Three
Ariadnne
The castle’s training grounds reeked of sweat despite the early hour, as though it were ingrained into every speck of sand under Ariadnne’s feet.
It was, perhaps, the only thing about the High Lord’s castle that reminded her of home as she waited patiently—or impatiently—for her company to arrive.
They were due drills, and Ariadnne wanted to work.
She had woken before dawn, tossing and turning, unable to get back to sleep.
Her conversation with the White Knight troubled her more than she liked to admit.
By having the balls to approach, Nieve had proved herself the egotistical knight Ariadnne expected, but Ariadnne could barely remember the last time someone had wanted simply to talk with her.
It made her feel seen, which was dangerous.
Ariadnne rose and dressed to stop her thoughts lingering on Nieve’s curious gaze. Even if there was more to Nieve than she believed, curiosity would only lead to pain. And attraction… well. There was no point pursuing that.
She’d learned that the hard way when, at sixteen, she’d fallen for one of her maids; a Flame named Floria.
She had been the first to show interest in Ariadnne beyond her use to the Council, and Ariadnne had fallen head over heels for her witty humour and long, auburn hair.
It had been wonderful—until Melixanthe walked in on them.
Together. Ariadnne had screamed, pleaded and begged as her handler dragged Floria out of the room, but Melixanthe told her firmly that the Council preferred her without distraction. That it was safer for them both.
All of Ariadnne’s attendants bar Sacha, her oldest maid, were dismissed the following day and Ariadnne was still bitter, nine years on.
Josef’s voice shook Ariadnne from her thoughts as he arrived, bellowing her company into formation.
Faces were grim, the looming war casting a shadow no matter how seasoned her knights were.
Their fear was in the small tells: Han, the company’s youngest, smiled too much.
The Solvet twins remained carefully neutral.
Dantro, Finnick and Rook were, well, Dantro, Finnick and Rook: masking with confidence.
At the end of the row, Kayla stood between Lucile and Rook in perfect military ease.
She alone seemed unflustered. Kayla was their newest addition and still trying to prove herself.
Her blonde curls hung loose, and she glanced repeatedly at Josef as she tucked them behind her ears.
Ariadnne would’ve been blind to miss her mounting interest in Melixanthe’s Second, and suffered a pang of jealousy that they, if they wished, would be free to pursue that interest.
Ariadnne tore her eyes away to stretch, scowling at the restriction of movement her smart blue and silver uniform afforded.
She was to put on a display; to reassure the High Lord of her and her company’s strength.
She was the Council’s property, after all; a venerated and revered slave, even if they liked to pretend otherwise.
A subtle tremor in Ariadnne’s limbs reminded her she was due antidote. It would have to be later, given how the varanyen weakness was such a terrible secret that even her knights didn’t know of it. Fortunately, the symptoms were still mild. She should have a few days before they became noticeable.
Josef finished walking the lines, his dark hair slicked back and his training leathers immaculate. Ariadnne didn’t think she’d ever seen a hair out of place on his head. A stark contrast to Finnick, opposite, whose unruly mop fell in his eyes.
Josef’s gaze swept to Melixanthe, seeking permission before raising his voice.
‘Look alive. Today we show these land-bound fae what we can do!’
The company roared, and the Second clapped to quiet them.
‘Rook,’ he pointed to the raven-haired knight, ‘lead the team in the twelfth formation. Ariadnne, Melixanthe requested you join her.’
Ariadnne glanced at Melixanthe’s curved smile, and the edge of her own mouth ticked up. This part she could do.
She followed the general to a weapons rack, catching the stave Melixanthe tossed her, sinking into a fighting stance and eyeing her handler as she assumed her position across the sand.
A crowd of guards gathered, jostling at the edge of their impromptu ring. Ariadnne focussed instead on Melixanthe’s hands and the shift of her grip on the stave. She twitched and Ariadnne moved, spinning across the sand, narrowly missing the thud as Melixanthe impaled her shadow in her stead.
With teeth bared they danced, and with each jump, each twist, Ariadnne’s soul thrummed with power.
Soon Melixanthe’s leathers dripped sweat, and she narrowly missed having her ear clipped after misjudging a feint.
Ariadnne flashed a smile even as her heart hammered; it felt good to remind her handler how fast she could be, but her complacence was short-lived as Melixanthe rallied, forcing her back.
