Chapter 16
Huntyr
Afull week passes in the fortress, each day slipping into a mind-numbing rhythm. Breakfast in the morning, weapons training afterward. Lunch in the early afternoon before hand-to-hand combat. Dinner in the evening, then baths and bed.
It’s all terribly dull.
The Fae women continue to endlessly complain about the Mortals and preach their superiority.
To be fair, while the Mortals are learning, they’re not doing so at a speed that will prepare them for these trials.
Still, the Fae are grating on my last nerve, especially considering their own glaring weaknesses.
Seraphina is all fire. She’s too hot-tempered and too reckless. She strikes first, thinks later. It makes her far too easy to bait.
Lirael has shit aim with throwing knives and is somehow even worse with a bow.
Mara... well, Mara makes me wonder if she’s ever had a formal education. She’s a strong fighter, sure, but half the things that come out of her mouth make me question if she has a single thought behind those bright, vacant eyes.
We’re kept largely separate from the Fae, likely to prevent them from slaughtering us in training.
Among the other Mortals, I hide my skill, spending my nights practicing in the cramped space next to my bed.
The door to my bathing chamber has become my target, it's surface peppered with tiny divots from my throwing knives.
I’ve grown tired of the same spaces and faces.
The stone has all started to blend together, one notch seeming to mirror all the others.
If the feeling of the walls closing in wasn’t bad enough, we’re watched constantly.
I’ve completely given up hope of moments to spy or learn more about what the Fae are doing here.
Everywhere I turn, someone is always watching.
And throughout it all, Derian has been noticeably absent.
Roland mentioned something about “business” outside the fortress, but assured us he’d return in time for the first trial.
Business.
What, exactly, does a Fae prince do when he disappears for days on end?
I’d bet my favorite sword that it has to do with whatever they’re training so carefully for.
They’re careful not to speak freely around us.
The fortress warriors rarely interact with us at all, in fact, leaving Taric, Parker, Rhen, Roland, and Caldren as our only real sources of information.
And they’re maddeningly tight-lipped. I listen constantly, desperate for any scrap of knowledge, but they guard their secrets well.
No matter. My plan remains the same. Win the Conclave. Get the tonic for Tyla. Kill the Fae prince.
My heart twists whenever I think of Tyla, of what she must be going through. I can only hope Kristona is looking after her, that Joneson is still providing her tonics on my tab, that she isn’t making herself sicker with worry.
On the evening of my fifth night, I trudge to the dining hall, dreading another round of posturing and one-upping from the other women.
I rarely speak during meals, choosing instead to observe and listen. It doesn’t stop Seraphina from glaring at me each night. Somehow, I’ve become her favorite target. I’ve barely settled into my seat before she fixes me with her usual cold stare.
The soup in front of me begins to bubble violently.
Across the table, Caldren sighs. “Seraphina.”
She smiles, slow and satisfied, and the soup stills. “I just thought the Mortal would enjoy a warm meal, considering it might be one of her last.”
Deliberately, I take a spoonful and swallow without flinching, ignoring the burn that scorches the back of my throat. It hurts like hell, but it’s worth it for that flash of confusion in her eyes.
“I find your power interesting, Seraphina,” I murmur, still not looking at her.
She tenses. “And why’s that?”
I finally lift my gaze to hers, painting on a sweet smile. “Well, it’s a bit ironic, don’t you think? That you’d wield fire when you’re such a frigid bitch.”
Parker chokes on his soup. There’s a sound of a sharp slap as Rhen claps him on the back, barely suppressing a grin.
Seraphina looks ready to lunge across the table and throttle me, and Gods, I almost wish she would. Despite how much I keep reminding myself that I need to lay low, I have days of pent-up frustration to work off, and I can’t seem to stop imagining sliding her own dinner knife between her ribs.
I arch a brow, daring her to make a move.
She nods to the sword strapped across Caldren’s back. “I can just as easily gut you with that as I can burn you alive. You’d do well to remember that.”
With a flip of red hair over her shoulder, she turns away from me, and I can’t help but to snicker under my breath.
“What?” she hisses.
For a moment I debate letting it lie. I remind myself, again, that flying under the radar and not drawing any further attention or making any additional enemies is the smarter, and far wiser, course of action.
But she’s looking at me with that sneer on her face, and I swear I can see the lashes on her left eye flickering ever so slightly. I just have to know if it will start twitching if I push her any further.
“It’s just,” I pause, stifling a laugh as Caldren drops his head into his hands. “You might want to consider improving your threats. You can never underestimate the importance of timing. Drawing out the tension before immediately going to death could go a long way.”
“Can we ever just have one peaceful meal?” Caldren mutters.
I don’t even think Seraphina is breathing. She’s frozen in place, as are the Fae women that all seem to flank her. From my peripheral, I see Rhen move his hand to the pommel of the blade at his hip.
“But hey,” I give her a sickeningly sweet smile, “I’m more than happy to workshop it with you if you need help.”
“I see nothing has changed during my absence.”
His voice slides over me like molten lava, making the room feel suddenly smaller.
I force myself not to turn, but I don’t need to see him to feel the shift in the air.
Derian strides in, exuding that infuriatingly easy dominance, his dark hair tousled and his fighting leathers slightly rumpled.
He claps a hand on Caldren’s shoulder as he passes, his sharp gaze sweeping the room before landing, inevitably, on me.
“Making friends?” he asks.
I ignore the way my stomach tightens under his scrutiny.
“Where have you been?” Seraphina asks, voicing the question I’ve been turning over in my mind for days.
He winks at her as he unfolds a napkin, setting it neatly on his lap. Without answering, he reaches across the table, helping himself to the mashed potatoes.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says casually.
The torches lining the walls flare. Seraphina clenches her jaw. Derian smirks behind a bite of his chicken.
He’s riling her up on purpose.
I can’t tell if it’s flirtation or if he, too, gets some sort of satisfaction from pushing her.
“So, ladies,” he says, voice light but laced with challenge. “How go the preparations?”
His gaze flicks to me, daring me to respond, to match the sharp retort I’d given Seraphina moments ago.
But I don’t rise to the bait.
I retreat back into silence, simply listening as the others begin various conversations. Seraphina glares at me like she isn’t quite finished with our argument, but the time for antagonizing her has officially passed.
Derian being back means the first trial is soon.
Living through that trial is step one.
Then I kill him, and wipe that insufferable smile off his face, once and for all.
When our eyes meet, everyone else seems to blink out of existence. There is only the Fae prince and I, and the future that lays before us. This little game will end in death, either his or mine. When everything is said and done, only one of us will be walking out of this fortress.
He stares at me, a question in his eyes, and for a moment I hold his gaze. I stare into those dark eyes and wonder what exactly he’s thinking.
But then I turn back to the bowl in front of me, focusing instead on finishing my soup so that I can return to my bedroom and get on with my nighttime routine.