tynan interjects, not even allowing Finlay the respect to finish his sentence. “We don’t want to waste anyone’s precious time, so let’s begin, shall we?”