There’s a snort from the shadows, and a cloud of steam rolls across the sand.
“Tòrr!” I throw my arms around his massive neck, breathing in his iron-and-wine scent, the line of black scales that runs down his neck smooth and solid as leather against my cheek.
He stomps his foot.I refuse to carry the Fae King again—he weighs more than an ox.
“What’s wrong with Tòrr?” Basten enters the staging area, dressed now in charcoal gray riding gear with forest-green antler embroidery on his shoulders. “Too proud to have his mane braided?”
“That’s what I said!” Ferra tosses her hands in the air.
“Basten.” I stumble toward him, burying my face against his chest. Our duties have kept us apart nearly all day, and now, my heart sighs at the sight of him.
Gods, the irony. That it took Rian—his hands, his mouth, his twisted desires—to bring Basten and me back into alignment.
He cups my jaw, tilts my face to his, our foreheads touching. “Little violet.”
The announcer calls something from the stadium, and the crowd begins to chant in anticipation.
“Are you ready, Queen Sabine?” Lord Kendan asks as he strides into the staging area, studying the distant horizon. “The sun is very nearly down.”
I nod softly, my forehead still pressed to Basten’s.
“Ready,” I whisper.
I draw in a final breath before we break away, grinning at one another for strength. Basten mounts Myst in one graceful swoop, patting her neck in a show of affection.
Myst slides her eyes to me.Tell him to stop messing up my hair.
I laugh and relay the message.
“Pardon me, crazy mare,” Basten says dramatically, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’tdreamof ruining your hair.”
Myst snorts and nods, satisfied.
A squire brings out a wooden block for me to climb on Tòrr’s massive back. I settle on him, arranging the billowing drapes of my silken skirt with the help of the servants.
Then, Basten and I ride the horses to the edge of the staging area.
The last rays of day fan out over the cloudless sky. I have every confidence in the world—err,mostly—that Tòrr wouldn’t use his solarium horn to channel sunlight and blast the stadium apart, but for the sake of putting the public at ease, we saved this performance for night.
The announcer calls from the Immortal Box, “For the day’s closing event, I present your beloved new monarchs. KingBasten and Immortal Solene, recreating the fabled Race of Sun and Moon!”
The energy in the stands feels on fire—voices rising, feet pounding, the whole stadium vibrating in anticipation. In my heart, the same blaze catches.
Basten reaches his hand out, and I take it.
“Together,” I say softly.
He winks. “Always.”
The drumroll unspools throughout the arena, the crimson sand itself vibrating, and I feel the beat spread up through my toes.
Beneath me, Tòrr paws the ground, sensing it too. Feeding off the raw energy.
Soon, I assure him.
The Race of Sun and Moon appears in Immortal Vale’s chapter of the Book of the Immortals. It’s one of the most well-known fae tales, recited to children at bedtime for generations.
Long ago, two rival kings waged war across the Near World, each seeking Immortal Vale’s favor for a victory. But Vale offered no favor—only a race.
