Chapter 14
Huntyr
The next morning, I wake to pounding on the door.
And I know it’s him before I even open my eyes.
Barefoot and barely awake, I push off the thin quilt and pad over to yank it open, already irritated.
Derian stands in my doorway, looking infuriatingly smug and smelling so strongly of citrus, metal, and something earthen that I tense, forcing myself not to react.
“Well, don’t you look lovely in the morning,” he drawls, eyes scanning down my body and lingering on the exposed skin of my legs.
I groan, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and shifting uncomfortably. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” I point to the window, where darkness still blankets the world outside.
Still, his eyes linger on me, darkening slightly with their appraisal. And though I’m not embarrassed of my body, or consumed with the need for modesty, I can't help but shift under the weight of his attention. My skin prickles, and I shiver.
He shrugs. “Not my problem.”
Why does he look so chipper?
No one can be this awake this early. There’s not even a hint of grogginess on his chiseled, far-too-smug face. He leans against the doorframe casually, relaxed like he has all the time in the world, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest and one ankle kicked over the other.
Despite having no reason to care how this man sees me, I’m suddenly very aware that I probably look like a sleep-deprived banshee.
I run a hand through my hair. Not that it helps.
“Is there a reason for this morning visit?” I grumble.
He tilts his head toward something behind him. I follow his gaze to a large wooden trunk, locked with a golden clasp. My brow lifts in question.
“I brought you a present,” he says, winking as he bends to unlatch the trunk. The lid creaks open, revealing neatly stacked daggers, leather armor, and even a bow and quiver of arrows. “Weapons, as promised. They’re being delivered to all the candidates as we speak.”
“How lucky am I to have the royal delivery service.”
I narrow my eyes. Why him? If everyone is getting these weapons, why is the Fae prince at my door, personally delivering them?
Derian smirks. “You look skeptical.”
“I am.”
He chuckles, then lifts the trunk as if it weighs nothing and carries it inside, not bothering to seek out an invitation. “Good. Trusting too easily is terribly immature.”
I fold my arms. “As you pointed out last night, I don’t know you very well, Derian, but I imagine you’re not the pillar of maturity.”
This space is too small for the both of us. It’s suddenly cramped and too warm with him inside.
He sets the trunk down beside the looking glass and turns, stepping just a little too close. “I suppose you’ll just have to get to know me better, then.”
“Or die first,” I counter, reminding him exactly why I’m here.
He snorts. “I do hope you make it through the first trial. It would be a terrible letdown if you didn’t. Who else would fill my life with such interesting sarcasm?”
I track his movements with my eyes. “Why me? Why not bother someone else this morning?”
“So far, you’re the one who gets the most riled up around me,” he muses, tilting his head. “That makes you the most fun to poke at.”
I scoff. “Not Seraphina?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Derian’s smirk falters, just for a second. His gaze flickers, and I briefly wonder if I’m imagining the flash of irritation I see before that careful grin slides back into place.
“Jealous?”
“Just annoyed that I got dragged into a twisted competition so you had an excuse to marry your girlfriend.”
His jaw ticks, and the teasing light in his eyes vanishes.
“I’d recommend focusing on surviving the trials before you worry about who used to share my bed,” he says, rolling his neck like he’s shaking off the conversation.
Then, as if he hadn’t just bristled at my words, he throws a lazy smirk over his shoulder.
“Get dressed. You’re expected in the training yard in thirty minutes. ”
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there with my bare feet, messy hair, surprisingly quick heart rate, and the undeniable realization that I definitely hit a nerve.
Tilting my head back, I let the morning sun warm my face, its light chasing away the lingering shadows of sleepless nights. My eyes flutter closed as I savor the simple, forgotten pleasure of being grounded in my own skin.
The armor left for me in the trunk fits like it was crafted just for me. It hugs my frame like a second skin, stitched with reinforced plating across my chest, shoulders, and thighs. Every vital area feels shielded, yet I can move without restriction.
Straps crisscross my torso and hips, securing the array of weapons that accompanied it.
Twin daggers rest snugly in their sheaths against my thighs, the smooth hilts brushing against my fingers with every step.
A quiver of black-feathered arrows sits firmly against my back, paired with a curved bow slung diagonally across my shoulders.
My utility belt, buckled tight at my waist, holds an assortment of pouches and holsters, one containing the short sword that juts out from my hip, gleaming faintly in the sunlight.
I laced my knee-high boots tightly this morning, appreciating the thick soles that will grip any terrain, no matter how unforgiving. My dark hair is pulled back into a tight braid, falling down the center of my back, neat and practical.
As comfortable as it all makes me feel, though, it takes only about two seconds after opening my eyes to realize I’ve made a mistake.
While all the Fae women look similarly armed and ready for war, the Mortal nobles are laughably out of place. Their hair is worn loose and messy, their armor ill-fitting, if they’re wearing any at all. The few who bothered to bring weapons carry them haphazardly, straps dangling or buckles undone.
One of them stares at me with wide-eyed shock. “How did you figure out how to put it all on?”
Alexandria snorts, unfortunately healed from yesterday’s injury. “Because she’s a freak.”
I breathe deeply, silently vowing that she’s going to be the first person I kill when the trials begin.
The training yard is alive with action. Weapons are being sharpened and organized into a rack in the far corner under the high stone towers.
Along the far wall, two Fae males are currently sparring, the sound of their steel swords clashing together echoing throughout the courtyard. Fae magic clouds the air.
I felt it sink into my skin the second I’d stepped into the yard.
The ground under my boots is a mix of uneven cobblestones and packed dirt, worn smooth in places from constant footfall. Even some of the weapons seem dull and blunt from overuse.
