Chapter 25
My blood turns to ice as dark certainty takes hold of my mind. I’m going to die right here on the stones, and I’ll never get the grail for Vero. There will never be a point to anything I’ve done.
The raw, primal terror makes it hard to think. Fear will be my doom, and I’m already dead—
I glance at the others he killed, their eyes gaping up at the clouds. Jaws open. If there is no point to my life, I should never have been born.
Overhead, the skies darken once more, and cold chills the air.
I can’t think clearly through the roar of panic in my skull. Is that Rion’s power, or am I predicting my own death because it’s going to happen? Is this magic or understanding?
My thoughts flit with images from my past that make my stomach swoop.
Auberon is bringing prisoners into the Undercroft. He hands me a sword…
The image shifts. Now, Tristan’s hands are tied to a post, and Auberon has forced another cadet to whip him…
Is it me?
And then the worst memory—
Two people kneel, arms tied, sacks over their heads…
I force the visions away. I’m shaking now, ready to vomit.
I must shield my thoughts from him. I try to summon it once more, a cloud in my mind, just like Auberon taught me. Gritting my teeth, I imagine the clouds in my skull like the ones from this morning: blue, with a golden tinge from the morning light.
Master your fear, Auberon’s voice whispers. Perfect your stance. Shoulders down. Weight forward. Let him come to you. No mercy. No hesitation.
I manage to gather a fog in my skull, dulling his magic. I slow my breathing and tighten my grip on the hilt of my sword. He’s left-handed, and I adjust my mental calculations to fight him.
Rion prowls closer, his icy gaze sharp as a blade. Another ripple of fear dances down my spine, but I block out the full force of his power.
He moves first, a little test. His blade glides slowly through the air—slow enough for me to block. Our swords meet, but there’s not much force to it.
I step and shift, blocking his next attack. He strikes again, faster, and I dodge his blade.
His eyes sharpen on me, head cocking with curiosity.
“You’re used to fighting people who are mindless with fear, aren’t you? Just staggering dullards.”
I’m starting to think a little more clearly, and I track his patterns—the way his shoulder drops slightly before he lunges. The tick in his jawline before he feints. All those years of repetition with Auberon still live with me, marked on me like tattoos.
Our swords clash again, and a faint smile curls his lips.
He’s enjoying himself, obviously. And when he’s actually trying, he’s incredibly fucking skilled.
I’m retreating a bit now, and he’s pressing me with his attacks.
Closing the space between us, pushing me back.
Even without his magic, he can easily master a fight.
As he presses in harder, each clash rings through my bones like a funeral bell.
Suddenly, I feel a kinship with that pell I’ve been battering, because now I’m the stupid piece of coffin wood taking a beating.
And there it is again—the note of panic wending through my thoughts like a high-pitched scream.
Block it out, Syn.
Panic is a drug that poisons rational thought.
Now, my breath is shallow. My heart is pounding. I keep thinking of Dagonet, and the way Rion decapitated him within moments. Even if I had the Song, I don’t know if it would protect me from Rion.
The only thing keeping me alive is the threadbare shield in my mind, barely holding itself together. And beneath that shield, it’s Vero. She’s the reason I have to get through this.
Maybe I can break his rhythm. He favors his left side, I think.
I swing for him in a fast arc, and he ducks. He strikes back, and his blade cuts through the air. Immediately, I dodge out of the way, but his blade nicks my ear.
I step in closer, trying to strike him. His range is nearly twice mine, and he’s faster and stronger.
He shifts inside my guard, moving in a blur of shadow.
The hard line of his body slams into me, tossing me backward.
I fall and hit the stones hard on my side, my cheek smashing against the ground, my head ringing like a bell.
My gaze flicks to my hand, and I see that I’ve lost my sword.
Shock cracks through my body like lightning. My cheek is split open, but I don’t have time to think about that now. If I let the pain distract me, I’ll die.
Rion stands over me, and I twist my body, reaching for the hilt of my sword. My old training takes over, and I kick up from the ground, my heel jamming hard into his knee. It shifts him back, just long enough for me to actually grip my hilt again.
“Surrender to me,” he says. “You’re only alive because I’m allowing it.”
But I’m up again in moments. He circles me, his movements slow, graceful.
