CHAPTER TWENTY
Back on the field and on their respective sides of the lists, Jaron and Brennan both held up their lances. Brennan pushed his visor down, his stag at the far left of the field. Jaron was ready at the far right, his lance lifted.
It began.
Their stags took off, their lances aimed against each other.
I held my breath, watching Brennan carefully, terrified I’d weakened him, or that someone would notice he was riding differently, or would notice a sudden shift in his energy or strength.
But as they progressed down the lists, both Brennan’s and Jaron’s backs seemed to straighten and stiffen at once—their movements in sync.
Their lances lowered as the moonstags raced toward the other.
They raised their shields, and then … they missed.
Neither striking the other. I exhaled a sharp breath as the master of games announced that neither competitor had scored a point. The crowd booed.
But I was relieved. Brennan hadn’t defeated Jaron, but Jaron hadn’t managed to get a hit on Brennan either. He was holding his own.
They reset, and again, they charged, both of them yelling, urging their moonstags on faster and faster.
They lowered their lances, aiming for each other’s shields.
My heart thundered. I could barely look.
And suddenly they crossed paths, their bodies battle-ready, and a crashing sound exploded over the field as both moonstags finished their race.
It was Jaron who got the first hit, his lance punching Brennan’s shield. But Brennan still remained upright, looking barely winded.
“The hell is he doing?” the king muttered.
I bit my lip. Fuck. He had been affected by me. I knew he was holding his own, but he wasn’t displaying any of the prowess he showed in his earlier matches. And his father had noticed, which meant others were likely to see it, too.
They reset and charged into the third pass.
I held my breath again, my nerves spiraling.
They both leaned forward, their commands to their stags exploding across the field.
They got closer and closer, about to cross paths, and then there was a crash.
A hit made. Brennan had won the point and struck Jaron’s shield.
But he’d done more than that—he’d thrown off Jaron’s balance.
Brennan had proven his strength with such force that even Jaron’s moonstag stumbled, before racing down the remainder of the list.
I gasped. The crowd cheered.
Jaron and Brennan returned to their posts, their squires attending their stags.
There were several moments for them to recenter, both stretching their necks side to side and adjusting their grips on their lances.
And they were ready to go again, their hands tight on their reins, their backs straight, armor gleaming in the torchlights. One black, one silver.
The master of the games called out, but before he could finish Jaron charged. Brennan kicked his stag off only a second later, their shouts fighting for dominance over the other as their stags raced forward.
But there was something different this time, a strange feeling in the air. It was more than the emotions an Azete would feel.
The crowd felt it, too. They had stopped their chanting and cheering and instead were shouting out in panic. Shouting out a warning to Brennan.
Jaron was riding too fast, too wildly. But worse—his lance was too low. He was going to miss Brennan’s shield. He was going to strike his moonstag
“No,” I whispered, wishing I could connect to his mind. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened over the course of the day, though only the unskilled knights fell to the folly. Brennan was not unskilled, not even close, but he wasn’t reacting. Not fast enough.
Their mounts approached. Brennan was seconds away from being hit.
Suddenly he threw himself to the side, practically falling off his stag.
He’d angled himself just right—his shield taking the brunt of Jaron’s strike.
The stag was saved, and so was Brennan. But he had no way to get himself back up.
Instead, he threw out his lance, landing a hit on Jaron.
I watched with shock, as the impact forced Jaron to tumble to the ground, Barron racing back to the stable without him.
Brennan rolled to his feet, dropping his lance as Jaron mirrored his position.
Their two squires ran down the list, carrying their swords in their hands.
They took hold of their blades, and within seconds, theirs swords clashed, the steel singing, as their squires dodged back toward safety.
Sweat weighed down Brennan’s brown curls, and his face was reddening. But with every strike, he was making a hit and driving Jaron back.
I held my breath as Brennan advanced. He was going to make the final blow—the one to unsword Jaron. The one that would win him the match.
But then Jaron ducked, rolling onto the ground. He kicked his foot around Brennan’s leg and toppled him. Brennan’s sword flew out, landing in the dirt.
Jaron climbed over him seconds later, his sword over Brennan’s neck.
“Damnit, Brennan,” the King muttered, venom in his voice, disappointed in his son.
Embarrassed. Could he not see how well he was fighting?
