Royal Champions Vs. Evil Minions Round Two
An Hour Earlier
A Random Office in the Lord of Grimnight’s Evil Lair
Wrestling an Imp
The change from the throne room to the office was jarring enough to make Fitz’s head spin.
He’d gone from holding onto the door, watching Maximus slowly fall to the ground, to holding a squirming imp.
Fitz had just registered the loose ropes, not yet tied, wrapped around the imp when the little fiend turned its head and buried its teeth in his exposed hand.
“Fuck!” he dropped the imp.
Its fall stopped an inch from the floor, hovering in place as it freed its wings from the rope. “You’re rude,” it declared, waggling a clawed finger at Fitz.
“And you’re—” Fitz stared at the bite mark on his hand, the blood draining from his face “—venomous.”
Maximus lost his hold on the other two imps, who flew out of his arms the moment they escaped. They floated near the ceiling, blowing raspberries and shouting taunts.
“Let’s get out of here before the guards come,” Maximus said, grabbing Fitz’s arm and pulling him toward the door.
“I don’t care about the guards right now! I need antivenom!” Fitz waved his hand at Maximus’ face. The tiny punctures had already turned red and swollen.
“There’s some in Wilde’s room,” the pink imp offered.
Its companions cried foul and chased the pink imp around the room, giggles and shrieks overlapping each other.
Maximus looked from Fitz’s injured hand to the hall, his expression pained.
The hesitation annoyed Fitz and he nudged Maximus forward. “I’ll search for Wilde’s room—”
“It’s on the third floor!”
“Stop helping!”
“—for antivenom.”
“What if you’re caught?” Maximus asked.
Fitz sighed in exasperation. “Then I’ll rattle off every rule for taking captives I can think of until I convince someone to bring me antivenom. Yes, I’ll be a prisoner, but it’s still better than dying from some feral fiend’s bite.”
“I am not feral!” the imp protested. “I am domesticated!”
“I’ll end this quickly,” Maximus promised, then raced down the hall.
Fitz glanced up at the ceiling, where the imps huddled together. “I don’t suppose you’d do me the small favor of waiting to call the guards until I’ve left?”
“Got any sweets?” the green one asked.
Fitz sighed, wishing he’d known how to bribe imps before embarking on this quest. “No.”
The imps opened their mouths and caterwauled at a volume impossibly loud for their tiny bodies.
Fitz clamped his wounded hand to his chest and ran.
The fight had drained out of Angelica when she’d seen the Lord of Grimnight. Not the man who had plotted against her kingdom, who had ridiculed her attempts to fight back, who had sacrificed his son for his evil plot. Instead, it was the man who had reversed time looking for a second chance.
How long had he planned to betray them?
The version of Wilde who had lounged on the throne seemed so distant from the hopelessly lovesick man she knew. His snide comments and cruel tone clashed with his usual quiet observations. It was like …
He was playing a part.
She gasped, thinking of the events that led to him resetting time. The minion who’d reacted on instinct, trying to protect his master. The club coming down on Maximus’ head. Wilde’s words: “I told you not to kill them!”
They might have been the words of an evil mage intending to use his captives for some darker purpose, but there’d been genuine distress in his voice.
And then he’d reset time to fix his minion’s mistake.
“Your Highness?”
She blinked, coming back to herself, back to the challenge she’d issued to Fyodor. “Do you feel like we’ve done this already?” she asked, trying to gauge how much he retained from the previous timeline.
He snorted and asked, “Backing down from the challenge already? You can always surrender, princess, but you’ll still owe me a prize.”
A blush heated her cheeks as she thought of what he’d asked for last time. She didn’t know the man well enough to marry him, yet her heart fluttered at the prospect. But she would never concede without a fight. She lifted her chin and said, “Prepare.”
He grinned and shifted into a fighting stance.
She struck first, and the fight began.
Angelica thought winning the fight once would give her the advantage—especially since she was the only one who remembered her opponent’s moves.
Yet she found herself scrambling to block, to parry, to dodge each lightning-fast thrust or swipe of his blade.
Anger simmered inside her as she realized he’d held back before!
She had no idea what made him take her seriously this time. Perhaps his subconscious warned him of her capabilities. Even with the knowledge, his technique remained flawed, as if it’d been years since he fought with such a thin, delicate blade. She could still win.
As soon as she had the thought, her foot snagged on a disturbed cobblestone. Pain shot through her ankle as she fell forward. She lost her grip on her sword, and it clattered to the ground.
