And I hate them for it, just a little. Hate the way they’ve made their helplessness into a gift they keep giving me, over and over, until I’m drowning under the weight of it.
“Stone Court law allows for trial by combat,” I say, and the words taste like ashes in my mouth. “Any challenge to tribute demands can be settled in single combat with the Court’s champion. If the challenger wins, the tribute is nullified.”
“The Court’s champion is Guardian Karax himself.” The blacksmith’s voice is rough—smoke damage from a forge fire I helped him put out four years ago, back when we both still pretended things might get better. “He hasn’t been defeated in seven centuries. No one’s evenwoundedhim in living memory.”
“I know.”
“You’d be walking to your death.”
“Maybe.” I meet his eyes steadily. “But the law says first blood ends the trial. If I can wound him—even a scratch, even once—the demand is nullified and Ironhold goes free.”
“And if you lose?”
I take a breath. Let it out slowly.
“Then I pay the tribute myself. One woman instead of three. The village is spared for another year, at least.”
The silence that follows is absolute. I watch understanding dawn on their faces—the realization of what I’m offering. My life, or at least my freedom, in exchange for their daughters. Another sacrifice laid on the altar of keeping this dying village alive for one more season.
“You can’t.” Marta’s voice trembles. “Hannah, you can’t throw yourself away for—”
“I’ve been throwing myself away for this village since I was sixteen years old.” The words come out tired. So bone-deep tired. “Every chaos-beast I’ve killed, every negotiation I’ve walked into alone, every night I’ve stood watch while the rest of you slept. What’s one more sacrifice?”
“Your parents wouldn’t want—”
“My parents are dead.” I cut her off more sharply than I mean to. “They’ve been dead for eight years. And for eight years, I’ve been doing what needs to be done because no one else would do it. Fighting what needs to be fought. Carrying everyone and everything because there’s no one else strong enough.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for showing that weakness. But I’m sotired. Tired of being strong. Tired of being the one everyone depends on. Tired of standing between this village and destruction while they look at me with expecting eyes and never once ask if I’m okay. Never once offer to share the weight.
“I’m invoking trial by combat,” I say, forcing iron back into my voice. “Tomorrow, when the delegation arrives. If anyone has a better idea, now’s the time.”
Silence.
Of course it’s silence. There’s never anything else.
“Then it’s settled.” I roll up the scroll and tuck it into my belt. “Prepare to evacuate the children and elderly to the lower caves, in case things go badly. I have training to do.”
I’m out the door before anyone can respond.
The eastern ridge offers the best view in Ironhold—the valley sprawling below with its scattered buildings and terraced farms, the winding mountain paths that connect us to a world that’s mostly forgotten we exist, and in the distance, rising from the highest peaks like a monument to everything humanity has lost, the dark spires of Stone Court.
I come here when the weight gets too heavy. When I need to set it down for a moment and pretend I’m just a woman watching the sunset, not the only thing standing between forty-three people and oblivion.
Tonight, I come here to face what I’ve done.
Trial by combat against the Guardian of Stone Court. An immortal Fae lord who’s been fighting since before my great-great-grandparents were born. A warrior who’s never been touched in seven hundred years of challenges.
I’m going to lose.
I’ve known it since the words left my mouth. The odds aren’t against me—they’re laughable. I’m a self-taught fighter from a dying village, and he’s a legend made flesh. I’ve survived thirty-seven chaos-beasts through luck and stubbornness and a complete unwillingness to die, but that’s not the same as skill.Not the kind of skill you need to face an ancient Fae warrior in his own arena.
But I had to try. I couldn’t watch them take Marta’s daughter, couldn’t see Lily’s gap-toothed smile disappear into Stone Court’s fortress and emerge years later as an omega’s vacant contentment. Couldn’t sacrifice three girls when I could sacrifice one.
Myself.
The math is simple, even if the equation is heartbreaking.
I draw my blade and run through the forms I’ve developed over eight years—strikes and parries, footwork patterns designed to maximize speed against larger opponents. Everything I’ve learned from fighting chaos-beasts and desperate bandits and the occasional Fae scout who wandered too close to the village. My muscles remember the movements even when my mind wanders, and my mind keeps wandering to dark places.
