Chapter Twenty
Loreleivnna
“Please, end this, Father, I beseech you!” I beg again. The clang of clashing polearms rings out, and I squeeze my eyes shut, dropping my forehead against Ilrunysanna’s shoulder. “Please!”
“I cannot, Little Bloom,” Father replies. “You know I cannot.”
Stomping hooves, a gargled battle cry, and more metal on metal.
“She is not so little,” Feivryn snaps.
“You’re the King! You have the power to end this!” I stomp my foot, trampling the puddle of soul-lilies that grows with every tear.
“Pikr is like a brother to you,” Ilrunysanna says, her voice steady and calm. “How can you bear this?”
“He is my brother.” There isn’t a seed of empathy in Father’s voice. “That is why I have faith he will obey my command and end this rotten sham of a proposal.”
A collective gasp rolls through the crowd as Pikr takes a lash through a small gap in his armor.
He crumples to the ground. Ilrunysanna’s hand flies over her mouth.
My chest seizes with worry that is quickly followed by a rough tug on an invisible rope around my heartvines, forcing my attention in Halor’s direction.
My betrothed prances back to his starting line. As though feeling my gaze upon him, he looks up, and that ever-present smirk smooths into the kind of smile that would make petal lasses melt at his feet.
I don’t melt for him. Instead, my gut churns.
In the middle of the arena, Pikr lies eerily still. His back hooves twitch. The polearm rolls from his hand.
The crowd shouts along to the countdown.
10!
9!
8!
This is the longest he’s been down so far.
7!
6!
“Get up!” I screech.
4!
“Pikr!” As his name bursts from my lips, my attention is yanked toward Halor again, whose smirk is gone. His pale teal lips contort in a hateful sneer as his gaze bores into mine. The churning in my gut worsens. The rope around my heartvines twitches and frays.
Something isn’t right.
As soon as the thought stirs in my mind, it’s smothered by puffy clouds of confusion.
The crowd erupts in cheers. The countdown stops. Pikr is on his hooves again. His elven half leans heavily on his polearm to stay upright.
Relief floods me, followed by guilt. Halor’s smirk is back in place. He winks at me, and that strange confusion mixes with an odd sense of belonging that seems out of place.
I squeeze Feivryn’s hand, and she returns the gesture. Pikr hobbles to his starting line, and the fight for my hand continues.