Eve’s laughter sounds and she says something, the clarity of the words lost in the distance. From the sounds of things, Eve and Cyran have already started their sparring. And judging by the wash of tingles, they’re using their innate magic.
After what feels like five centuries spiraling the descending stairs, I plant my feet upon the floor of the stronghold’s main corridor. It’s a dimly lit network of twisting, underground halls lined with cells—many of which are warded shut.
One door, somewhere down here, has posted guards.
The cell containing my soul crystal, the sophont, and the rest of the things I brought into this realm.
Ahead on the right, there’s an open door. Bright silver light pours through the door and spills into the hall. It’s from there Eve’s laughter and jeers stem.
Walking into the room, I’m greeted with racks of weapons and shields along the small hall leading deeper into the room. Axes, swords—all shapes and lengths—glaives, morningstars, halberds… there are enough to outfit a small militia here.
The hall opens into the room and Ryc’s laughter pulls my attention toward its center.
And my eyes widen.
He and Cyran are caught in a grapple, Ryc laughing as Cyran attempts to outmaneuver him. My jaw drops as Cyran mutters a few curses and starts laughing himself.
Impossible.
The fae not only laughs,but curses?
They continue to wrestle,shirtless, upon the mat. With clingy leather pants, bare feet, and disheveled hair, their muscles ripple in all their strength and glory. I’ve walked into less favorable sights.
I stare, unnoticed by them or Eve who stands perched against the wall with her arms crossed on the far left of the room—well out of their way. Thank the gods their attention is elsewhere, otherwise they too would understand I am, without a doubt, a demon.
Pulling away my lingering stare and tucking away my rapidly devolving thoughts involving Rycand Cyranandmyself, I wander to Eve, and lean against the wall. The vibration of the warded walls shimmers against my back, a gentle reminder of its existence.
She greets me with a lift of her chin and a quickly flashed smile, her eyes focused on the fight.
“Your fae is impressive,” she says, leaning toward me to bump her shoulder against mine. “He fights like a demon.”
Suspicion snakes through me. “Did you…” I laugh, “just compliment Ryc?”
She jabs an elbow into my upper arm. “I know when to commend someone’s skill and he’s skilled. Even if he’s insufferable otherwise.”
Cyran breaks free of Ryc’s hold, flinging himself upright. Ryc is quick to his feet and not wasting any time, Cyran launches an assault aimed for Ryc’s ribs. The first swing misses, but the second lands.
“Are they supposed to be using innates?” I ask, watching.
“You felt that?” Eve asks with a smirk. “No. Supposed to be physical only. But your fae doesn’t follow his own rules. He blinded Cyran. That’s how he got him on the mat.”
Ryc fights like a demon indeed.
A wild thrill at the thought sparks through my chest.
“I wager he wins this,” Eve says with a huffed laugh. “Cyran’s too honor bound to skirt—let alonebreak—rules.”
Then perhaps this is a needed lesson.
“Cyran may not break rules, but I will,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Ice blue eyes slide in my direction as a dark brow quirks. “Are you suggesting rigging the match?”
I smile. “A demon would never.”
“It would be gratifying to see King Killjoy humbled,” she muses, turning back to the grappling pair. “Even if it’s for all of ten minutes.”
Reaching for the golden rope between Ryc and me, I’m immediately hit with the stone wall of his concentration. The draw between us blooms and I resist the sudden urge to seek his embrace.
