CHAPTER EIGHT
A Scene of Stomach Ailments and Goblins
Em had done it. She’d managed to ruin her cliché plotline and keep her resume as a hero clean. Roden won the Heir Trials, making him the prophecy’s official Chosen One.
Now she could go home, forget the awful quest, and wait for a real story to come her way. Maybe even one the Great Authors of Novella would publish.
In your dreams.
Roden stood proudly in the center of Yarros Arena, victoriously displaying Destiny’s Song, Reaver of Diligence in the air. Despite the transfer of power, the blade remained cold and dead in his hand; a small fact Em secretly hoped no one would notice.
Captain Kymil and a few other green-clad elves surrounded their new hero, chanting his name in celebration.
Em couldn’t stop smiling as joy bubbled over in her achy limbs.
She rejoined her companions along the sidelines; their various expressions reddened with their frustrations at the outcome.
Polo continued to sob, Gair scowled with his fists balled like he wanted to punch Roden, and Faylorn leaned on his stave with a frown.
“I don’t understand,” Polo whimpered, hugging her arm. “You were the Chosen One! Your outfit was everything. You were a total baddie in the ring!”
“Something’s fishy about that duel.” Gair let out a grunt, kicking up a wave of arena sand. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t worry about it, guys.” Em rolled her eyes, hoping she didn’t sound too relieved.
She couldn’t wait to get out of this damn armor and run all the way back home.
Maybe she’d make it back in time for breakfast tomorrow.
The idea of real food sounded heavenly after exhausting her energy reserves in the duel.
Still, her companions continued to frown with disbelief.
“Roden won, fair and square,” she said. “Maybe the Elves were right about the translations of the prophecy.”
“I find that unlikely, lass.” Faylorn’s eyebrows creased, and the grumpy wizard hid in the shadow of his hat’s brim.
“I memorized that prophecy in every language. I was there when it was discovered. It declared, ‘a young girl with green eyes from a camel farm will overthrow Kriqir the Living.’ Not a half Wood Elf prince.”
Of course, her fellowship–group–or whatever they were–wanted to stay together for all eternity, as most cliché Side Characters did. Some unwritten rule in most stories seemed to bind the cast together, as if one adventure meant they had to be besties for eternity.
Not on my watch. Em decided she would just pretend she needed a good cry so she could slip away and get rid of them. Then Faylorn, Gair, and Polo could return to their cliché lives to bother another unfortunate soul.
“I’ve never been great at hand-to-hand combat,” she admitted. “That’s just how this plot rolled out. This is Roden’s story now, not mine.”
“I could’ve trained you,” Gair argued. “It would’ve been hard, but we could’ve postponed the Heir Trials until you were an equal match to Roden. I had good grades at Sanderson. I’m not sure why you didn’t ask me for help.”
Please, for the love of Novella, shut the hell up, Gair. Em glared at him.
“The real issue is the Wood Elves wanted a match for Brolzross the Nocturnal, not just someone who could out-fight their half-elf prince,” Faylorn said. “And that type of training would have taken us years. I should’ve thought this through more before bringing you to the Musclewood Covert.”
Yeah, you really should’ve. This was a waste of my damn time.
Whatever Gair and Polo complained about next, Em tuned out.
She massaged her sore forearms, happy to watch the Elves celebrate Roden’s victory.
The half-elf prince and his silvery wolf paraded the battlefield, chanting in Elvish.
He made his way about the Yarros Arena to satisfy his adoring fans before finally approaching her.
“Well fought, milady,” he smirked.
“It’s Em.”
I’m not your lady.
“Then, Em.” Roden’s face softened with admiration. It made her more uneasy than when he brooded. “I wish you all the best.”
“Same to you, Roden Trislee.” She offered her hand for him to shake. But he didn’t take it.
“You’ll need it more.”
What?
Roden shoved the jeweled hilt of Destiny’s Song into her hands. Her fingers automatically clamped around it. The sword blade flickered into its bluish glow while waves of glitter danced around her, twisting through her grimy braid into a halo.
“What the hell?!” Em blurted, trying to drop the sword, but Roden knotted his strong grip over hers so she couldn’t let go.
She grunted, yanking and jerking. But the half-elf pulled her close enough that she got a whiff of his pine cologne.
Her shoulders bumped against his broad chest as he pulled her even closer to lock her in place.
“People of Novella, Wood Elves of the Glorious Musclewood Covert!” Roden addressed the clamoring crowds.
Em realized what he was doing.
He was about to revoke his victory in the Heir Trials.
“Shit!” she jolted, struggling to be free of his hold. “Stop, Roden!”
