Each king was to ride from opposite ends of the realm, one in the direction of the rising sun, the other in the direction of the rising moon, crossing blazing deserts, cliff-carved coasts, and darkened woodlands, until they reached the gates of ancient Calisyrune.
Weeks passed. Hunger hollowed the riders. Sun and wind flayed them bare. Yet both endured—and arrived within moments of each other.
But they no longer craved conquest.
The journey had burned away their pride, leaving men who now saw beyond borders and crowns.
Neither king won. Neither lost, either. They dismounted together and laid their swords at Vale’s feet.
Wisdom does not sit on a throne, Immortal Vale famously pronounced.It rides the common road, as you have just done.
I glance over my shoulder at the Immortal Box, where six thrones have been brought out. One for each of the woken gods. They sit stiffly, watching with unreadable expressions, as if they actually care about the outcome of this recreation.
A trumpet blares, and a servant lowers the starting flag.
And I can’t think any more about the fae.
“Go!” I dig my heels into Tòrr’s side, but he doesn’t need the cue. He’s already tearing at the arena, pawing the sand, foaming at the mouth.
Beside me, Basten spurs Myst in the opposite direction. Half the arena waves flags with the sun emblem, while the other half thrusts their moon flags high.
Tòrr and I race through sets constructed of wood and paint. First, we roar through the ancient nameless deserts that would later become the kingdom of Kravada. Then, we pass through a forest where actors dressed as ancient warriors throw dull-tipped spears at us.
I lean forward, thighs pressing in to hold myself steady, gloved fingers woven in Tòrr’s razor-sharp mane. The wind makes my eyes water, but I wouldn’t trade this thrill for anything.
Circling in the opposite direction, Basten and Myst bound toward us. Myst is no competition for Tòrr as far as speed, of course—but this is simply a show. There are no winners or losers tonight.
We cross paths in the middle of a set made to look like the shallow shores of the Panopis Sea, complete with workers tossing buckets of water at us to mimic the surf.
Our eyes meet.
For that brief moment, I feel as if everything in the world has clicked into place.
It’s working.
By tomorrow night, at the grand closing ceremony, all our efforts will have paid off—fae and mortals will be at peace. I know it. Ifeelit.
Tòrr and I weave between wooden pillars painted to look like villages, buying time for Basten and Myst to catch up in their direction.
Then, once we’re equidistant from the finish line, a trumpet blares. We race to the final set in the center of the arena, where wooden pillars are painted to look like the arched gates of ancient Calisyrune.
We tear through the silken ribbon together. Me and Tòrr. Basten and Myst. We pull the horses to a stop, their bodies aligned head to tail, and Basten and I lean across the space between us to kiss.
The arena erupts.
The crowd throws flowers and offerings to the sand. Ribbons. Charms. Paper ornaments. The cheers swell into a roar that shakes the very bones of the place, our names chanted again and again.
In the Immortal Box, Vale strides to the announcer’s balcony, lifting his hands.
“Good people of Astagnon,” he thunders, “Let this be a lesson to all of us. In the game of war, no one wins if we do not stand together. Wisdom does not sit on a throne—it rides the common road. Your road!”
Flags wave enthusiastically, as tears glisten in people’s eyes.
“Tomorrow,” Vale continues, “The second and final day of the Fae Games commences at dawn with?—”
“Brother, if I may!” Artain suddenly staggers to Vale’s side, his cheeks stained telltale red, his voice slightly slurred. “In fact, we have one final surprise to close off the first night of games!”
A warning threads its way between my heartbeat.
