Chapter 5 #2
"Oh." Peeble's excitement dims slightly. "Yeah, about that. Iteration Fifteen Elle was... different."
"Different how?"
"She was kind of terrifying, actually. Refused to work with you, me, or any of the crew.
She hooked up with a group of outlaw types, bandits, deserters, the kind of people who carved out their own territory and dared anyone to take it from them.
Rumor was she ran the whole operation within a year of arriving. "
I absorb that. An Elle who didn't ally with us. Didn't trust us. Went her own way. It's hard to picture, but the iterations produce all kinds of variations.
"And me? The version of me in this iteration?"
Peeble makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough. "Do you really want to know?"
"Yes."
"After Elle shut you down, and I mean hard, she apparently told you that she'd rather eat her own boot than spend another minute in your company; you withdrew from everyone in a fortress on the other side of the realm. Barely left. Stopped training. Stopped fighting."
"I retreated."
"You pouted. Like a baby. Just sat around in your fortress eating cheese and feeling sorry for yourself." Peeble shrugs with their whole body. "It's no wonder she didn't want you. You gave up. This version of you, anyway."
The words land harder than they should. An alternate version of me who let rejection break him. Who stopped being useful because one person turned him away. It's pathetic.
"So I won't be running into myself here."
"Not unless you go looking, and trust me, you don't want to. It's depressing."
Fine. That's one less complication. I return my attention to the clearing. "Then we go down, find out if anyone's seen unusual activity—timeline disturbances, people appearing out of nowhere—and move on."
"OR," Peeble says, already buzzing toward the crowd, "we enjoy the games, gather intelligence in a casual and non-threatening way, and have a wonderful time doing it!"
"Peeble, get back here."
But they're gone. Darting into the crowd with the speed and determination of a beetle who has found their purpose. I stand at the treeline for approximately four seconds before I realize that chasing them through a packed arena will draw more attention than just walking in calmly.
I adjust my armor, check that my weapons are accessible but not drawn, and descend into the amphitheater. I keep to the edges, moving along the outer ring where the vendors and spectators are densest. Nobody seems to pay me much attention. Good.
Then a caller's horn sounds, a deep, resonant blast that silences the crowd. A figure on a raised platform, at the clearing's center, raises their arms. They're tall, built like a boulder with legs, their voice carrying through the amphitheater with the help of some amplification enchantment.
"Welcome, people of the free territories, to the thirty-fourth Rootbreaker Games!"
The crowd erupts. I press closer to the inner ring, trying to spot Peeble.
"We have a special guest today," the caller continues, their voice dripping with theatrical flair. "A competitor who needs no introduction, though I'll give him one anyway because I enjoy the sound of my voice!"
No.
"He's tall! He's dark! He's got that look on his face like he's smelled something unpleasant!"
No. No, no, no.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and beings of indeterminate categorization, I give you the Rebel Prince himself—KAELREN!"
Every head in the amphitheater turns toward me.
My eyes find Peeble on the caller's platform, perched on their shoulder. The beetle raises one front leg and gives me what I can only describe as their version of a thumbs up. Their mandibles are spread in what is absolutely a grin.
I am going to end that beetle.
The crowd parts around me, murmuring and staring. I set my jaw and push toward the platform, ready to remove Peeble from the situation by force and get us both out of here before—
An arrow buries itself in the wooden post six inches from my left ear.
I have my blade drawn before the sound finishes, body dropping into a combat stance, eyes tracking the trajectory. My gaze finds the archer.
She's standing on a root terrace about thirty feet away.
Red hair pulled back in a rough braid, leather armor that's seen hard use, a recurve bow still raised with a second arrow already nocked.
Her crew flanks her. Seven, maybe eight rough-looking fae, all armed, all watching me with expressions that range from hostile to amused.
But I don't see any of them. I see her.
Elle.
Something in my chest gives way. Everything I've been holding since she dispersed. The grief, the desperate searching, the months of empty sleep and chilly mornings. All of it rushes forward. She's here. Standing right there. Whole and solid and furious and alive and—
I take a step toward her.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Peeble lands on my shoulder so hard I feel the impact through my armor. "Lover boy. Slow down."
"That's—"
"That is not your Elle." Peeble's voice is low, urgent, stripped of its usual theatrics. "That's Iteration Fifteen Elle. The one I just told you about. The baddie with the attitude? The one who ganged up with outlaws and told you to eat rocks? That one."
