“Nothing,” I lie. “Just... adjusting to imperial entertainment.”
He doesn't believe me—I can see it in the subtle hardening of his jaw—but this isn’t a moment for interrogation.
Blaise and his partner have reached the fifth ring, a mere two feet wide. They move as one entity, her body molded to his, their steps a perfect mirror. The masked courtier's head tilts back as Blaise dips her perilously close to the edge, a display of control and dominance that draws appreciative murmurs from the watching nobles.
Showoff, I can’t help but think. What disturbs me more is that I know Zeriel will try to out-do him.
The music swells, driving faster. Zeriel's grip tightens fractionally as he guides us toward the next gap. I want to resist, to pull back from the edge, but he’s already whispering, “Ready?”
This time, I brace myself for the leap. His timing is impeccable—he lifts me just as the music crests, carrying us both onto the fifth ring in a move that's half dance, half controlled fall, almost as if he still had wings. We land with his back to the center, my body pressed fully against his, our faces so close I can see subtle flecks of amber in his brownirises.
For a moment, the world narrows to just us: his arm around my waist, his breath on my lips, the subtle flex of muscle as he keeps us balanced on this precarious perch. I'm suddenly, acutely aware of him as a man, not just a champion or a killer. A man with secrets, yes, but also with strength and skill and something like honor in the way he holds me secure above the void.
The innermost ring—the sixth—the one barely wide enough for feet placed in a straight line. Only Blaise and his partner have attempted it so far, standing statue-still, triumphant in their conquest of the ultimate ring.
The emperor leans forward in his seat, his focus appearing to be fixed on us. I feel his expectation like a physical weight.
Zeriel's voice is barely a breath against my ear. “Now for the center.”
“It’s too narrow,” I whisper, though I know there’s no use protesting. “We’ll fall.”
“No,” he says, and there's absolute certainty in his tone. “We won't.”
He shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my neck, the other still firm at my waist. “When I move, wrap your legs around me.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Trust me.” The words are an echo of earlier, but now they carry a different weight. Not a command, but a request.
The music reaches a crescendo. Zeriel's muscles bunch beneath my hands, and then we're moving—not jumping, but a controlled fall as he steps backward into the abyss, pulling me with him.
My scream dies in my throat as I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist, clinging to him. For one terrible moment, we're falling—then his foot finds the innermost ring, impossibly narrow, a mere ribbon of stone. His body becomes my platform, his strength my only safety as he balances us both on this final circle.
The crowd gasps. I'm plastered against him, heartbeatthundering against his chest, our faces a breath apart. His eyes lock with mine, fierce and intense in the dim light, a knot of emotion I can’t begin to unravel. I'm pressed so close I can feel each breath he takes, each subtle shift of muscle as he maintains our precarious balance.
“Don't move,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear.
I freeze, acutely aware that the slightest shift could send us both plummeting. Our joined wrists rest against his chest, the golden chain a delicate bond between captive and—whatever he truly is.
The emperor rises from his seat, a slow smile spreading across his pale, refined features as he surveys the champions. Blaise and his partner stand opposite us on the same narrow ring, their posture mirroring ours in its intimate necessity. His eyes burn with barely contained fury at being matched.
“Look at me,” Zeriel commands softly when my gaze drifts to the emperor. “Only at me.”
I obey, not by choice but by necessity. His face fills my vision, so close I can see a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth I'd never noticed before. A man of violence, of secrets, holding me suspended above certain death.
And yet, his arms remain steady, his balance perfect. Whatever else he might be, in this moment he is my lifeline.
The music draws to a close with a final, haunting note. For three heartbeats, complete silence fills the rotunda. Then, applause erupts from the watching nobles, a cascade of sound that breaks the spell.
“Now we back away,” Zeriel murmurs. “Slowly.”
With exquisite control, he begins edging us back toward the wider rings. Each step is a negotiation between gravity and will, his body never losing contact with mine. When we reach the third ring, he finally allows me to lower my legs, though his arm remains locked around my waist.
Courtiers flood the outer rings now, the formal portion of the “dance” complete. Blaise and Zeriel were the only two madenough to risk their lives for the center. I fear what that means for the Games.
The champions and their partners are guided back to normal, solid ground, where servants remove the golden shackles binding us together. My wrist suddenly feels strangely naked without it.
I step away from Zeriel, desperate for space, for air that doesn't smell like him. My legs tremble with delayed reaction, the reality of what we just did—what he just did—finally hitting me. He saved us both with that move, but also risked everything on his own skill.