I can’t help but wonder what the Fae are training for.
The war between the Fae and Mortals ended a century ago. The Fae kingdom has just formally aligned itself with Velia.
So what threat are they preparing for?
A sudden sharp clap echoes across the training yard, pulling my attention. Three Fae warriors stand at the edge of the courtyard.
In the center is the tallest and broadest of the group, with a dark beard and skin that gleams in the sunlight. His leather armor is cut into a sleeveless vest, leaving thick, muscled arms on display.
To his right is a man with short blonde hair tied neatly back, his pointed ears visible against the pale strands. On the left, the youngest of the three, about my age, stands with shoulder-length chestnut hair and spiraling tattoos down his neck and arms.
“My name is Taric,” the bearded warrior announces. His voice is sharp and authoritative. He gestures to his companions. “This is Rhen.” He nods toward the blonde. “And Parker.”
I make a mental note of their names, storing them with the growing stockpile of data I’ve been collecting about everyone and everything related to these trials.
“I’ll be preparing you for the trials,” Taric continues. His face is a mask of stern indifference. By contrast, Rhen grins openly, like he’s eagerly waiting for someone to cause trouble. He reminds me of Flannigan in that way.
The sudden memory of Flannigan tugs at my black heart. I miss my home, my friends in the League of Assassins, Kristona, and Tyla. I miss Tyla so much it feels like a bone has been ripped from my body.
“What are your qualifications?” Alexandria asks, her snark unmistakable.
The training yard seems to fall silent around us, the clang of blades pausing as everyone turns to look at her just as the girl next to her elbows her subtly.
Even the banners hanging from the parapets above us seem to stop fluttering in the faint breeze.
“What?” Alexandria shrugs. “If he’s going to train us, I want to be sure he’s the best.”
Taric doesn’t react, though his patience must be wearing thin.
“He won a Conclave, idiot.” One of the Fae women laughs, her voice sharp and mocking. “And besides, you don’t have to train. Dying comes naturally to your kind.”
I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, anxious energy rolling through me. I’m getting really fucking tired of these Fae bitches acting like killing us Mortals will be as easy as snapping their fingers.
The girl next to me goes to step backwards and stumbles.
She quite literally trips over her own feet.
I sigh. On second thought, maybe killing us off will be as easy as the Fae snapping their fingers.
“Why don’t you all introduce yourselves?” Parker suggests, his tone mild as he gestures toward Seraphina.
She steps forward, flicking her orange hair over her shoulder. It’s styled in elaborate braids that cascade down her back. Her leather armor is finer than anyone else’s, though the scratches and scuffs of battle are still evident.
“Seraphina,” she says, her voice haughty. She meets my gaze with a smirk that’s more of a challenge than an introduction. “Fire-wielder.”
Is that supposed to impress me?
The other Fae women follow her lead, all of them wearing the same cocky grin.
“Lirael. Air-wielder.”
“Mara. Metal-wielder.”
“Thalara. Stone-wielder.”
“Sylvana. Air-wielder.”
“Elise. Memory-wielder.”
Every eye in the courtyard turns to us Mortals. A small part of my soul shrivels at the sight of my companions’ wide-eyed fear.
No wonder the Fae women are so arrogant. These girls aren’t even going to try to fight back.
Even Alexandria looks shaken, her frown betraying the realization that, to marry the prince, she’ll have to survive Fae opponents armed with magic.
I sigh heavily, embarrassment for all of Mortal-kind creeping over me.
“Huntyr,” I say, breaking the silence as I let my gaze travel over the Fae before landing dead on Seraphina. “Smart-ass.”
Rhen snickers, and even Taric’s stony face softens with the faintest hint of a smile.
The rest of the women introduce themselves, though their voices are small and hesitant. Taric explains that today’s session will focus on honing our skills and selecting our weapons for the first trial. Sparring is encouraged, but killing is not.
I, however, will not be sparring.
The other Mortals around me clearly have no idea what they’re doing, which means if I don’t want to expose myself as the assassin who killed a Fae guard during the masquerade ball, I need to pretend I’m just as clueless.
Taric barks out a command to begin, and the group scatters. Mortals cling to one another, while the Fae women head toward their preferred training areas.
“Keep running your mouth, Mortal,” Seraphina mutters as she passes me, her shoulder jutting into mine. “We’ll see how long that attitude lasts.”
It takes everything in me not to drive a dagger into the back of her knee.
Kristona would never believe I showed that much restraint.
Still, just because I’m trying to avoid violence doesn’t mean I can’t poke her just a bit.
“Hopefully it lasts long enough to see how upset you get watching a man who doesn’t want you flirt with everyone else.”
Seraphina whirls around, her righthand lighting up in flame. My pulse rushes at the sight of it, but I keep my expression calm and my stance casual, my arms crossed over my chest.
“What did you just say to me?” she hisses.
She steps forward, and I prepare myself to fight, readying myself to grab the dagger strapped to my belt, but I feel the presence behind my back before she glares at the male behind me.
“Go train, Seraphina,” Rhen orders her. “It’s day one. Let’s try to make it a little longer into the Conclave before you lose your shit.”
With one last glare at me, she stomps away to join two other Fae women who’d been watching our encounter. I don’t dare take my eyes off her even as Rhen steps forward.
“I wouldn’t piss that one off,” Rhen warns. “She has a tendency to go off the rails.”
“She’ll try to kill me either way,” I point out, finally looking up at him, noticing how the wind blows his hair about. He really should tie that back or cut it. “I might as well have some fun taunting her first.”
He looks down at me for a moment before tilting his head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough.”