The second arrow is still pointed at me. Iteration Fifteen Elle's expression is pure murder.
"Get off my range, princeling," she calls out, and her voice, gods, her voice is the same. The same cadence, the same slight rasp when she's angry. "Or the next one goes through your throat instead of past it."
I sheathe my blade. But not because she told me to.
"She hates you in this version," Peeble whispers. "Like, really hates you."
"Noted."
"Maybe we should just go."
But I don't move. Because even if this isn't my Elle, even if she wants nothing to do with me, she might have seen something. Sensed something. If the current version of Elle passed through this iteration, this Elle might know. And that makes her the most valuable person in this clearing.
"I need to talk to her," I say.
"Oh, that'll go well. She just shot at you."
"She missed on purpose. If she wanted me dead, that arrow would have been three inches to the right."
"And that makes you feel BETTER?"
The caller, recovering from the interruption with the practiced ease of someone who's seen worse, clears their throat. "Well! Seems we have some tension! Perfect for the Games! Competitors, take your marks!"
I look at the competition grounds. Then at Elle, who's already conferring with her crew. Two of them are warming up. A large male with bark-encrusted arms and a wiry female with tattoos that glow faintly.
"She's competing," I say.
"Yep. Her crew's won the last three Games running. She's kind of a legend in this iteration."
"Then I compete too. The winner of these games gets something, don't they? Some kind of reward?"
Peeble's antennae perk up. "The champion gets a private audience with the host territory's leader to negotiate any single request. No refusal."
"If I win, I get time alone with her."
"You're going to fight your way through a bunch of competitions you've never trained for just to have a conversation with a woman who wants to kill you?"
"Yes. If winning gets me near her, then winning is the only option."
Peeble is quiet for exactly one second. "I love it. Let's go."
The first event is the Stone Hurl which is a throwing competition using boulders roughly the size of a human torso, carved from the Wyrmwood's bedrock and polished smooth. Competitors stand behind a root-marked line and launch them as far as possible.
I watch the first three competitors . The technique is straightforward. Rotation, momentum, release. The bark-armed male from Elle's crew goes fourth and sends his stone sailing an impressive distance. The crowd cheers. Elle, watching from the terrace, gives a curt nod of approval.
My turn.
I heft the stone. It's heavier than it looks, dense with mineral deposits, but I've carried worse. I settle my stance, rotate, and—
"HEY KAELREN, YOUR FORM IS ALL WRONG!" Peeble shouts from somewhere behind me. "YOU NEED TO BEND YOUR KNEES MORE! THAT'S WHAT THE LAST GUY DID AND HIS WENT REALLY FAR!"
The stone releases at an angle that's about fifteen degrees off from where I intended. It sails wide, still covers good distance, but lands crooked. Still places me second behind the bark-armed male.
"Great job!" Peeble says, landing on my shoulder. "Almost perfect!"
"You yelled in my ear mid-throw."
"I was helping."
Elle smirks from her terrace. I catch it before she wipes it away. "Not bad for a prince who sits on a throne all day," she calls out.
"I don't sit on a throne."
"Could have fooled me."
The second event is the Canopy Run, a race through an obstacle course built into the trees above the amphitheater. Rope bridges, swinging platforms, balance beams made from living branches. Speed and agility, measured by whoever reaches the far platform first.
I'm good at this. Climbing, running, navigating uneven terrain. This is what I trained for during the rebellion years. I launch off the starting root and hit the first rope bridge at full sprint, my boots finding the knots by instinct.
Behind me, I hear Peeble: "GO, GO, GO! THAT'S MY PRINCE! WELL, NOT MY PRINCE, BUT THE PRINCE I'M CURRENTLY TRAVELING WITH AGAINST HIS WILL!"
I’m halfway across the third platform when I grab a vine to swing to the next section.
Then I realize too late. Peeble has landed ahead of me, right in my trajectory, exactly where I will squish them if I grab my next hold. I swing low, clip my shins on a branch, and barely catch the platform edge with my fingers.
I haul myself up and finish third. Third.
"Oops," Peeble says from the branch above me. "My bad."
Elle wins this one. She moves through the canopy course with the ease of someone who's spent years living in trees. No wasted motion. No hesitation. When she reaches the far platform, she doesn't even look winded.
She looks down at me, dangling from the edge, and smiles. It's not a nice smile.