Chapter Nineteen
Loreleivnna
Day six of the second week of the Lunaplume Harvest Festival comes to a standstill.
Harvesting duties abandoned, every creature and their estranged family members loiter around the arena, fashioned from a burnt field.
Bodies blot out the green of the hill that rises behind the makeshift arena.
They’re all gathered here to watch my betrothed battle my…
Pikr. My family’s longtime friend and hero of the realm.
To pause the sacred week of harvest for this spectacle is blasphemy.
In the airspace above, Halor’s companions float on conjured clouds, and I briefly wonder if Tumula is up there, watching my nightmare unfold.
My sisters and I huddle close on the stands Father erected from spiritvines. The king’s presence in front of us is a glare against the sun, eclipsing my thoughts with anger and betrayal every time he shifts from one foot to the other.
“Creatures of Svitaeryl, I’m blessed to apricate in your light,” Father begins, and I glare at my toes. “You are all looking lovely, like roses among thorns this day. How the Wise Ones have nurtured me with such a beautiful garden!”
Beside Father, a leshi’silvar blessed with zephyr magic named Juniphaver ensures his voice reaches the furthest creatures in the crowd.
Her long, fox-like fern ears twitch toward him as his flowery words fill the space.
Whoops and peels of laughter ripple through the crowd, but each sounds like an axe against healthy trees to me.
“Many of you have never witnessed a joust,” Father continues. “The tradition was put to rest while I was still a sapling. The rules are simple.”
Feivryn squeezes my hand, then points at the field.
Father’s words fade into the background, drowned out by the pulsing of my heart.
Pikr and Halor have emerged from their pelt-walled tents and now pace the far lengths of the arena.
My betrothed, whom I met two days ago but feel as though he’s known me for far longer, tosses his intricate halberd between hands leisurely.
He smiles like it’s a regular gathering and not a deadly battle that will change my life forever.
Contrary to Halor, the centaur blacksmith whom I’ve known my whole life and pined after for almost as long, is as sharp as the enchanted weapons hanging in his old workshop.
He paces, his long braid wrapped tightly atop his crown.
He comes to a halt, allowing the thin barding to be fastened over his flank.
Determination oozes from his muscles; the blossoms on his tattoo seem to bloom with it.
I’m struck by how beautiful the contrasting design fits him, a calm beauty among rugged lines.
“—clouds are not fixed, but come and go,” Father continues. The crowd roars at the insinuation against Halor and his people. “Are you prepared, Svitaeryl?”
More cheering. The challengers take their places.
My gaze darts between the males fighting over me. Both will leave this field with more than mere bruises, the possibility of death lingering over the arena like low fog. The last one to fall will become my first mate.
Juniphaver lets out a piercing whistle, and the game begins.