Auberon is yelling at me in my mind.
Grip tightly, use your thumb to guide. Cut upward. Break his guard, dodge left. Watch his eyes. Parry the thrust. Jab. Balance.
Too close, and I die, impaled on his blade. Too far, and I can’t strike him. His enormous size is not fucking helpful.
A cold sweat glows over my skin.
When he strikes again, faster and harder this time, I parry—one, two, three times. Then I pivot and cut up sharply. My sword snaps toward his blade, but he blocks it so hard that I almost lose my grip.
The next time I strike, it’s rushed and messy. Close to me now, he catches my arm mid-swing. He twists my forearm sharply in front of me, ready to break it. Grimacing, I drop my sword, and it clangs to the stones between us.
Fuck.
Hunched over, I catch my breath, and my heart slams against my ribs.
He stares at me, his silver eyes burning with a searing intensity. The breeze toys with his hair, and time stretches out. The shouts around me slow to a hush. Fear flares in my chest, stealing my breath.
There’s a hungry look in his eyes. I wonder if he needs to replenish his magic, like I did. Even with the Song, it used to take me days to recover.
“You’re skilled at blocking my magic,” he says.
I jerk my hand free of his grasp and stagger back.
Only I’m backing up against a wall, cornered.
I’m trapped. There’s nowhere else for me to retreat now, not with my shoulder blades jammed against the stone arena wall.
My heart slams so hard, it’s all I can hear.
I try to slow my panicked breaths, to clear my head.
He’s towering over me, blade in his hand.
If I try to grab my sword off the stones, I’ll be dead.
Improvise. Adapt. Do not give up.
I know the moment I bend down for my sword, his will carve into my throat.
Think, Syn. Think.
There’s more than one way to dominate, isn’t there?
Rion can kill everyone here, but that’s not what determines who becomes king.
He needs the nobility to like him. They’re the kingmakers.
And unfortunately for him, he’s come here with the reputation of a monster.
As far as anyone knows, he didn’t even start off as a real noble—he got his title through violence.
He’s a warlord from nowhere who stole a throne on a distant island.
Killing me won’t improve his reputation.
He strikes again, moving in closer. I duck, and his sword sings over my head.
When I rise again, I move closer to him, darting forward.
I’m out of range of his sword now, and I press myself against him.
It was an instinctive move to close the distance, to make it hard for him to strike me.
But a new idea starts to take root in my mind as the word Vicky rattles in my thoughts.
Catching my breath, I peer up at him. His oaky scent wraps around me, his hot body warming mine.
He stares down at me, and his magic pulses over my skin.
Now, his eyes have gone darker—a midnight blue.
It’s a primal, animalistic look that sends alarm bells ringing in my mind.
There’s a hunger in those shadowed eyes.
“You must submit to me to live.”
His powerful magic licks at my body, making it hard for me to think straight.
He’s towering over me, and I know he could simply tear my head off my body. He could end my life within seconds.
This is my time to play to the crowd.
“I don’t trust you to let me live out of a sense of morality.
Everyone here knows you don’t have that.
But I do hope you’re smart enough to realize you can’t kill me in front of the noble houses.
After all, Rion…” On my tiptoes, I slide both arms up over his shoulders and press myself against his leather armor.
“I’m just a girl looking for love. And you? Everyone knows you’re a monster.”
I leap up, wrapping my legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders. Distantly, I hear a roar of approval from the noble houses.
Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a soft, dangerous smile that shows the edge of his elongated canines. “Do you really want to play with a monster?”
“Even the Ruthless Knight can find love, don’t you think? It would make a great story.”
I run my hand over his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his tunic.
He sighs faintly, and finally drops his sword at his feet like he’s the one surrendering. “That’s one way to disarm me,” he says in a low purr.
This close, I can see everything. The sensuous curve of his lips.
The angle of his jaw. The golden tattoos tracing his divine features, as if he’s been kissed by the gods.
The exquisite jewel dangling from one ear.
I can’t decide if this man was born to kill or seduce, or which side of him is more dangerous.
What I do know is that I can’t look away from the Ruthless Knight, and I hate him for that.
“I hope you’re willing to play for the crowd,” I whisper. “They want romance.”
