Chapter 13
Derian
The rules of the Conclave are simple.
One: Go where you’re told and do what you’re told leading up to the trials.
Two: You will eat as a group. You will train as a group.
Three: Violence between competitors outside of trials is strictly prohibited.
Inside the trials—well, the objective is to live. The easiest way to ensure that is to ensure that everyone else dies first.
That said, the rules of the Conclave have always been a bit… flexible.
A competition meant to weed out the weak often consists of spitfires like Seraphina, individuals who have been bred and raised to be strong, brave, and resilient. Those skills usually come with a fair bit of arrogance and unreasonable tempers.
So, as Seraphina just demonstrated, it’s not entirely unusual for the “no violence” rule to be broken.
And there’s no real punishment for breaking the rules. Why would we need to kill you in punishment when the Conclave will more than likely result in your death anyway?
I watch the women as Roland delivers the rules.
The Mortals’ faces turn several shades of red and gray as the weight of the competition finally starts to settle in.
Even some of Seraphina’s lackeys, those who’ve also decided to join the Conclave, look less sure of themselves now.
They’ve all come for their own reasons. Whether it’s my favor they’re after, or something else, it won’t matter. Only one will survive.
Eleven dead women.
“Training begins tomorrow,” Roland tells them. “For the Mortals who are joining us, you will all be given appropriate clothing and weaponry.”
Seraphina, predictably, is unbothered by it all, flicking a flame between her fingers with a nonchalant ease while twirling her hair with the other. It’s a rather obvious display of indifference meant to intimidate everyone else in the room.
For the first time in years, her arrogance is starting to annoy me.
And then there’s Lady Huntyr Lachlan. Her presence is like ice to Seraphina’s fire. She barely even blinks as the rules are laid out, as if she had been expecting them all along. Those sharp blue eyes of hers shift, dimming, then brightening, catching the light for just a moment.
She eats quickly, but with purpose. Small, controlled bites, and all the while, her attention never leaves the people settled around the table. The knife in her hand, resting on the table as she finishes, stays in her grip like it’s a part of her.
I still don’t know what to make of her yet, and the mystery is starting to get under my skin.
Eventually, the conversation dies down, and the warriors from the day guard begin filtering in, taking the remaining food with rough hands as they reach over the girls’ shoulders.
In the corner, Lyra, one of the fortress cooks, picks up her guitar and begins strumming a slow, lilting melody. A few of the wine-drunk men and women rise to their feet, encouraged by the music, and pair off to dance. Two Mortals glance at me, unsure of how to act now that the mood has shifted.
“Dance if you want,” I tell them, waving a hand dismissively.
Without hesitation, they rise and take the hands of two Fae males, twirling toward the makeshift dance floor.
“You do know your role in all of this?” Cal leans over Roland, smirking. “You’re supposed to charm these women.”
If this were a normal Conclave, yes. My responsibility would be to court them, ensure that I have the strongest bond with my future bride, whoever she may be. That’s the way things are done.
But this isn’t a normal Conclave.
The king didn’t sanction this. My brother will be quite disapproving, in fact, when he finally finds out.
Still, I suppose there is one woman I’m interested in entertaining. I push back from my chair, slide it away from the table, and cross the distance to where Huntyr sits.
I place my hands on the back of her chair, leaning down just enough to speak into her hair.
“Dance with me.”
She doesn’t even glance up. “I’m sure there are plenty of other women eager for your favor.”
Sure enough, I can feel their eyes on me.
“Oh, I will dance with all of them by the end of the night,” I reply. “I have to be fair.”
“Of course.”
I can hear the sarcasm dripping from her words, and it makes the corners of my lips twitch upward.
“But first,” I wrap my fingers around the iron rail at the top of her chair and tug it back, “I’m going to dance with you.”
She remains still, not even breathing. I’m not entirely accustomed to women having no reaction to me.
“You’ll have to put down the cutlery if you’re going to dance, Huntyr.”