How hard was he trying? Or that Jaron had clearly abandoned the rules of engagement, forsaking the niceties knights adhered to in the matches. Even the crowd was booing him.
Brennan stilled. He had seconds to get out of the hold or lose the joust. Lose the ability to name me the Lady of Beauty for the night. My hands started to wring out the folds of my dress, my nerves rising. Brennan had fought hard all day long, and Jaron was exactly the scoundrel I knew him to be.
But was he losing now because of me? If we hadn’t kissed—would that have been enough to get him back up? To win the match?
Murmurs sounded off behind me, and there was a growing air of disappointment in Brennan. He was a better fighter than this. I had cost him the tourney.
I stared at my lap, disappointment and guilt washing over me.
But then there was a shout from the audience, and cheers.
I looked up just in time to see Brennan punch Jaron in the face, hard enough to force Jaron off of him and onto his back.
Brennan flung himself across the dirt floor, grasping at the hilt of his sword, and rushed back to Jaron.
He stomped one boot down on his chest, and a flick of his sword knocked Jaron’s sword from his hand.
Brennan shoved the tip of his blade against his cousin’s neck.
“Yield,” Brennan roared triumphantly. His face was red, sweat dripping from the top of his helm down his nose and cheeks. I could see him leaning forward—his strength beginning to fail him.
Come on, come on!
“Yield!” he demanded again, his voice full of exhaustion and weariness.
The crowd chanted along with him, demanding Jaron yield.
And then a moment later, Jaron lifted his visor and removed his helm, letting it roll uselessly into the dirt beside his sword.
“I yield,” he seethed, just barely loud enough for us to hear.
Brennan had won.
Hundreds of cheers filled the night sky as Brennan rode across the field to the king’s pavilion. He threw off his helm, his curls full of sweat, and matted to his head. Beads of sweat shone against his forehead, and there was an exhausted yet jubilant, boyish smile on his face as he reached me.
King Tirian rose to his feet and walked to the edge of the pavilion, bending down just enough to place a golden wreath over his son’s head.
He announced him again as the winner, and for a second, he seemed genuinely proud.
Almost human. He handed Brennan a silver wreath with jasmine flowers woven into the design.
Brennan held it above his head, then dismounted from his stag and raced up the stairs to me. “Princess Olivay,” he yelled, his chest heaving with exertion, “You are the Lady of Beauty.” He placed the crown on my head and swept me up into his arms.
And this time when his lips found mine, it only took seconds for a small stream of lust and excitement to pour into me. The high of winning the games had caught up to him. And to me.
I kissed him back, his hands pressing into my waist, pulling me closer, until he stumbled, his face flushed, his chest heaving with exertion.
The crowd began to disperse from their seats, swarming the fields as Finlay and the other musicians pushed their way through the crowd to play a victory song in Brennan’s honor.
But I could hear voices rising above the music. A chant roared from the pavilion next to us, flags of the chimera thrusting high into the air.
“Undefeated, unburied, we burn. Undefeated, unburied, we burn.”
The king signaled to a soldier, and suddenly they were marching into the crowd, and the celebration turned to screams. There were men holding flags and banners for House Bathiner, some who had emerged from the shadows, merely wearing their colors.
Some started to run. Because within seconds, it was clear that the soldiers were heading for them.
For anyone showing House Bathiner their loyalty and support.
Already someone with a chimera flag had been tackled to the ground.
And then another man, shouting the words, holding the banner above his head, was grabbed by two soldiers, his arms pushed back until he screamed, a crack resounding through the chaos.
His arm was broken. More began to run away, pushing and shoving their way through the crowd, while others called out, warning of the soldiers coming.
Anyone showing support for House Bathiner was going to be arrested.
In the darkness, as the nobles of House Bathiner remained silent and stoic on their dais, I found Jaron in the crowd, his green eyes still on me, and a half dozen soldiers suddenly moved behind him, like a guard.
They wore the blue cloaks of House Lafir and boasted the moonstag of the sigil on their shields.
But Jaron, an heir of House Bathiner, a lord boldly wearing their colors, and a man who was almost crown prince, a man whose father had once held a greater claim to the throne than even Brennan’s, was showing off that he was untouchable.
And that even in the chaos and violence ramping up all around him, even the soldiers loyal to House Lafir wouldn’t harm him.
And that violence was only getting closer to us.