His expression darkens. “And you’re just a lonely girl looking for love, is that right?” His deep voice holds a sensual timbre.
“You keep saying I shouldn’t be here,” I whisper into his ear. “And what about you? You starved a demi-Fey high lord to death in an oubliette. Is that right?”
“I had my reasons.” His hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling in my curls. His other hand holds tightly to my bum, and he pulls me close.
He’s so insanely large that I feel tiny in his arms and completely vulnerable.
“Mmm. But what’s your noble lineage, darling?” I coo into his ear. “Isn’t that what this is all about? For all we know, warlord, you could have crawled from the Corbinelle slums before you conquered Tintagol.”
“I was born from the oaks.”
“Like a jackdaw?” I whisper close to his lips, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Or a beetle?”
Midnight blue bleeds into the silver in his eyes. “Like a god. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
I wish I could say this was delusion, but he is the most powerful Fey I’ve ever met, and he looks like a god.
“Surrender,” he whispers against my mouth. “You know you don’t stand a chance against me. I let you live because I chose it.”
“And why would you go easy on me? Out of the kindness of your warlord heart?”
“Maybe you amuse me.” His magic strokes my skin. “Or, perhaps I know just as well as you do what the crowd wants.”
“So, you’re a filthy little liar, too.”
“I must admit, you’re stronger than I imagined,” he says quietly. “And more brutal.”
“See? We’re not so different.” Our lips are nearly touching. “So, what now?”
“Now? I’ll let them think I’ve won you as my prize.”
With his fingers curled into my hair, he tugs my head back a little, exposing my throat. He presses my back against the stone wall, pinning me in place.
I’m more vulnerable than ever as he lowers his mouth to my neck. He knows as well as I do that the crowd is watching, but I almost forget about them as I feel his teeth brushing over the pulsing vein in my throat. This is, perhaps, a threat, because he could rip through that vein in a second.
Something primal in the depths of my thoughts tells me to go still.
His teeth graze my throat again—just enough to remind me how easily this could end—before his lips replace them.
His scent is oaky and intoxicating, his magic tingling over my skin. I’m no longer sure who is in control of this act now, but I don’t think it’s me.
Unwelcome desire coils through me as he kisses my throat with a featherlight brush of his lips, followed by a gentle stroke of his tongue.
Is this his magic, too? Terror and pleasure, two sides of the same coin? Both make your heart race. Both make you lose control.
He raises his face to mine again, his eyes now dark as midnight. He’s very good at this game of make-believe. Gently, he brushes his lips against mine, agonizingly lightly. And that brush of a kiss makes an ache build deep inside me.
My thighs tighten around him, and my hand slides into his long, silver hair. My breath is coming faster now, and I fight the urge to open my mouth to him. He’s the enemy, Syn.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about what he said—about how we Fey seek pleasure and drag our fingers through the soil, how we fuck against rowan trees and primal magic roars through our veins like wildfire.
He pulls away from the kiss, but he’s still holding my gaze.
Auberon taught me that panic was death—he never anticipated how much desire could unmoor someone, too. That doesn’t usually tend to come up in battle.
The golden tattoos on Rion’s cheekbones seem to glow brighter, radiantly. “You’re a dangerous little liar, mortal, but you’ve done me a favor.”
Slowly, he sets me down like he’s lowering a child to the ground, and I slide against the stone.
He pulls me against him, leaning down to whisper, “But I demand a token of your defeat, and I will take my due.”
He reaches out and rips the raven emblem off my chest with a cold smile. “Now, Baroness. Kneel before me and say my name when you submit.”
Clenching my jaw, I drop to my knees—and already, his blade gleams with silver as it flicks toward my throat. I raise my hands. “I surrender to Rion du Lac!” I shout, and the sound echoes across the arena.
Rion faces the mirrors. “And what do the leaders of the noble houses say? Will you save this lady?”
From the stone dais, Niniane swans into the arena, her silver-blue gown trailing behind her. She smiles, lifting her face to the buttery sunlight. The three cloaked cugol glide behind her, their faces entirely shadowed.
“Only Baroness Alis survived on her side today, and she surrendered. And what do our noble houses say shall be the fate of our baroness today? Death or mercy?”