Her gaze flickers to the knife, and for a brief moment, I see a flash of surprise, like she forgot it was even in her hand. She slams it down onto the table, and I can almost hear her mutter under her breath as she stands and grudgingly accepts my hand.
I lead her to the dance floor just as the tempo slows, and I can’t help but bite back a grin as I pull her into the dance.
She’s smaller than I expected up close, more delicate.
The top of her head barely brushes my shoulders, and her waist fits perfectly in my grasp as we begin to move in time to the music.
“You’re good at this,” I compliment.
She shrugs, boredom etched on her features. “I’m a noblewoman.”
The tone in her voice, however, suggests she doesn’t believe her own words.
“And yet, you don’t look like you’re enjoying the dance.”
Her lips curl into a smirk, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “Is it that obvious that I’m not desperate for your attention?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “It’ll be terribly awkward at our wedding then.”
Her smirk falters for just a second, and I see the tension in her body, a small line forming between her brows. I fight the urge to smooth it away with my thumb.
“I know,” I admit, “getting ahead of myself again.”
My hand tightens around her waist without meaning to, and I can feel my magic humming just beneath my skin. It’s harder to swallow it down when I’m so distracted by her.
“Have I told you how ravishing you look tonight?”
She glares at me from under dark lashes. “Is this another one of your attempts at flirting?”
“That depends on if it’s giving you butterflies.”
“Nothing you could do would give me butterflies.”
I don't bother to fight the grin that spreads across my face as I pull her ever closer and lean down, letting my lips brush against the shell of her ear. “I doubt that very much.”
She breathes heavily. Just once, a deep inhale and exhale, before she mutters ‘Fae bastard’ under her breath and looks away.
There’s a beat of silence as I lift my arm to twirl her before pulling her back into me. She follows my lead effortlessly, steadier on her feet than some of the other women I’ve had to dance with throughout my life.
“So, if you win the Conclave, what are you planning?”
For some reason I can't quite understand, I need her to keep talking to me. I need whatever insight I can glean into how this woman thinks.
She stiffens under my touch. “What do you mean?”
“Chocolate cake or vanilla for the party? I’m partial to vanilla.”
A breath escapes her in a heated rush as she meets my gaze. “I don’t particularly care.”
“Come on now, doesn’t every woman dream of her wedding day?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts in my grasp, her voice sharp as she cuts through the banter.
“I’ve never been one to meet—”
“Expectations,” I finish for her, tightening my grip around her waist just enough for her to feel it. “I’m aware.”
And then, to my complete and utter shock, the little thing lifts her foot and slams it down on top of mine.
“I can finish my own thoughts, thank you very much.”
“Did you just—” I blink in surprise. “Step on me?”
“You deserved it.”
I can’t suppress my laugh. “I think I liked it.”
Her shoulders stiffen, but I’m ready for it now. I move my foot out of the way with a quiet chuckle.
“Fool me once.”
She’s fuming now, but I notice the way her lips twitch upward in spite of herself. There’s fire in those ice blue eyes, and damn if that isn’t enticing.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?” she questions with a tilt of her head.
“Several people.”
“And have you ever considered… not being that way?”
Once again, I spin her in my arms in time with the music, but this time when I pull her back, I let the momentum bring her flush against me. Her chest rises and falls against mine, and I’m suddenly aware of eyes on me. Cal’s and Roland’s—but also the other women’s, too. “What would you suggest?”
“Well, your arrogance could be toned down for starters,” she suggests, shoving backwards to put space between us.
“Is there a difference between arrogance and confidence?”
“One is deserved.”
I raise my brows at her. “You hardly know me, how do you know it’s not deserved?”
The wicked thing takes a slow look down my frame, trailing from my eyes all the way down to my boots and then back up, lingering at the space where my cock twitches for her for just a moment before she pulls her lower lip between her teeth and bats those eyelashes at me. “I suppose you could call it a hunch.”
My body is instantly on fire, every instinct telling me to pull her from this room and show her exactly how wrong her hunch is, to fuck her until she’s assured that my arrogance is well-deserved. Until she’s begging me to bed her over and over again.
