Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Emmeline
He’d seen her.
She knew in her bones he’d seen her, standing atop this platform like some pious creature overlooking the bloodshed below.
And it had changed his entire drive. Did he even know what he was fighting for?
She’d nearly lost her composure as he dropped his weapons, his armor. She’d nearly screamed out for him to stop, had felt the call ringing down her bones and Fate ties. But he’d seen her, and without a word, he was tearing through opponents with a vigor she’d never seen before.
Blood splattered his body, rained on the earth with each swipe of his blade. But he moved without remorse, slaying anyone who stood in his way.
Though she didn’t understand it—didn’t know how his devotion could be so steadfast when she only promised death to those around her—Emmeline knew he would never give up on her if he had a chance. He’d crawl through all the fiery realms and challenge the Fates for her.
Now, that devotion forged into determination as his single nicked sword sang effortlessly through the air.
He fought like he was swinging among the jungle canopy outside his home, like his blades were cutting through nothing more than the waves that crashed against Lyra’s shores.
“Who is that?” Alana breathed beside her, awe in her voice. Awe and something else Emmeline couldn’t place.
“I don’t know,” Emmeline lied, afraid to say it aloud.
The crowd had taken notice of him, too. The cheers paused, banners for other contenders stopped waving.
Murmurs broke out among them as they watched this newcomer slice through the warriors they’d been screaming for with a ruthlessness no one else matched, as this Angel of Devastation killed the men they’d bet on with sole intent.
He ducked what would have been a nasty punch to his temple, and a gasp caught in Emmeline’s throat. Rocarri’s eyes flicked to her, the observation a slimy second skin. She forced herself not to react again.
The fighter swiped through the back of the other man’s leg, sending a fountain of blood spurting across his own threadbare tunic and the warrior crashing to his knees. He didn’t bother to finish him off before turning to the next. Their blades met, each attack daring but confident.
Over her gown, Emmeline’s fingers curled around the ring hanging around her neck, the steel beating.
“Come on,” she muttered so low Rocarri couldn’t hear it.
Alana was firmly planted at her side. “He’s not one of the original twelve.”
“No,” Cyren’s voice came from right behind them. “He isn’t. I don’t recognize him.” Their exquisite face was pinched with what Emmeline thought was suspicion, but the General gave nothing away.
Emmeline couldn’t find her voice as the numbers dwindled. She could barely draw in air as the tip of a blade caught on the newcomer’s tunic, slicing through the shoulder when he spun away.
It drew a thin line of blood, but dark ink caught the light, flaming feathered wings overlapping around sculpted muscles. Alana leaned forward beside her, eyes narrowed and fingers twisting the ends of her hair.
“It’s got to be over soon, right?” Emmeline whispered. Her heart lodged firmly in her throat.
“One more death,” Cyren answered.
Twenty-nine had already fallen. They’d stop at thirty. Half of the men moving on to the second trial was the only rule the Chancellor put in place.
Cyren’s narrowed gaze flicked between Rocarri and the mess unfolding below. The councillors and governors in the box watched with a mix of horror and fascination, their questioning gazes flicking to Emmeline, judging her for her previous outburst.
And when the warrior she’d been devouring with her stare drove a man to the dirt and slammed his blade through his throat, a bellow went out across the arena.
Everyone froze, the remaining thirty men panting with blood-splattered armor. They removed their helmets and masks, revealing expressions drenched in glory.
But Emmeline didn’t give a damn about any of them.
She could barely breathe—only watch as that one soldier stalked forward.
As he traipsed over gore and through puddles of blood until he stopped below the Chancellor’s box, head angled up.
Toward her.
As he finally pulled that crimson-splattered helmet from his head and tossed it to the dirt, shaking back dark, sweat-soaked waves. Silver-streaked eyes met hers, and a part of Emmeline that had extinguished weeks ago came back to life.
Huntress, he mouthed, and his voice echoed through her memory. Every time he’d said it. That one word weakened her knees, made her want to weep in relief.
Reckless, she mouthed back, lips trembling and breath shuddering out of her.
Despite all he’d been through, despite the blood and grime covering him and the visible exhaustion fighting to take over his body, Roremar smiled up at her as if she was an Angel before him.
The part of her he’d stolen in the seeing chamber thrashed wildly behind her ribs, begging to go to him, willing her to leap from this platform now and feel his lips against hers, hear his voice low in her ear and press her head to his chest to ensure that steady heart still beat.
But a throat cleared beside her, shattering every dream and desire. Emmeline remembered exactly where they were, all the people appraising her and all the wants she couldn’t show right now.
“That was quite a display,” Rocarri said, reclaiming the control he’d lost so spectacularly.
He stood right at her side, his presence slinking around Emmeline like a warning.
“That concludes the first trial of Valyrie’s Races!
We are left with half our competitors who have demonstrated the utmost strength, determination in battle, and loyalty to their cause—the greatest worth for our magnificent prize! ”
Emmeline’s skin prickled at all the attention aimed at her, but she couldn’t look away from those grey eyes growing more silver by the second.
“And now, before we all depart for the debauchery fitting of this grand affair, I would like to welcome the final contestant of our tournament,” Rocarri’s voice boomed through the horn. Emmeline’s stomach turned at the malice slithering beneath his tone. “Roremar the Reckless!”
And it was clear from the silence hanging in the air, as the people of Valyn knew who Emmeline was, they knew who Roremar was, too. That rumors of what Fate he was tied to had spread, what he’d been forced to do.
And where Emmeline represented the promise of the Fates to the city of Valyn, Roremar was the death of them.
The crowd erupted into chants and jeers. A bottle of ale went sailing through the air and shattered near Roremar’s feet.
He jumped back, jolting as if he finally realized where he was.
“No!” Emmeline’s heart pounded as she stepped to the edge of the platform, clenching the post like she’d fall right over without it.
Guards rushed forward, gripping Roremar’s biceps and dragging him away before Emmeline even got the chance to see him up close—to speak to him or touch him.
His head whipped around, arms wrenching from their grasp, searching for an explanation.
She felt that echoing confusion pinching her own chest, the endless well of grief.
And with every step Roremar was dragged out of the arena, Emmeline felt like a curtain was falling on their story before the first act had fully started.
The other competitors stared after Roremar with murder glowing in their eyes. The councilors’ and governors’ disdain shrouded her as they whispered of her instability, her disobedience. And Emmeline’s heart sank through her feet to the city streets far below.
In a way, she had Roremar back—for a blink—but this place, these people, would do everything in their power to keep them apart.