Chapter Twenty-Five
When I return to my room from the visit to Silas, a letter laces into the air. Stamped into the parchment is the royal crest—an eagle clutching a whip in one talon, a branch from Lucan’s Tree in the other. Undoing the wax, I parse out the looping instructions.
To my training halls.
Wear something comfortable.
I return to work tomorrow, but there is no denying a request from the king. A chill slides down my spine that he knows exactly where I sleep in Illusion.
Kneeling, I tug the small basket of belongings from under the bed and dress in a long-sleeve cotton shirt and trousers—a black pair I sewed to fit my hips. The trousers are tight against my muscles. Thanks to the Healing sessions, I am finally back to full strength after the bite. It feels good.
I lace to Reign and venture to the training halls, a part of the palace I’ve only seen on Lila’s map.
The mighty room stretches before me, the walls lined with racks of swords, daggers, arrows, whips, and strange weapons.
Mats lie scattered across the floor, sunbeams spilling over them from the openings in the ceiling.
The vastness of the palace always stuns me.
A large padded platform rises from the center of the room, occupied by two males who circle each other, muscles glistening with sweat.
One wears a white shirt, stuck to his skin; the other is in black.
Maxian and the executioner. Memories of another ring flash through my mind’s eye: my father beating another faerie to a pulp, long ago.
I knew he had only stopped harming others the day I woke up a decade ago with searing pain on my wrists from his leftover debts. May he wander lost.
To the side of the platform is Carter, next to a table with towels, boxing tape, and a pitcher of water with glasses. I cross the space to join him.
“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” he says. His face gives away nothing, and perhaps he does not know of the incident in the smoke room.
“Miss me?” I try.
Carter smiles. “Only a little.”
My gaze follows his. The executioner swings at the king, who dodges and twists, wrapping thick arms around Death’s waist, and tackles him to the ground. The two grunt and swear as they wrestle.
I drop my voice. “How long before they find a bed?”
“And miss out on being exhibitionists?”
We snicker. The groaning and grappling of limbs continue.
“No magic?” I ask.
“Not the same as grabbing your buddy, I guess.”
This time, I let out the laugh. Smiling, Carter turns to grab the pitcher of water behind him, filling up two glasses.
“Avery,” a smooth voice calls. “Glad you joined!”
When I glimpse the ring, Maxian has the executioner in a choke hold, stomach to the ground, squirming beneath him.
For a moment, I am a visitor admiring this new royal portrait of the king—brawny Maxian triumphing over everything, even Death itself.
Then the executioner grabs the golden forearm barred across his throat and heaves.
The king pitches forward, landing on his back with an “Oof!”
Death stretches to his full height, looming above the fallen king with a preternatural stillness. His eyes glint with something I’ve only ever seen in beaten faeries, in Kassandra’s eyes, in my own reflection: hatred.
In a blink, it’s gone. From his back, Maxian flips up into a crouching position. The plane hums with energy, the back of my neck tingling.
Carter throws two hand towels over his shoulder, grips the glasses of water. The towels and water lift from his hands and glide along the plane to the king and executioner.
As the king approaches, I take in his wide shoulders and disheveled hair, his cheeks flushed, eyes shining. His bunching muscles look well fed, well tended, a male with time and magic to sculpt his body into what he wishes. His beauty is almost blinding, like trying to stare down the sun.
The king’s executioner wipes himself down.
He is towering and dark and corded in muscle formed from years of physical labor, and any female would—and should—pool with heat.
But Jeremee dissolving before my eyes will forever prevent that.
Shame at my misplaced anger floods me. Even Death itself cannot truly defeat Reign fae.
None of us can, and it’s infuriating and demeaning.
“Avery! So glad you found your way here. I wasn’t positive you could read, seeing as faeries aren’t interested in books,” the king says, drawing my attention back to him.
For the briefest moment, my eyes find Carter’s.
Uninterested in books? The valet’s face gives nothing away, not even the mimicry of this conversation later tonight in the Mouth.
I can hear it now. Then—get this, Fern—then the king said faeries don’t like books!
As if we have the time and coin to waste. The cook will cackle at that one.
“I learned the basics during my service to Illusion,” I say. “It was nice to be challenged once more.”
“Because you are clever,” he answers.
Clever. Clever. Why is it always clever and not intelligent? Clever like a pet who picks up tricks quickly.
