Chapter Twenty-Two
ChApter
Twenty-Two
It is early morning when we are invited to the Podrosan tournament grounds, as they call it.
It looks more like a huge outdoor arena to me, with a semi-circle of tiered viewing benches that look out over the expansive space.
To the left and right of the seating area, high stone walls are draped in banners of deep crimson and black.
The scent of warm earth and polished steel lingers in the air, mingling with the distant clamor of the city beyond.
I sit between Nadya and Queen Eleanor in the shaded viewing box, the heavy folds of my mourning gown pooling at my feet, suffocating in the midday heat.
The sun beats down from a cloudless sky, glaring against the pale stone walls of the arena and forcing me to squint through the brightness.
Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades beneath the velvet, and I can already feel a dull ache building behind my eyes.
The Podrosan court is gathered around us—nobles draped in plain, red attire, guards stiff and alert along the stone perimeter, courtiers whispering into gloved hands.
Just below our viewing box, Lord Marcos Trevose stands among the other lords.
His outer robe is a shade deeper than the Podrosan crimson, belted in polished onyx that glints when he turns toward the sun.
Silver embroidery coils at his cuffs and collar, etched in symbols of his house—a mark of old nobility.
He notices me watching and offers a shallow nod, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar, measured smile. Respectful. Thoughtful. Perhaps still hopeful.
I look away quickly, my gaze shifting to the arena—but his words return to me in a murmur, low and uncertain: I wonder if Lord Stregasi is up to the challenge.
At the time, I’d assumed he meant the diplomacy. The scrutiny. The maneuvering through a foreign court built on brittle, ancient pride. But now, as my eyes adjust to the brightness and take in the mountainous course beyond the arena sand, my stomach twists.
This isn’t politics; this is a trial.
The arena sprawls wide and open, a vast expanse of packed earth enclosed by towering stone walls. But beyond that lies the true test—the mountainside itself, carved into a brutal gauntlet of obstacles meant to break even the most seasoned warriors.
Wooden beams stretch at precarious angles, forming narrow platforms that jut like broken teeth from the rock face.
Thick ropes hang from overhanging ledges, some coiled taut, others swaying lazily in the breeze.
Jagged outcroppings form handholds—but I could swear their surfaces are rough, perhaps even sharp.
This place feels like a trap disguised as a challenge.
I blink and glance to the left, where the Podrosan king stands speaking with a man in uniform—a soldier, but not like the others.
His skin glows faintly golden under the sun, and when he raises a hand, the very rock beneath the lowest section of the course shudders.
The stone settles, reshapes. Earth magic.
My throat tightens. He’s fae. And loyal to the Podrosan court.
They built this course with more than muscle in mind.
I turn my attention to the center of the arena, where Dante stands, his dark tunic clinging to him like it’s painted on. He rolls his shoulders back and stretches his fingers, the tendons in his forearms catching the light. I follow the movement of his throat as he swallows. Steady. Focused.
Did he know this trial awaited him? Whether he did or didn’t, there’s no turning back now. Everything is riding on this. Not just his title. His worth. His name. His future.
And mine.
I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Ezra, whose hand rubs at his chin, his brow wrinkled as he studies the rock face. He spots me and tries to give me a reassuring nod, but I know there’s no confidence behind it.
For a brief moment, my focus lands on Princess Orida.
She leans forward, a faint smile on her face as she stares at Dante.
She shifts in her seat, her hand coming up to wave in an effort to get his attention, but he doesn’t notice her.
But she doesn’t let it bother her. She whispers something to the lady beside her, and they both modestly hide their mouths behind their hands.
A hush falls as King Harold steps forward, his voice ringing out over the crowd.
“In Podrosa, we do not crown a man untested.” He inclines his head to King Silas, who returns the nod.
Then he gestures toward the mountainside.
“This is the path that forges warriors. Every soldier in my army has proven himself upon these stones. And any man fit enough to call himself prince must prove the same.”
There is a beat of silence that seems to stretch on.
“The Ironshields of Podrosa are famous for their accurate aim with an arrow. The objective of this trial is to hit a bullseye on the target at the top of the ridge. But first, Lord Stregasi, you must climb.”
My eyes shift back to the mountainside. One of the overhanging ledges shifts, making the ropes sway. I glance back at the fae, who waves his hand in a swiping motion, guiding the rock formation. This isn’t fair. The fae has no doubt been instructed to make the structure impossible to ascend.
“If you reach the summit,” King Harold continues, “you will have to best one of my finest warriors in order to retrieve the bow and arrow, which await you.” A faint grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “If you get that far, you merely need to hit the target dead center to finish the trial.”
Tension tightens like a drawstring around the entire arena.
Dante gives a small nod. “Simple enough, Your Majesty.”
He says it in jest, but I can feel the aggravation in his tone.
The bell tolls and he launches forward.
A gust of dust lifts behind him as his boots hit the earth, racing for the base of the course.
The first incline is a cruel mess of wooden slats unevenly jammed into the mountain’s surface—meant to mimic steps but spaced like a snare.
He climbs fast, barely slowing as he leaps from one to the next.
A slat cracks beneath him, but he’s already moving, catching a higher ledge.
He reaches for the next grip—his fingers land, hold, swing. The crowd murmurs. A sharp breath leaves me as he narrowly avoids another collapsing beam. But when he grabs hold of the stone grip above him, the mountain shakes and the grip disappears into the cliff face.