Fyodor flung his own sword away and caught her in his strong, steady arms. “Are you alright, princess?” Every word rumbled through her.
She gazed up at him half-dazed, heart pounding as he held her against his broad chest. “I, yes, I think so.”
He held her for a long moment before releasing her, his calloused palms lingering on her upper arms.
Angelica tested her ankle and flinched at its throbbing response. “Twisted,” she confirmed. Because she wasn’t a sore loser, she told him magnanimously, “You’ve won our duel. What prize would you ask for?”
He watched her steadily for a moment, his hand raised as if to catch her again. Then he smiled and said, “What any man would ask for when a headstrong damsel holds a blade to his throat.”
She straightened her shoulders and held her breath, waiting for his proposal.
“A simple kiss.”
“What!” she shouted. “That’s not what you—ugh!”
He startled away from her then laughed at her frustration. “Did you expect something else?”
“No,” she lied, forcing her mouth to un-pout. “Come here and take your prize.”
He approached her slowly, wary of her prickly temper.
Last time, she kissed him on the cheek. This time, she tilted her chin slightly, offering her lips.
He grabbed her hand and raised it to his mouth, gently brushing a kiss over her knuckles.
Could the man be any more frustrating? She would have stomped off in a huff if she didn’t think limping would ruin the effect.
Instead, she wrapped her fingers around his arm and demanded, “Take me to the Lord of Grimnight.” She’d give Wilde a piece of her mind about his stupid plot, his stupid minions, and his stupid uneven ground!
Maximus didn’t remember everything, but he remembered the path through the halls that would lead him directly to the throne room. He remembered white hair against a black cloak. And he remembered the sneering, true face of the evil mage they needed to defeat.
Perhaps he should have stayed with Fitz—helped him find the antivenom—but Maximus reasoned with himself that Fitz understood the importance of eliminating the mage. That the same righteous fury fueled them both.
As Maximus turned the corner, he ran into a patrolling minion—literally plowing straight into the guard, sending them both crashing to the ground. The minion hissed in surprise and struggled underneath Maximus, claws scratching his shoulders in the process.
Maximus gritted his teeth against the pain and elbowed the minion in the face.
“Ah, fuck, that hurts!” They released Maximus to grab their scaled muzzle.
Their spear had fallen to the side in the scuffle. As soon as Maximus saw it, he remembered tossing a spear across the room, missing the mark. He gritted his teeth and snatched it up. He was no warrior, but he wanted the weapon, something sharp, something deadly.
He held it close to his side as he ran through the hall. Other minions spotted him and shouted warnings. Some of them leapt out of the way when they saw him coming.
Angelica walked through the front door on the arm of an orc. Her eyes widened when she saw Maximus. “What are you doing? You don’t even know how to use that thing!”
Maximus ignored her and burst into the throne room.
The cloaked figure sat on the throne, one arm supporting their head, like they were too tired to hold it up.
“I know who you are!” Maximus bellowed.
The figure raised their head. Even with the hood covering their face, Maximus felt their steady gaze on him. “Come to issue your mighty challenge?”
Maximus tightened his grip on the spear. “Yes.”
They stood and dropped the cloak from their shoulders. It fluttered over the throne, revealing Wilde’s fae face and lithe figure. He turned his black gaze on the minions. “No one interferes.”
The minions took one large, unified step back.
Wilde looked back at Maximus, a slight quirk on his lips. “Ready, set, go.” And then he disappeared.
Maximus stormed into the room, searching every corner for the coward. A cat meowed somewhere near the throne, and some part of him realized it might be Delilah, in need of rescue, but the rest of him was focused on finding his quarry.
“Looking for me?”
He whirled around to find Wilde standing in the doorway leading out of the throne room.
Maximus released a battle cry and ran toward him. When he was only a few feet away, Wilde disappeared again. Maximus couldn’t slow his momentum, and he slammed into one of the orcs.
“Get the fuck off!” the orc roared, tossing him aside.
“Careful,” Wilde chided from within the throne room. “He’s more delicate than he looks.”
Maximus huffed like an enraged bull and charged back the way he’d come.
Wilde disappeared again, appearing off to the right.
“Stop running, you coward!”
“Should I politely wait for you to skewer me?”
“Yes!” Maximus slashed the spear through the air, connecting with nothing.
Wilde appeared, sitting on his throne again, one hand cupping his chin. “Sorry, only one person is allowed to skewer me, and he’s conspicuously absent.”