Chapter 36
VANN
The next day begins with another trial. The gates groan open, and heat hits us like a gust of wind.
Same arena. Same sand, scorched and red from yesterday. The smell of iron and sweat still hangs in the air. The crowd above is louder now—thousands of voices rolling like a tide.
They’ve come to see if we’ll die today, and I feel like a caged beast left in the dark for too long. Sensitive to the light. Ears ringing.
Arlet steps beside me, her chin lifted despite the healing bruises that cover her shoulder. I feel a begrudging gratitude to both Thorne and the Living Shadow for doing that which I could not—helping to heal her body. If she’d just let me touch her last night…maybe I could’ve helped.
If only I’d been close enough to touch her.
She looks different, not just because of her thinned-out body and limbs, but because of a hardness in her jaw that wasn’t there before. The easy smile that used to grace her face daily is different.
Gone.
Guilt hits me again. I swear, I will ensure that she makes it back home. And once we are back, I will work, and labor, and strive to make sure those smiles return to her face.
And then, no sooner than I’ve thought the words, I remember her hand brushing mine through that small hole in the wall. The sound of her breath when she said my name.
I should have told her a million more things. I should’ve apologized again, should’ve told her I missed her. That I would accept whatever punishment she would give me.
Her red hair has been braided down her back, and my fingers twitch to fix the loose, frizzing strands. It would be an affectionate touch, one she likely doesn’t want.
She deserves something real. I want us to be something real again.
My gaze snaps away when the gate across the arena rattles. The crowd hushes. Whatever horrors await us today are approaching.
Arion’s voice fills the void, and Arlet’s gaze returns to the platform where he sits alongside his fellow sycophants. The Throne of Living Wood is still there. I frown, angry as I think of what they told us last night.
His new magic comes from Arlet and her cursed presence. He’s using her to stay in power.
Then, I see the Living Shadow, other leaders of the main elven factions, I even glimpse the short white hair of Thorne as he slinks to the back.
Does Arion realize how many vipers are in his midst?
“Yesterday, we witnessed the Trial of Beasts. Our fighters performed well, to their credit.” Arion pauses as the crowd roars and raises their hands. “Today, the crown presents you with the Trial of Fire!”
The sound is so loud it distorts in my ears.
My hand flexes, and I wish that I knew what they had done with my cleaver.
I don’t like the weight of the sword they’ve given me, or its ineffectiveness.
My teacher in the academy used to say that the wielder made the weapon, but I wish I had better while keeping my mate safe.
“Let all bear witness, the crown will not be mocked,” Arion says, repeating the sentiment from yesterday’s fight.
A massive creature prowls out of the gate. It is twice the size of the wolves from yesterday. I identify it as a lion, but its mane burns with embers that pulse, and smoke seeps from its nostrils in slow, heavy waves. Its claws leave molten scars in the sand.
Time goes fuzzy as I am transported back to my early days as a soldier. I’d encountered creatures like this during the skirmishes with the Dominion. Cursed beasts—I believe this is called an Ash Lion. Bred for arenas like this, half fire, half beast. Their blood runs so hot it melts steel.
At my side, Arlet stands straighter. My eyes find her as her lips part and she…steps forward. I remember her yesterday—how afraid she’d looked then. Despite her frailty, despite getting hurt, something in her is different today.
Then I think of the black flames that the Living Shadow helped her touch.
Arlet whispers, “It’s beautiful.”
Beautiful. That’s what she says.
When my gaze returns to the thing we are meant to kill, I see it differently.
The proud hold of its head and the symmetry in its features.
A part of me is baffled. I can’t help but think of Seraph, and how Arlet must’ve felt seeing the dragon for the first time.
For whatever reason, she sees good in monsters.
“Are you ready?” I find myself asking—breaking the tentative silence between us.
Arlet looks up at me, her brown eyes squinting through her long red lashes. She frowns, but nods once.
The chains between us glint in the light. Her eyes meet mine, steady. I see the power behind them, the thing Castien woke last night—the shadowflame that covered her hands.
“Be prepared,” I murmur. But something drops in my gut, and I think about last night. “But don’t use the flames the elf showed you. Not yet. Gods know what Arion will do if he sees you’ve suddenly developed powers.”
She frowns. He would think she has stolen his power, likely. The one he channels through her.
Long wooden horns blare. The Ash Lion roars, and the sound shakes the bones of the arena. I don’t give her any more directions, but step in front of her, my prehensile tail reaching for her waist, as if to hold her in place.
The lion moves faster than anticipated. It hits the sand in a spray of fire and ash. I barely get my sword up before it strikes the flat side of the blade and the impact sends me backward. I crash into her behind me, and we both stumble as the lion pounces back.
Heat rolls off its hide in waves. My lungs feel like they’re blistering just from breathing.
“Damn,” I curse, already moving both Arlet and myself out of the way with a rough dive to avoid the lion’s claws ripping through the air where we stood. The sand melts beneath it, glassing over.
I swing at its flank. The blade bites shallow. The smell—burned iron and blood—floods the air.
Arlet wriggles free from the grip of my tail and thrusts forward, catching the creature’s leg. Her sword glows faintly when it connects. The beast snarls, rearing, and for a second, the light flickers around her. Like the air itself bends to her will.
My firelocks. My flaming woman.
The lion breathes, and fire blooms across the sand.
Just as the black flames start up at her wrists, I look up at Arion and find him watching closely.