I gasp as Dante’s body swings down, almost slipping from the first grip, but he holds fast and manages to grasp the edge of a plank to his right. Using his upper body strength, Dante pulls himself up onto the platform.
The first split in the course looms ahead. There are only two options: left or right. From our vantage, I see the flaw—the central beam of the right platform is cracked at the root. The moment he steps on it, it will break away.
My heart slams against my ribs. I lean forward, fingers clawing into the edge of my seat. He stretches out his right arm.
No. No, not that one.
“Go left,” I whisper.
But my mind isn’t whispering. It’s screaming.
“Go left. Go left, Dante—”
A flash of pain lances behind my eyes, hot and piercing. I wince, clutching my temples. The world wavers slightly around me, my breath catching.
Dante pauses mid-motion. His head turns—just a fraction—toward me.
A strange sensation zips across my skin, like static, or a hum, or… awareness. As though something in him absorbed my words.
Then he moves.
He jumps left.
The right platform collapses a breath later, exploding in a rain of splintered wood and stone.
Nadya’s hand tightens on mine.
My stomach twists. Did I… help him?
I shake my head, but the pressure behind my eyes grows sharper, blooming into something deeper, heavier. My vision swims for a second, but I blink it away.
He keeps climbing.
The next section demands a leap toward a dangling rope. He doesn’t hesitate—just leaps, catches, swings. His boots skim the air as he ascends, each pull of his arms drawing him higher, the rope swinging violently from his momentum.
Then comes the wall. A slick stretch of rock, sheer and cruel. The final ascent. Dante grabs the lowest crevice, hauls himself upward. His muscles strain, neck corded, sweat glistening along his jaw.
The fae by the king waves his hand through the air, and the mountainside shudders.
Dante slips.
“No,” I gasp, rising slightly in my seat.
I don’t think. I just feel.
Raw energy rises inside me, clawing for release. I shove it forward.
A pulse bursts out—vibrating through my bones and through my skin. And Dante’s body shifts, swinging upward so that his hand catches hold of the crevice. I let out a breath, knowing the pulse I sent was enough. Just enough.
He strains to pull himself up. As I focus on his efforts, a sharp, wet sting blooms in my nostrils. I swipe at my upper lip—and come away with blood. I stare at it, stunned.
“Celeste,” Nadya whispers beside me, her eyes widening. “Your nose—”
“I’m fine,” I mutter. But I’m not.
The air around me crackles faintly, and as I glance down toward the Podrosan fae. He’s watching me. Not openly. Not accusingly. But watching. His gaze lingers too long, brows furrowed, as if trying to solve a riddle written in starlight.
I sit back slowly, heart hammering. I wipe the rest of the blood away with the edge of my sleeve and force my face to stillness.
Dante claws his way upward, hand over hand, muscles flexing. At last he reaches the summit, and the crowd erupts in applause.
All at once, the world seems to shake. The semicircle of tiered benches shifts, rumbling as the entire structure seems to ascend, intact.
The fae has elevated the seating area so that we get a better view of the summit.
I shudder at the fae’s power. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before, and I can understand now why King Harold has made him part of his retinue.
The Ironshield soldier at the top of the cliff side steps forward with his blade drawn. Dante’s shoulders heave from his climb, but after a moment, he unsheathes his falchion.
His opponent—a broad-shouldered soldier bearing the crest of Podrosa—adjusts his grip on his longsword, rolling his neck, as if this were merely another day of training.
King Harold rises from his seat, lifting a hand for silence. “This challenge is a test, not a duel to the death,” he announces, his deep voice carrying across the space. “One must simply disarm the other.”
The Ironshield lunges first.
Dante sidesteps easily, pivoting on the ball of his foot as the blade sweeps past him. He parries the next strike with a sharp clang of steel, his grip firm but relaxed. The soldier presses forward, launching a series of rapid slashes—textbook maneuvers meant to overpower an opponent early.
Dante weaves between them like water slipping through fingers.
He doesn’t just block—he redirects, each deflection calculated to unbalance his opponent rather than merely stop the blow.
The soldier grits his teeth, frustration creeping into his movements as he adjusts his footing. He tries to press Dante toward the edge of the cliff, but Dante shifts, twisting his sword in a tight circle to disengage before stepping back to reset.
They circle each other, the sunlight casting their shadows long against the sand.
With a sharp feint to the left, Dante forces the soldier to adjust his defense—only to pivot sharply and strike from the right. The soldier barely blocks in time, the force of the impact sending him stumbling back a step.
The court murmurs, their intrigue growing.
The soldier recovers quickly, setting his jaw as he goes on the offensive again.
He aims high—a downward slash meant to drive Dante to his knees—but Dante meets it with a high guard, then twists, rolling his blade along the Podrosan’s before flicking it away.
The disarm is near-seamless, the opponent’s sword flying from the summit through the air.
The arena erupts into applause.
Dante steps back, lowering his blade as the Podrosan soldier exhales sharply, shaking his head with something that might be reluctant respect.
King Silas nods in approval, and beside me, Queen Eleanor clasps her hands in her lap, unreadable as always.
All that’s left now is the target.
Dante’s heavy breaths make his body unsteady as he nocks the arrow and takes aim.
“Steady, Dante. Concentrate.”
I realize then that my fingers are aching from gripping the chair so tightly, but in the next moment, that sharp pain shoots across my eyes, quickly replaced by that strange, calming static.
The arrow is loosed, and everyone jumps to their feet with shouts of triumph.
I release a slow breath, the tension easing from my body at last.
He won.