“I’d much rather stay here and kiss you, Nisny, but I cannot be late.” His eyes are intense and I swear I can taste his hunger for me on my tongue.
My heart flip-flops, and sudden inspiration strikes. I have a brilliant idea on how to motivate him.
“The quicker you win,” I say breathlessly, “The quicker we can come back here and I can blow you.”
His eyes glow. Two red spots of light. It should be freaky, but it is hot. Really hot. Gut-swooping, feeling-faint kind of hot. I can really see how my human ancestors were led astray. It is not my fault. Fey-fucking is in my genes. I was born for it.
His fingers run along my jaw in a tender caress. “You should practise on something smaller first, Little Nisny.”
It’s a very sensible idea considering how flipping gigantic he is. I can totally see myself struggling to get it in my mouth, and then choking on it.
I swallow as that mental image consumes me. Flipping heck. What’s a little jaw dislocation? It will be worth it.
“I’ll manage,” I growl. It is a promise I really, really want to try to keep.
He smiles at me softly, but then his expression grows sombre. Dread churns inside my stomach. It really is time to go. We can’t procrastinate any longer.
He takes my hand, and the feel of his touch tingles all the way through me. I give him a squeeze, and we walk out of the bedchamber hand-in-hand.
The Great Hall is packed. Every single fey at court wants to see the duel. Twisted bastards that they are.
It is nighttime and the hall is dimly lit. Everything is shadows and malevolence. There are no decorations, no music. Nothing save for a sea of people and the scent of bloodlust.
The crowd has formed a circle in the middle of the room. An expanse of bare, polished floorboards. Nothing has ever looked more intimidating.
Unease is coiling through me, but I think I’ve run out of fear and anxiety. I feel strangely numb, calm almost. As if this isn’t really happening. Maybe I’ve finally snapped and lost my mind. If I have, it is probably for the best. Sanityhas never brought me any joy, only suffering. Losing all my marbles might just be the cure to all my problems.
Suddenly, as if rehearsed to be perfectly synchronised, a wave of excitement washes through the room, and then a heartbeat later, Tristan and Llywelyn step into the bare circle.
They stare at each other. Faces utterly blank. Two statues carved in marble. Two fey princes facing each other. One with flame red hair, one with hair like spun sunlight. Both with proud antlers. It would be a striking piece, if it were art.
But it is real life. And deadly. Awful and unnecessary, and all my fault.
I hate it. I hate the heavy and suffocating silence that has settled in the room like a shroud. Covering everything. Weighing us all down.
Anticipation and dread are twisting through me. I am so glad I asked Tristan what to expect because I think not knowing would kill me. Though, saying that, knowing roughly what is coming doesn’t seem to be helping my sanity all that much.
I suck in a breath. Time to concentrate on the mechanics. Tristan is facing three rounds. He will get three chances to attack Llywelyn with magic. And Llywelyn will get three chances to attack him. Trust the fey to come up with something seemingly civilised but utterly savage at heart.
Suddenly, a gong rings out. The sound is soft, but it tears through the silence. The duel has begun.
Tristan lifts his hands. Magic pours out of him. I can’t see it, but I can sense it. Llywelyn stands perfectly still. Only his lips move as they curl up into a smirk. The restof him is untouched. Unharmed. The Devourer Charms are doing their thing. Eating up Tristan’s magic before it can do a thing to Llywelyn.
The gong sounds again. It is Llywelyn’s turn.
Tristan takes a deep breath and braces himself. Llywelyn’s magic comes as a big ball of golden light, one that I can actually see. Llywelyn throws it like he is pitching in a game of baseball. The ball hits Tristan right in the gut. He grunts and bends slightly. But then he straightens and grins.
I suck in a breath just as the gong sounds again. Tristan’s turn.
He does something different this time. I still can’t see it, but I get the idea that his magic oozes under the floor and attacks Llywelyn’s feet.
“Oh!” someone near me gasps. “Prince Tristan’s magic is so strong!”
“Of course it is, he has a vessel now,” answers another voice in the crowd.
My heart thuds hopefully. Oh my stars, am I going to be able to help Tristan even if he stays a stubborn ass? Is the magic I’ve given him making him stronger than his brother’s stupid charms?
The magic coils and hisses around Llywelyn’s feet. I watch intently. But nothing else happens. It doesn’t work. The golden-haired prince simply smirks even harder.