High Lord emerged from the castle. He lounged at the edge of the yard like a golden tomcat with a retinue of courtiers, nudging and pointing to where Melixanthe and Ariadnne fought. Slow and curious, Lord D’avant stalked towards them. Melixanthe signalled Ariadnne to halt.
‘Impressive.’ His hands came together in a slow clap. ‘Such skill… and that speed…’ He stared unabashedly at Ariadnne, making her skin crawl. ‘I would love to see you against one of my best. For interests’ sake.’ He turned to Melixanthe.
‘What do you think, Ariadnne?’ Her handler asked, but Ariadnne could see she had no choice. This was part of the performance.
She bowed. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
The High Lord brought his hands together. ‘Wonderful!’ He glanced behind him. ‘Where’s Holt?’
As the one named Holt was located, Ariadnne twirled her stave, curious as to who this Lord considered a worthy challenge for her. Her eyes widened as a veritable wall of muscle shouldered through the crowd. A good head taller than her, Holt looked like he carried the blood of giants.
Ariadnne set her shoulders, calling, ‘Swords or staves?’
‘Staves,’ Lord D’avant replied. ‘Wouldn’t want you injured beyond what will heal before battle.’
Ariadnne bowed her head, but the corner of her mouth pulled upward—as if this brute could injure her. Size did not equal speed. She walked back onto the sand to find space.
Holt seized the stave Melixanthe tossed him and joined her. Ariadnne eyed his muscles. He looked strong enough that a blow could potentially level her, so she couldn’t give him the chance.
At D’avant’s command to begin, she feinted left. Holt moved slow as a lumbering bull and she spun round, landing a first blow and winning a grunt.
Ariadnne exhaled, tapping into her well of power, spooling out enough to sharpen her focus and enhance her reflexes. The faintest shimmer of scales moved beneath her skin. The only time it was allowed.
She dodged a slow blow that could have removed her head and replied with a swift upward strike to Holt’s chin, snapping his head back.
Seizing the moment, she slid round to his back and gave him a concussing blow.
He staggered forwards and Ariadnne finished the fight by dropping to a knee and sweeping his legs out from under him.
Poor Holt barely had a chance to blink before she was standing with one foot on his chest and the end of her stave pressed into his neck.
It was over in seconds.
‘Do you yield?’ She raised a brow.
‘He yields!’ Lord D’avant strode forwards rubbing his hands together in delight. ‘That was wonderful!’
The High Lord’s attendants clapped, putting Ariadnne on the spot. She gave them all a little bow and turned to leave the ring.
‘Wait.’ Lord D’avant raised a hand and the applause died.
His lips twisted and he straightened, tilting his head Melixanthe’s direction.
‘General. Ariadnne has more than proven herself against the best of my guards, but I wonder if you would entertain me; I find myself dying to see how she fares against another warrior of the Guild! They are the best, after all.’
Ariadnne ground her teeth; she had hoped that her display had been enough to sate the Lord’s appetite, but it seemed he craved more of a show. Gathering her composure, she inclined her head, begrudgingly acquiescing.
Lord D’avant glanced at the other companies who had arrived and stood watching the spectacle from a respectable distance. ‘You there. Sol, is it?’ He shielded his eyes from the sun as he squinted in the captain’s direction. ‘Who is your best fighter?’
‘My Lord.’ Sol’s eyes widened at the request, but he remembered to bow his head respectfully before surveying his knights. All five stood tall, but Ariadnne’s eyes were only drawn to one. She knew who Sol was going to choose even before he uttered her name. ‘Nieve.’
A shiver chased up and down Ariadnne’s spine.
Nieve’s porcelain face registered no surprise, but her mouth twitched as she stepped forward, her eyes seeking Ariadnne’s across the sand.
She’d forgone her signature armour for lighter, form-hugging gear, and as Ariadnne dragged her gaze up to her face, one pale brow rose as though asking for permission.
Ariadnne swallowed.
Lord D’avant grinned. ‘Very well! The White Knight is to be our challenger. No magic, mind you…’ He wagged his finger in her direction as she bowed gracefully and advanced toward the ring.
The heat from the rising sun beat down, driving Ariadnne to loosen her collar as Nieve took her place.
The knight’s braided, silver hair glinted as she tucked it behind her ears.
Ariadnne inhaled softly, feeling none of her usual surety.
Instead, her traitorous heart beat a rapid staccato against her ribs as Nieve’s chin tilted, her lips curling into a soft, feline smile, her relaxed, almost insolent posture begging Ariadnne to take her on.
‘What weapon would you prefer we use, My Lord?’ she asked.