Roden just smiled, unswayed by her feeble attempt.
“This is your Almighty Queen of Stars, Princess of the White Rose Valley, and Heir to the Cursed-But-Once-Uncursed-Tower!” He announced to the entire Yarros Arena. “Her eyes are green, and Destiny’s Song, Reaver of Diligence, shines forth in her delicate fingers.”
Delicate?
“Let me go, dammit, Roden!” she screamed.
Rage burned in Em’s core. The moment he loosened his grasp on her, she chucked the sword aside and threw a fist toward his chiseled jawline. But Roden caught her wrist and swept her into his side, both his arms about her shoulders. She tried to kick him, but the half-elf didn’t budge.
“Fuck, you won, Roden!” Em choked on a sob.
The Wood Elves and Faylorn argued over whether Roden’s claim on Em as the Chosen One was true. Shouts and panic-gripped Yarros Arena as the world of Novella tried to determine what to do with the cliché plot.
Checkmate, Em. Your move.
“You defeated me in the Heir Trials,” Em shouted at Roden, craning her neck to try to see him. “You’re the heir! Isn’t this what you fought for?”
He probably thought he was such a hero in declaring her the Chosen One and also hoped to win her heart through it—the exact opposite of what she wanted.
She wanted home.
“Em, what are you doing?” Gair exclaimed across the arena. “This is your big moment, your chance to prove yourself!”
“You can’t change fate, princess,” Roden whispered low in her ear. She flinched and turned as far away from him as her neck would let her. He leaned closer, as if it were possible, sending a warm shiver down her spine.
“You’re ruining everything.” She sobbed, angry with how she shook in his arms.
“I am helping you, princess. You’re the Chosen One, the Almighty Queen of…”
“Don’t fucking say it,” Em spit.
“Roden Trislee?” the Wood Elf King called out.
Silence swept across the arena. All eyes settled on the rivaled Chosen Ones tangled together in the center.
“You are a half-elf, your mother was my own daughter,” the Wood Elf King went on.
“According to our traditions, before Kriqir the Living’s, the Cursed-But-Once-Uncursed-Tower belonged to the Wood Elves.
You’re my heir. Do you really think this plain, petite girl is the Chosen One to defeat Kriqir the Living and Brolzross the Nocturnal? ”
Plain, petite girl, my ass.
“I helped Faylorn of Rowling Institute of Magics find her, my lord,” Roden said to his grandfather. “I found her for the purpose of bringing the prophecy into reality!”
A mutter filled the audience.
Faylorn droned on about something long and historic, but Em tuned it out.
Her anger boiled tears down her cheeks and caused her nose to run.
She wanted to scream, pick up the stupid sword, and kill the shitty prophecy with it.
No matter what she’d tried, everything was drowning in tropes, and the damned plot had adjusted itself around her attempts at sabotage.
“I don’t want to be the Chosen One!” Em burst out, earning a chorus of gasps from the onlookers. There wasn’t much more she could do. “Let Roden do it! The whole Heir Trials was to finalize who the prophecy chose, and he won. Please, for the love of Novella, just let me go home.”
“Not a big deal.” Roden’s shoulder grazed hers as he shrugged. “If the Wood Elves accept you as the Chosen One, then the prophecy is settled. Their word is all that matters.”
Em would’ve given anything to get another chance at punching his teeth out. She scowled at his boots, yanking against his hold again, hoping he at least got the message.
Damn you.
“The prophecy states the Chosen One is to be a girl, my king,” Faylorn went on.
The Elf King narrowed his eyes in thought. “So be it.”
Fuck.
“Long live Em!” Polo whooped, followed by the official announcement over the intercoms and the roaring applause of the audience. Cheers erupted, and hugs were exchanged as the same people who celebrated Roden’s victory danced over the changed decision.
Disappointment tied a rock to Em’s dreams and drowned them in the sea of reality.
Roden let her go.
She dropped to her knees in the dirt, numb.
In a blur, Gair and Polo swept her up into a group hug.
“You did it!” the imp laughed. “You showed those sexy, pointy-eared folks who’s the real Chosen One!”
Em sighed, pushing them off. Defeat numbed her.
Maybe there’d still be a chance to ruin this plot later. Hopefully, it also came with a chance to give Roden the same disappointment he gave her.
“Well,” she swallowed her sobs, “I guess Roden wouldn’t have looked good in a princess gown anyway.”
Faylorn let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, lass.”
And I won’t stop. Em pulled away from her group toward the armory, unbuckling the tangle of leather straps on her clunky armor. Cool air was a relief compared to the costume’s confining insulation and padding.
A foreign horn blasted through the air.
People had begun to scream.