A servant runs out, struggling under the weight of a hefty metal bell. There is no clapper or hammer, but Sabine raises her hands to the sky again.
Her human glamour falls like silk to the ground. In its place, silver light erupts across her skin—her fey lines igniting with a brilliance so pure it hurts to look at. The glow surges outward, refracting across the arena’s crimson sand, scattering shards of silver light like blessings tossed from the hands of gods.
Behind her, Vale raises his arms as his own glamour melts away.
One by one, the others follow, shining in their full glory.
“Immortal Woudix, God of Death!” Sabine announces, presenting him.
“Immortal Iyre, Goddess of Chastity!”
“Immortal Artain, God of the Hunt!”
“Immortal Samaur, God of Day, and the newly awakened Immortal Thracia, Goddess of Night!”
Each one releases a dazzling bolt of their multi-colored fey into the air.
While the crowd is marveling over the theatrics, Sabine raises her hands again.
A bolt of lightning tears down from the impossibly blue sky, striking the arena bell with a chime that rings not like war, but like a celebration.
“Let the games begin!” she shouts.
The crowd rises to their feet, stomping and clapping, bouncing on their toes.
For a heartbeat, both fae and human stand united.
Awed.
Hopeful.
It’s almost enough to make even a sinner like me want to fall to my knees—except for the fact that I distrust every one of those preening gods next to my wife with a strength that could burn kingdoms.
Chapter 29
Sabine
The first day of the Fae Games passes like a dream.
After the opening ceremony, Artain performs a trick arrow show where he lands bullseyes on a series of wooden stag dummies while blindfolded and riding backward on a galloping stallion.
Then, whitewashed wooden beams are laid over the crimson sand, and dancers in flowing silk robes perform a graceful rendition of the heartwarming love story between Aria and Aron.
A portion of the old treasury has been converted into an exhibit hall for fae artifacts of lore: the fae needle, Saph’s horseshoe, the immortal lasso.
In the Glassmarket District, Samaur and Thracia show off her fabled Midnight Vase of legend, carefully swaddled in silks in an oaken chest. Samaur uses his molten fey to shape handfuls of sand into pint-sized glass copies of the vase for the crowd to take as party favors.
Captain Tatarin spends the afternoon leading goldenclaw rides for children around Valor Circle. The gargantuan fae bears aren’t dressed for battle today—instead, they wear colorful saddles with fanciful ruffles, and braided ribbons as reins for thechildren to hold onto. Tati herself wears a dark purple robe over loose trousers, and whimsical pink hearts painted on her cheeks—you’d never know she was one of the most elite soldiers of the Volkish army.
As sunset approaches, I change into a gauzy gown with draping silks in every shade of orange, pink, and yellow. Then, I make my way back to the arena for the final event of the day.
I step into the cool shade beneath the archway, in the staging area.
Myst is already saddled. Ferra stands beside her, working her godkissed magic on her mane, weaving sunset pink and orange streaks into her white strands, then using her deft fingers to wind them into the most intricate immortal braids I’ve ever seen—on a personora horse.
“That’s gorgeous,” I breathe, overcome.
Ferra pauses to point a long fingernail into the shadows. “Thatone wouldn’t let me near him.”
