They emerged into a sight that stole her breath.
The Grand Arena unfurled beneath the cathedral like a hidden heart, an enormous oval carved directly into the rock, its walls rising high and stands filled with thousands of Dravaryns, eager to observe the Rite.
Ella had expected a filthy training pit, maybe a dueling floor with weapons gleaming, and an audience hungry for blood, but this…this was not that.
The floor was a patchwork of rock and dirt, threaded with veins of glittering black obsidian. The patterns thickened near the center. A towering black tent had been erected there, its panels a heavy, ornate fabric, each corner anchored by iron spikes driven deep into the ground. From her vantage point, the seams were closed tight, but a faint curl of steam slipped out from the bottom edge and vanished into the air.
So this was where the sacred spring was held, hidden and guarded. She imagined what lay beneath that tent, a pool carved into open stone, a ceremonial grotto steaming in the dim light, a place meant for transformation. Whatever it was, the tent felt less like a cover and more like a shrine, guarding something ancient and alive.
Whatever lay inside was the final phase of the Claiming, the part Bryn had joked about until Maeren snapped at him, deadly serious. Dravaryn did not flaunt their rituals. They contained them, protected them, and revealed them only when it was time.
Set directly behind the tent was the Dravaryn crest, carved on a massive slab of dark stone: an ornate black rose in full bloom, a double-edged blade gleaming across its petals, and a winding script in an unfamiliar language.
She lifted her gaze, searching for him, but the crowd blurred into a sea of motion.
Then the roar surged, pulling her focus toward a lone figure near the tent. Jakobav stood there, the applause folding around him like a living thing. She’d heard he was beloved among his people, but seeing it was something else entirely; the sheer force of their devotion was overwhelming, their fervor a heat that brushed her skin. It made sense that Dravaryn adored a brutal prince with dangerous magic. But watching his power and heritage collide was a reckoning, one that shattered every expectation she had carried.
Still, Ella knew with certainty there was far more to him than that.
He was stripped to low-slung ceremonial trousers, every inch of his chest and arms marked in streaks of black ash that traced the ridges of muscle and the breadth of his shoulders. Even bound and still healing, he looked as if he could tear the mountain apart with his bare hands, like he could hurl her over the peak and still catch her on the other side.
The tea in Ella’s veins transformed the world into vivid, perilous color, the blue-white torchlight spilling from the arena walls turning the sheen of sweat on his skin into molten silver, sliding over the thick line of his throat and the cut of his jaw. His hair was loose today, dark waves brushing his shoulders, and the sight of it unbound tightened low in her belly.
Then he saw her. His gaze swept from the braided crown of hair to the shimmer of ritual oil glinting at her collarbone, lingered for a scorching heartbeat at her hips, and then locked with hers.
The crowd roared again, but all she registered was the slow, deliberate heat in his stare. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his hand flexed at his side. Though the ceremonial trousers were meant for freedom of movement, they did nothing to hide the sudden, unmistakable evidence of how he was looking at her. He didn’t seem to care that thousands were watching their future king stare at her like that. She should’ve been mortified. She wasn’t.
Fuck. What is in that tea?
Whatever it was, it had stripped her of every last sense.
He didn’t look away when her chin lifted, or when a slow blush crawled up her cheeks. Her pulse tripped so hard that she could feel it in her throat, and the corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something that told her he was promising things he could not give right now.
Ash clung to the tattoos on his arms and chest, turning the ink into something feral. The crowd might’ve been here to witness a ritual, but she could barely breathe past the truth that every line of him was built to ruin and remake. Even wounded, he moved like a man born for violence. The bindings across his ribs only emphasized the strength beneath.
And gods help her, if he looked at another woman the way he was looking at her now, she might burn the whole arena to the ground.
Shit. Where is this jealousy coming from?
No doubt Jakobav was to blame.
Maeren’s hand closed around her elbow, guiding her through a narrow break in the crowd to a raised platform of stone along the arena’s right flank. Thane and Soren were already there, dressed far finer than usual. Thane wore dark formal leathers embroidered in silver. Soren stood beside him in deep forest-green, the tailored coat cutting a clean, severe line across his shoulders.
They stood like sentinels beneath the Dravaryn crest carved high into the stone behind them. From this vantage, the entire arena opened beneath her: the black tent standing at its center, the sea of Dravaryn citizens in the stands, and the cathedral balcony high above.
“This is where we hold,” Maeren murmured, her voice pitched low enough to be swallowed by the roar.
Ella glanced between them, realizing she wasn’t just standing with his friends. She was in the place reserved for his blood and battle-bound family, the thought making her spine straighten.
Ella swallowed and leaned toward Maeren. “Where’s the king?”
Maeren’s jaw tightened. “He isn’t coming.”
Ella opened her mouth, but Maeren shook her head once.
A ripple moved through the crowd as a woman in black robes stepped into view, emerging from the tent’s shadow. The hem of her garments whispered along the ground, and her face was marked with dark ink patterns. In her hand, a staff of black Dravaryn glass caught the torchlight. The energy of the crowd shifted, as if acutely aware of the power she carried.
Before Ella could confirm who she was, Maeren leaned in. “The High Vexari. She speaks for the realm.”