You are too intelligent for that, Kassandra said days ago. Only now do I register that my mistress complimented me.
“Thank you, Your Magnificence,” I say.
“I brought you here so that the executioner and I can assess the extent of your injury. See if there will be a permanent crippling, though I doubt it with Eli’s skill sets.”
Carter’s attention weighs on me, but this time I do not return it. My hand twitches, aching to cover the healed wound beneath the bandage.
I take a step away from the king.
He tilts his head in confusion, spine rigid. Does he desire me to drop to my knees and weep? Thank him profusely and apologize for my loss of control?
It was his friend who harmed me, his almost-betrothed who caused it, the game he set up that triggered so much pain. As if the Avery of his mind would willingly and gladly worship the male she’s blood-bound to serve, like a whore who refuses payment because the fucking was so good.
“Avery.” His teeth shine in a tight smile. “You heard what I said, did you not?”
Do not insult him with your slowness.
“Oh!” I gasp. “Yes. I’m so thankful.”
“It’s settled. It’s about time she defends herself. Besides, there’s some fight in her—isn’t that right, Avery? Your reflexes were quick during the game.”
“Thank you.” I grimace, unsure whom he is truly addressing.
“But it’s no wonder! You were hiding the most interesting part about you. Nothing that couldn’t be discovered with a little digging.” He steps toward me, eyes sparking.
Everyone’s attention turns to the king and his sly expression. My palms feel clammy. Does he know about my arrangement with Kassandra? “What is interesting about me, my king?”
“Your father was the pit fighter Red the Ruthless.”
My mind detaches from my body, feelings of the hall falling away.
“When I turned two hundred, Dominik, Eli, and I snuck into the Peri in disguise and saw him fight. Even I was afraid; he truly earned his title.”
The bloody mash of faeries’ faces that begged for mercy before falling silent forever.
My mother pleading in a tiny kitchen, my father beckoning me to come out from under the table because Daddy is sorry he got mad, he had a hard day and you’re hurting Daddy’s feelings by hiding, if you don’t come out I will drag you out by your hair and give you a reason—
“What do you say, Ruthless daughter?” the king asks. “Care for a match?”
Carter huffs a laugh. “My king—”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not a worthy opponent for you,” I try.
“Oh, enough of that. You wound up your hits so they’d lose power and time during the board game. You were holding back with the other faeries. Well, I’m not a faerie.” He quirks a brow.
So he noticed that. The king understands technique. Yes, he’s more powerful than I am, but that doesn’t matter in a fight, not really. What matters is precision.
“Your Magnificence, her shoulder, as you said,” the executioner answers.
Maxian spreads his arms wide. “Afraid she’s a better fighter than you, Death?”
Death is holding back, too, I realize.
I haven’t worked out in a few days to give my shoulder some rest, but now I’m restless, itching for activity after only Healing. I’m at the disadvantage in every other way. Except perhaps one.
No one has ever pulled their punches when punching me. Has Maxian ever been hit with the full force of someone’s hate? I doubt it. Like any faerie, I have—and often had to work full shifts afterward, too.
“I won’t hold back,” I warn.
I’m aware of everyone looking at me, but I only look at Maxian. A smile splits his face, the spark in his eyes brighter and sharper.
“Why do you think I picked you?” he says, ducking under the rope. “Brutality is in your blood.”
My vision blurs with rage, and I quell the heat that rises.
Beside me, Carter sucks in a breath. I kick off my shoes so that we’re both barefoot.
I want to take off my shirt, too, and fight in trousers and the band around my breasts, as the long sleeves of my shirt can be yanked.
But those sleeves cover up the new tattoos placed there by Dominik, and I’m not ready for that conversation.
“If you’re going to do this, you need a ref,” the executioner mutters.
“Thanks for volunteering,” the king says.
I step over the ropes and onto the padded platform. Maxian runs fingers through his bronze hair. The son of the Sun King, and I, the daughter of Red the Ruthless, the unmarked and the marked, in the same ring. Bending my knees, I raise my fists to my chin and tuck in my elbows.
“Nice form.”
“Better than yours.”
Laughing, he lowers himself, light on his feet.
“Perhaps no magic as one of the rules?” Carter says from the sideline, approaching the ring with a tight expression.
Maxian shrugs. “Sure.”
“First to surrender,” Death confirms.
“What’s your safe word?” the king asks me.