And she knows it. She knows exactly what she’s doing by leveling that look at me.
The music slows, the song, and our dance, coming to an end. I don’t want this little game between us to end, though. I want to keep playing with her, to keep wrestling our wits to see who will come out on top.
Perhaps we could take turns.
She simply steps back and glances to where the other women have all turned their sights onto me.
“Your adoring fans await you.”
I smirk down at her, letting my eyes trail over her with the same intensity that she examined me. “Until next time then.”
I follow her movements as she walks back to the table, waiting until she's seated and focusing on the plate in front of her before I let the next woman pull me into a dance.
I’ve been settled into my room for no more than thirty minutes when there’s a sudden banging on my door, urgent and demanding. I groan. That’s never good.
I rip it open and find Cal waiting for me, his eyes wild, lips pressed into the tight, thin line he wears when something is truly wrong. Wind cracks against the window behind me.
“What?”
“Garrick’s been hurt.”
I don’t stop to grab my shirt before pushing past him, moving toward the fortress doors. Magic flares out of me, stilling the water in the air, shoving the storm clouds away.
A man shouldn’t have to die in the rain.
“How?” I demand.
Cal follows on my heels. “Two attacked near the western walls. Garrick and two others were on patrol.”
“They came this close to the fortress?”
It’s been nearly thirty years since the Velkai last left the Wastelands, let alone approached our strongholds. We knew the Wastelands were spreading, inching over our lands in a slow, merciless corruption, but an attack this close?
“I’m as shocked as you are,” Cal mutters.
“The others?” I ask as we cross the threshold into the courtyard.
“Dead.”
Of course. Two more names to add to the scrolls.
My boots splash through puddles, but I don’t slow. By the time we reach Garrick, he’s already writhing on the ground, a gaping wound in his lower gut.
Jaylin, one of his closest friends, crouches beside him, looking pale and grim. Garrick’s wife, Amora, cradles his head in her lap, her tear-streaked face twisted with desperation.
“Your Highness,” Tarin, the fortress healer, greets me somberly. “Thank you for stopping the rain.”
I incline my head, more interested in his assessment. “Can anything be done?”
Tarin exhales slowly. “You know the answer to that.”
Fae magic was a beautiful thing, but we had our limits. Not even our most talented healers would be able to help him now.
“I can do it,” Cal offers, already reaching for one of the twin swords strapped across his back.
“No!” Amora’s shriek cuts through the night, raw with fury and grief. Her hands tremble as she presses her hands against her husband’s stomach, determined to keep his innards from spilling out. “You will not touch him. You will fix him.”
I crouch beside her, letting Jaylin meet my eyes. He knows what comes next. We all know what comes next. She just hasn’t accepted it yet.
“Amora,” I say, low and steady.
Her breath hitches. “Your Highness, please.”
I can’t remember how many children they have. I should know that.
She chokes on a sob, shaking her head.
“He’s already gone, Amora.”
Jaylin gently pulls Garrick’s head from her lap, while Cal steps in to lift her to her feet. She fights at first, but when her legs give out beneath her, she lets him hold her upright. Her heart is breaking in front of us, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.
“Let’s get you back to your children,” Cal murmurs, guiding her away. “You don’t want to see this.”
She doesn’t respond, just lets him lead her back inside.
“I’m so fucking sick of killing my friends,” I growl, picking up Cal’s sword from where he left it on the ground for me.
Garrick sputters on the ground, his eyes saying everything his mouth can’t.
“You fought well, brother,” I say to him. “Amora and the children will be cared for. You have my word.”
I don’t allow myself the grace of hesitation.
I swing, forcing all the rage in my heart into that blow, and I don’t flinch as blood splatters across my bare chest. I don’t blink as his head rolls along the ground.
There’s a choking sound, but I’m not sure if it’s coming from Jaylin or Tarin.
I exhale sharply, tossing the blade to the ground.
“Clean it up,” I order before turning on my heel and walking away.
The storm rolls back in, angrier than it was before.