Hazel knew she wouldn’t outrun a horse. She also knew she wouldn’t outrun a man with superhuman speed. But she wasn’t going to sit there and be taken captive by someone else with unknown intentions. Even if they were saving the witches. Who was to say they weren’t transporting them to a worse fate?
Where the Hel is Slaide?He had a habit of swooping in when she needed him to, but the past two incidents he’d abandoned her. Maybe Magnus was right. She scowled at the thought. But he’d claimed Slaide was a self-serving bastard. And now that she wasn’t playing the games his way anymore, he didn’t care what became of her.
It was in that moment, mid-thought, that Hazel’s foot struck a rock and she went sprawling to the ground.
The last thing she saw before her world went white was the boulder awaiting her face.
A brazier crackledin the corner. Hazel looked down at her hands. Something touched her shoulder, clasping it, turning her around…
It was the winged man. He stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. She balked, twisting away, stumbling over one of the infirmary cots. She slipped on the blood-slicked stone and crashed to the floor.
He stood over her, his menacing form blocking out light, his breaths seeming to suck the air out of her lungs. He reached out for her, his hand drawing closer… closer. Hazel held herarm out in an attempt to block herself from harm, tucking into herself on the floor.
A cold hand grasped hers, and she shuddered. When nothing else happened, she chanced a glance up at him. He tugged on her hand gently, as if to say “get up.” It was clear her options wereverylimited, so she leaned into his grip and allowed him to help her stand. He let go of her then.
“We need to go. They’re coming.”
She recognized that voice. “Who? Who is coming?” she asked frantically.
“No time. We have to move.” He stepped toward her then, grabbing her upper arm and tugging her into motion. She looked at him as they ran, and as the glow of the firelight danced across his features, she realized who she thought she’d been running from all this time.
Slaide.
Hazel awoke with a start, panting, heart pounding in her chest. She threw the covers off and raced over to her wardrobe, flipping through the contents within. “Phaedra!” she yelled.What happened? How did I get here?
In an instant, the angel was at her side, causing Hazel to jump.“Thank goodness you’re here.”
“Can I be of assistance, Mistress Hazel?” Phaedra bowed.
“I-I think you can. But Phaedra, what day is it? How long was I out?” Hazel stammered.
“Not long, Mistress,” Phaedra replied, taking a seat in the writing chair. “The… incident… was just last night. You’ve slept most of the day, but it’s not even been a full day since you hit your head.”
Hazel reached up, feeling the bandage above her eyebrow for the first time. She winced.
“Phaedra, is the tournament over now?” Hazel asked. She had to assume after the events she’d witnessed, the King andhis men would be more worried about damage control than crowning a new champion.
“I believe so, Mistress. Though, the ball is still this evening.” The moment the words left her mouth, the angel pursed her lips.
“You’re kidding me,” Hazel said, kicking the covers off her legs. “That’s tonight?”
Phaedra jumped to her feet, rushing to Hazel’s side just as she tried to leave the bed.
“Mistress, please. Your head. You’re in no condition to attend a ball. Please sit back down.”
“I feel fine, really. There’s no need to make so much fuss over a little cut. Besides, I have to talk to Slaide. Assuming he wants anything to do with me.” Hazel frowned.
“As you wish, Mistress. Please mind that injury, though. Is there any way I can assist you in getting ready?” Phaedra asked, bowing her head.
“Yes, I believe you can. I know it’s a bit early, but I need you to run and fetch Master Pimley for me, please. Tell him Hazel has urgent need of him.”
“Right away, Hazel.” And the angel was gone.
BELLE OF THE BALL
Noblemen and women filtered into the grand ballroom in a nauseating mixture of bold perfumes and obnoxious fabric choices. They soon found themselves indulging in food, drink, and conversation. Slaide stood still as a statue at King Magnus’s side, a dog tethered to his master. Their circle consisted of Magnus’s most ass-kissing noblemen from the most powerful houses in Aeos, his Hand, and Prince Tristan.
Conversation drifted to some attack on a Border patrol unit the night before. Slaide caught bits and pieces as they discussed the details in a hushed manner, all the while ignoring the very public crowd around them that could likely hear what they were saying. As if citizen morale wasn’t low enough already, the last thing they needed to overhear was a discussion of the instability of the Border and the masked bandit making everyone’s life a living Hel. Slaide smirked into his glass as they tried to mask the panic in their voices. Their discomfort was a drug, and he couldn’t get enough.
