I shrug. “Who’s counting when it’s gods?”
We both smile, but it doesn’t quite reach our eyes. I can hear in the hammer of her heart how nervous she is. To say a lot is riding on these Fae Games is an understatement. The whole damnworldis in the balance.
“At least I get to see Tòrr,” she muses with a fond smile.
I groan. “Oh, great. The murder horse.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine.
We reach the royal arena too soon for comfort. I climb out, helping Sabine down, and we paste on smiles and wave to the crowds who have been waiting in lines overnight.
We’re funneled into the stands, already packed with crowds who have been there since dawn to snag the best seats, and then we’re ushered by a thick battalion of soldiers to the Immortal Box.
I sweep in, shading my eyes against the direct sun, and am immediately greeted with a champagne glass thrust in my face.
“Compliments of Folke.” Ferra presses the glass into my hand, then another into Sabine’s. She jerks her head toward the arena, where I spot Folke speaking with the announcer and a fleet of arena guards. “He figured you’d both need a drink.”
“Only one?” Sabine jests, though her nerves betray her as her hand shakes.
Despite being the kingdom’s official race grounds, Old Coros’s Royal Arena is actually smaller in size than Duren’s arena—but not by much. It’s also a perfect circle, compared to Duren’s oval shape. The greatest difference, though, isn’t the architecture—it has similar statues to the ten gods, stadium seating, and columned breezeways.
The difference is tradition—and it’s striking.
In Duren Arena, the sand is raked clean after every match. Not a drop of blood is left to dry. The moment a blade is lowered, crews sweep in—restoring the floor to a pristine, unblemishedgleam. The audience demand it. They come for spectacle, not the stain of consequence.
But the royal arena?
Here, blood is left to rot.
This is no place for sport—it is a pit of judgment. Trials are ended here. Executions carried out. And the sand carries that history. Layers of death soaked into the sand, until the arena floor sheens a deep, rusted red.
“I need to go backstage and find my father and the other fae,” Sabine says.
I clutch her hand, suddenly not wanting to let go. She looks at me a little mournfully as she slides her fingers from mine.
She isn’t gone long before Rian sidles up, swirling a pewter goblet. “Well, well. How long before Vale sweeps in and takes credit formydirty work? Let’s put some coin on it. I say ten minutes.”
I lean on the railing, rubbing my hands together. “If you didn’t want him taking credit for your supposed miracle, you shouldn’t have staged it that way.”
He only stares at me, and I sigh.
“Twenty minutes,” I wager.
This earns me a grin.
Slowly, I give a pointed glance back toward the women on the other side of the Immortal Box. “Did your so-called miracle have to involve kissing Lady Suri?”
Rian snorts before taking a deep sip of wine. “Merely a trick to escape.”
“I may not be as trained in tactics as you,” I say slyly, “but surely there were easier ways to steal the keys from her. You have seventy pounds of muscle on her—you could have overpowered her with your pinkie.”
Hetsksas though I’ve suggested something outlandish. “She was merely a means to an end.”
“You risked your freedom to return to deliver snacks to her. You stuck around to make sure she’d be comfortable. You left hercinnamon cookies.”
“Don’t forget the sherry. An excellent vintage. Imported from Clarana.” This earns the ghost of a rakish grin. “I’m not amonster.” He finishes his wine in one swig and sets down the goblet, cutting a long look toward Lady Suri. His tone is softer when he says, “She’s much too good for me.”
“You have that right.”
