Chapter 29
Sabine
The first day of the Fae Games passes like a dream.
After the opening ceremony, Artain performs a trick arrow show where he lands bullseyes on a series of wooden stag dummies while blindfolded and riding backward on a galloping stallion.
Then, whitewashed wooden beams are laid over the crimson sand, and dancers in flowing silk robes perform a graceful rendition of the heartwarming love story between Aria and Aron.
A portion of the old treasury has been converted into an exhibit hall for fae artifacts of lore: the fae needle, Saph’s horseshoe, the immortal lasso.
In the Glassmarket District, Samaur and Thracia show off her fabled Midnight Vase of legend, carefully swaddled in silks in an oaken chest. Samaur uses his molten fey to shape handfuls of sand into pint-sized glass copies of the vase for the crowd to take as party favors.
Captain Tatarin spends the afternoon leading goldenclaw rides for children around Valor Circle.
The gargantuan fae bears aren’t dressed for battle today—instead, they wear colorful saddles with fanciful ruffles, and braided ribbons as reins for the children to hold onto.
Tati herself wears a dark purple robe over loose trousers, and whimsical pink hearts painted on her cheeks—you’d never know she was one of the most elite soldiers of the Volkish army.
As sunset approaches, I change into a gauzy gown with draping silks in every shade of orange, pink, and yellow. Then, I make my way back to the arena for the final event of the day.
I step into the cool shade beneath the archway, in the staging area.
Myst is already saddled. Ferra stands beside her, working her godkissed magic on her mane, weaving sunset pink and orange streaks into her white strands, then using her deft fingers to wind them into the most intricate immortal braids I’ve ever seen—on a person or a horse.
“That’s gorgeous,” I breathe, overcome.
Ferra pauses to point a long fingernail into the shadows. “That one wouldn’t let me near him.”
There’s a snort from the shadows, and a cloud of steam rolls across the sand.
“Tòrr!” I throw my arms around his massive neck, breathing in his iron-and-wine scent, the line of black scales that runs down his neck smooth and solid as leather against my cheek.
He stomps his foot. I refuse to carry the Fae King again—he weighs more than an ox.
“What’s wrong with Tòrr?” Basten enters the staging area, dressed now in charcoal gray riding gear with forest-green antler embroidery on his shoulders. “Too proud to have his mane braided?”
“That’s what I said!” Ferra tosses her hands in the air.
“Basten.” I stumble toward him, burying my face against his chest. Our duties have kept us apart nearly all day, and now, my heart sighs at the sight of him.
Gods, the irony. That it took Rian—his hands, his mouth, his twisted desires—to bring Basten and me back into alignment.
He cups my jaw, tilts my face to his, our foreheads touching. “Little violet.”
The announcer calls something from the stadium, and the crowd begins to chant in anticipation.
“Are you ready, Queen Sabine?” Lord Kendan asks as he strides into the staging area, studying the distant horizon. “The sun is very nearly down.”
I nod softly, my forehead still pressed to Basten’s.
“Ready,” I whisper.
I draw in a final breath before we break away, grinning at one another for strength. Basten mounts Myst in one graceful swoop, patting her neck in a show of affection.
Myst slides her eyes to me. Tell him to stop messing up my hair.
I laugh and relay the message.
“Pardon me, crazy mare,” Basten says dramatically, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining your hair.”
Myst snorts and nods, satisfied.
A squire brings out a wooden block for me to climb on Tòrr’s massive back. I settle on him, arranging the billowing drapes of my silken skirt with the help of the servants.
Then, Basten and I ride the horses to the edge of the staging area.
The last rays of day fan out over the cloudless sky. I have every confidence in the world—err, mostly—that Tòrr wouldn’t use his solarium horn to channel sunlight and blast the stadium apart, but for the sake of putting the public at ease, we saved this performance for night.
The announcer calls from the Immortal Box, “For the day’s closing event, I present your beloved new monarchs. King Basten and Immortal Solene, recreating the fabled Race of Sun and Moon!”
The energy in the stands feels on fire—voices rising, feet pounding, the whole stadium vibrating in anticipation. In my heart, the same blaze catches.
Basten reaches his hand out, and I take it.
“Together,” I say softly.
He winks. “Always.”
The drumroll unspools throughout the arena, the crimson sand itself vibrating, and I feel the beat spread up through my toes.
Beneath me, Tòrr paws the ground, sensing it too. Feeding off the raw energy.
Soon, I assure him.
