31. The Puppeteer #2
Nevander’s wings unfurl, and Morana darts skyward.
Nevander’s never seen Morana fight aloft before. Most duels are grounded. Her violet wings cleave the air swiftly, already diving as Nevander rises to meet her. He moves on instinct, not strategy, sword sweeping as a shield.
Blades collide, showering sparks.
Nevander barely dodges the sting of Morana’s offhand dagger. She stabs again, wide and hasty. Nevander slashes sideways, trying to foul her wings as he disengages.
A single violet feather tip spirals down. Morana laughs, breaking away, seeming unphased as Nevander claims the higher position. He climbs, putting a few dozen feet between them, just enough space to observe.
The rune circle commands a wall like frosted glass, rising to a curved ceiling. The courtyard’s great clock is a blur below, obscured by the clouded translucence. All outside sound and lights are muted—from Nevander’s perspective.
For the audience, the wall is nearly transparent, and every breath is clear. Seren is witness to this. Nevander can’t think about that.
Blood streaks Morana’s left gauntlet. Nevander hadn’t realized he struck true in the last exchange. She might not realize either. The shallow wound doesn’t affect the speed of her next attack.
Nevander parries the first strike easily. Then the second. Dodging the third nearly drives him into the circle boundary. He rights himself in midair, wings straining.
Morana is already diving away from retaliation.
The next few engagements repeat the pattern. Morana attacks quickly. Nevander easily counters. He’s on the defensive, and dragging this out will wear him down.
It will wear Morana out faster. Nevander can wait, conserving energy, until she tires. They’ve both learned the same thing from their exchanges—he’s stronger than her.
There’s one thing he doesn’t understand. And if he doesn’t ask now, he may never get the chance.
“Why are you doing this?” Nevander asks, hovering above.
Morana circles below. “Have you never wanted to be more than you are?”
Nagging ambition. Purpose stronger than any vow.
“Every day,” Nevander says. “But I don’t need a crown for that.”
Morana laughs, sharp. “You’re happy to serve. I’m tired of losing court games. Even bickering with Gevain bores me now.”
Nevander adjusts the flow of his magic, bringing wings, blade, breath into alignment. “I’ll tell him that.”
“I’ll tell him myself.” Morana flies a few wingbeats higher. “I’ve got nothing personal against your pet prince. This is just an opportunity.”
Even through his anger, Nevander understands.
This isn’t just an opportunity, but Morana’s first and only opportunity in centuries.
Longevity can be frustrating for young, ambitious fae.
Morana isn’t young anymore, and the years have sharpened her frustration.
Her sister is heir to Brightwood, and their mother shows no sign of retiring.
Haelwen ruled strong for five hundred years.
This moment of transition is a rare gap in the armor of dynasty. An opportunity worth Morana’s life.
Nevander shouldn’t drag this out.
Yet as he angles, preparing to dive, something flashes in his peripheral vision. A tiny object gleams ten feet down, near the boundary.
Instead of diving, Nevander dodges Morana’s next strike. An easy exchange of blows—too easy. As they disengage, Nevander passes the unknown object.
A drop of blood, anchoring quiet power.
Fuck.
Nevander casts around, seeking with magic as much as sight. He senses nine scattered drops of blood. Then a tenth, as Morana turns in midair.
Duelists can’t bring charms into the circle. Morana must have cut herself intentionally during her first strike, and she’s using her own blood to anchor a ritual. Some sort of trap. Her darting attacks aren’t to wear Nevander out—she’s maneuvering to place the blood drops.
Nevander underestimated her.
Ten drops. If the ritual wasn’t completed with seven drops, it probably needs twelve. Maybe thirteen, but Nevander can’t count on that. He needs to finish this fast, before he finds out what the ritual will do.
Nevander tucks his wings and dives. Air rushes past. Morana meets his blade with a jarring impact. Sparks blur her face. She parries with more power than she’s shown so far.
Her offhand dagger finds purchase in Nevander’s thigh. Pain lances the muscle. Instead of retreating, Nevander wrenches sideways. He scrapes against the boundary, shedding feathers in the bruising blow. The feathers swirl away on the wind of his collision.
It works. Morana swears, losing hold. She climbs skyward as the dagger plummets. By the time Nevander rights himself, she has twenty feet on him. Her face is unreadable, her violet wings shrouding the sky.
An eleventh droplet hovers beside her. It flashes. The air pulses with anticipation.
One more.
Nevander surges upwards. His wings burn with exertion. With magic. He has the disadvantage from this angle, but he has no choice. His blade swings with reckless force, weaker this time, as his magic concentrates somewhere else.
Morana dodges sideways with ease. Then she chokes, confused, as a magic-flown feather slices her throat.
Nevander’s second feather carves its own path beneath her jaw as insurance. The telltale drops of blood rain down, unfulfilled.
Two can play at feinting. Nevander hit the wall on purpose to break off feathers.
Dropping her sword, Morana clutches her throat in a futile, mortal gesture. Blood sprays between her fingers as her wings falter. Her magic bleeds out with her lifeforce, and her wings fail completely. Feather and bone dissolve into golden mist.
She crunches to the stone beside her fallen blades.
Nevander pants, watching, waiting, until with Morana’s last heartbeat, the boundary vanishes. Voices rush in, manic delight and dismay no longer muffled. The fae of Elladar will be talking about this duel for years to come. The great Lady Morana’s final show.
But Nevander only has eyes for one witness. His prince sits rigid on the dais, pale and angry.