Not today. Not ever.
I need to keep her powers hidden from him for as long as I can.
I shove her aside and raise my sword to block the heat. The magic in the lion’s breath slams into us both, and I feel her hand at my back.
When the fire clears, I look at her. Her eyes are glowing white. Her lips part, and she whispers something to the thing inside her—Cursed One, she called it. A part of me braces for the worst, expecting her to start her own flames again.
I look frantically between her and the advancing lion. But then the creature’s fire goes out.
“Arlet,” I growl as my gaze finds the podium. Arion is watching without expression, back perfectly straight and each hand gripping the armrests of his throne. I’d warned her. I don’t need him to find some other reason to destroy us.
Then the mane that had blazed bright is gone, and the light before us dims, leaving only the chunks of glass in the sand around us. Even the arena goes quiet.
Confusion begins to ripple through the people watching, and I worry. The urge to protect surges in me once again.
I turn back to Arlet and find her eyes returned to normal, but there is a determination in them, as if someone else is looking out through her face.
I’ve seen gods swirl their fingers in the lives of mortals. I’ve fought soldiers who could summon lightning. But this—this is something old and powerful.
The lion recovers and lunges again, despite the lack of fire.
The crunch of glass shattering into shards fills my ears.
I yank the chain to pull her clear, and together we move—awkward at first, then in rhythm.
When I strike, she mirrors. When she stumbles, I pull her back. Our breaths sync in the heat and dust.
I never thought I would experience this with her. Her skills lay in crafting and weaving, something else sorely needed. Another part of me marvels at how good it feels to be yoked to her. To be with her.
In a quick movement, she ducks a blow, then grabs a larger shard of glass.
She slashes at the beast’s flank with both her weapons, and though her movements are less skillful than I would’ve liked, they are effective.
She’s not quite a miracle soldier, but, by the gods, her determination is something I love with every fiber of my soul.
I drive my blade into its shoulder. Together we twist our blades, and molten blood spills onto the sand. The crowd roars.
The Ash Lion thrashes, claws raking deep into my arm. Pain flares bright and hot. Arlet spins, shouting something—my name, I think—and thrusts her hand toward it. She misses, and I scrounge up as much strength as possible to thrust my own sword into the heart of the beast.
The creature freezes, its roar cut short. For a heartbeat, I think it’s over. I watch it fall to the ground.
Then it explodes.
Fire and ash and glass pieces erupt outward.
The blast knocks me to the ground. I land hard, dragging her with me.
My body covers hers as the debris rakes across me.
I let out grunts of discomfort as the skin of my legs and back and arms is torn.
She just stares up at me, breath gone, eyes wide.
The world rings, but having her here, naturally folded into my arms, makes me feel like I have gone home.
“Arlet—” I say, inspecting her body as quickly as I can. She is cut again, but nothing as severe as yesterday.
My Fuegorra has already kicked into full power, and I suck in a sharp breath at the sting of healing.
“Are you all right?” she asks, voice shaking, and moves out of my arms as the world around us settles. I hate it.
Then she starts to pick out pieces of glass in my skin, as if to ensure they won’t be healed into my body. Her fingers are nimble, almost featherlike. I savor the touches, even though they accompany pain.
I should tell her not to. That she’s already bleeding again, and it would be good for me to hold her. But I see her resolve.
She makes quick work of the task, but for some reason, the arena around us is draped in silence. I push up, and I see the charred mass in the middle of the arena.
Then the roaring starts up again. Deafening. Wild.
I feel so proud of her. Of us. That we made it another day. But when I look at the balcony, it’s clear the Elf King doesn’t share the sentiment. Now would be an excellent time for Mrath to reappear. To kill him for good.
We could all be spared if she would just make it happen somehow.
But the arena remains quiet.
Arion rises on the dais, smiling now. “It seems my pesky little consort lives another day,” he announces, his voice smooth and cold. “Let us see if she still burns tomorrow.”
I freeze at the phrasing. Did he see her eyes? Sense something?
Has the Shadow sold our secrets to the king?
Or maybe, he didn’t think we would both survive today.
My mind still races. The agreement had been that if we survived the three trials, we would be set free.
We’re so close to returning to Enduvida.
I can hardly stop the fantasies—the plans—of everything I will do once we are home.
The gifts I could give her. The stories and scrolls I’ll share.
I’ll build her a new bed to erase the bad memory of her curse killing Diego after the mating rituals.
I’ll carry her supplies anywhere she likes. Beg Teo to let me access the royal coffers to give her the best jewels I’m allowed to take.
The guards move to retrieve us. I slip an arm around her before they can touch her, steadying her against my shoulder.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t help me—Arion will see and it will make everything worse.”
“No worse than it already is after your magic flared,” I say.
She doesn’t look at me, but her weight remains against my arm just long enough for me to count three heartbeats. We’re too close to the end of this. Too near to making it out alive.
Something dark strikes me in the chest. Even if I don’t have a chance to change her opinion of me, getting her out is my priority. If Arion cheats us some way, as he is very capable of doing, I will be ready. If I have to die to make sure she makes it out of here tomorrow, I will.
As we are paraded away from the arena and then back through the dungeons, the other prisoners stir.
“The gold-digging whore lives to see another day!” one of them shouts through the bars, and it takes everything in me to not stop, to pull against the guards and strike the elf through the iron bars.
But we keep walking.
I should just be grateful that they haven’t separated us again.
Thorne seems to be good for something.