The Race of Sun and Moon appears in Immortal Vale’s chapter of the Book of the Immortals. It’s one of the most well-known fae tales, recited to children at bedtime for generations.
Long ago, two rival kings waged war across the Near World, each seeking Immortal Vale’s favor for a victory. But Vale offered no favor—only a race.
Each king was to ride from opposite ends of the realm, one in the direction of the rising sun, the other in the direction of the rising moon, crossing blazing deserts, cliff-carved coasts, and darkened woodlands, until they reached the gates of ancient Calisyrune.
Weeks passed. Hunger hollowed the riders. Sun and wind flayed them bare. Yet both endured—and arrived within moments of each other.
But they no longer craved conquest.
The journey had burned away their pride, leaving men who now saw beyond borders and crowns.
Neither king won. Neither lost, either. They dismounted together and laid their swords at Vale’s feet.
Wisdom does not sit on a throne, Immortal Vale famously pronounced. It rides the common road, as you have just done.
I glance over my shoulder at the Immortal Box, where six thrones have been brought out. One for each of the woken gods. They sit stiffly, watching with unreadable expressions, as if they actually care about the outcome of this recreation.
A trumpet blares, and a servant lowers the starting flag.
And I can’t think any more about the fae.
“Go!” I dig my heels into Tòrr’s side, but he doesn’t need the cue. He’s already tearing at the arena, pawing the sand, foaming at the mouth.
Beside me, Basten spurs Myst in the opposite direction. Half the arena waves flags with the sun emblem, while the other half thrusts their moon flags high.
Tòrr and I race through sets constructed of wood and paint. First, we roar through the ancient nameless deserts that would later become the kingdom of Kravada. Then, we pass through a forest where actors dressed as ancient warriors throw dull-tipped spears at us.
I lean forward, thighs pressing in to hold myself steady, gloved fingers woven in Tòrr’s razor-sharp mane. The wind makes my eyes water, but I wouldn’t trade this thrill for anything.
Circling in the opposite direction, Basten and Myst bound toward us. Myst is no competition for Tòrr as far as speed, of course—but this is simply a show. There are no winners or losers tonight.
We cross paths in the middle of a set made to look like the shallow shores of the Panopis Sea, complete with workers tossing buckets of water at us to mimic the surf.
Our eyes meet.
For that brief moment, I feel as if everything in the world has clicked into place.
It’s working.
By tomorrow night, at the grand closing ceremony, all our efforts will have paid off—fae and mortals will be at peace. I know it. I feel it.
Tòrr and I weave between wooden pillars painted to look like villages, buying time for Basten and Myst to catch up in their direction.
Then, once we’re equidistant from the finish line, a trumpet blares. We race to the final set in the center of the arena, where wooden pillars are painted to look like the arched gates of ancient Calisyrune.
We tear through the silken ribbon together. Me and Tòrr. Basten and Myst. We pull the horses to a stop, their bodies aligned head to tail, and Basten and I lean across the space between us to kiss.
The arena erupts.
The crowd throws flowers and offerings to the sand. Ribbons. Charms. Paper ornaments. The cheers swell into a roar that shakes the very bones of the place, our names chanted again and again.
In the Immortal Box, Vale strides to the announcer’s balcony, lifting his hands.
“Good people of Astagnon,” he thunders, “Let this be a lesson to all of us. In the game of war, no one wins if we do not stand together. Wisdom does not sit on a throne—it rides the common road. Your road!”
Flags wave enthusiastically, as tears glisten in people’s eyes.
“Tomorrow,” Vale continues, “The second and final day of the Fae Games commences at dawn with—”
“Brother, if I may!” Artain suddenly staggers to Vale’s side, his cheeks stained telltale red, his voice slightly slurred. “In fact, we have one final surprise to close off the first night of games!”
A warning threads its way between my heartbeat.
Basten nudges Myst closer to me and says quietly, “Did you know about this?”
I shake my head hard.
Basten curses under his breath. “Artain looks drunk off his ass. And Vale looks about ready to murder him.”
My heart thumps faster, my gloved hands twisting knots in Tòrr’s mane. The energy in the crowd shifts—it’s sharper now, and Artain isn’t the only one who’s been drinking. Half the audience is already swaying, singing old fae ballads half-slurred.
“Mortals!” Artain calls, pushing forward onto the balcony, holding out a hand toward the set in the arena’s center. “Behold the gates of ancient Calisyrune. A final gift from us to you—and for you, King of Fae!” He turns to Iyre. “Sister, if you will do the honors.”