A wave of palpable shame washed through the hall as countless fae dropped their heads. The king was rotten, but his court was not yet lost.
“My Lady! My Prince!” A guard dropped to one knee, his voice laced with remorse. “Forgive us. We wanted to fight. Wewillfight!”
“We will fight!” more voices roared, the cry becoming a unified shout. “Fae do not cower!”
The king’s face contorted with pure hate. I’d released him from his arboreal prison, and his arrogance had returned in a venomous wave. “You dare turn my subjects against me?” he snarled. “I am the rightful?—”
“You won’t be for long,” Rowan cut him off.
“My mate, who is a goddess in her own right, could have killed you where you stood,” Rowan continued, his voice cold and hard. “But I am giving you a chance to die with honor. Fight me like a fae. If you win, you keep your throne. I won’t even let my mate avenge me.”
I gave his hand a squeeze. The old king was powerful, but I had utter confidence in my mate.
The king’s laugh was a harsh, ugly sound. “You think your mongrel blood and borrowed magic can save you, boy? I have held this throne for centuries. I was winning duels before you were a stain on your mother’s legacy.”
King Emyr descended the dais steps, his blade held ready. His ornate armor gleamed, etched with preservation runes and protective wards that cost a fortune.
Rowan simply removed his long coat and rolled up his sleeves. He wore no armor. No wards. Just a prince insimple, practical clothes, holding the blood blade that had slain hundreds of Shriekers.
They faced each other at the traditional seven paces. The king attacked first—a testing strike, textbook form, meant to gauge Rowan’s response. Rowan’s blade met his with minimal deflection, redirecting rather than blocking.
The king’s eyes narrowed. He’d expected more resistance.
The second exchange was faster. Three strikes from the king, each one technically perfect, centuries of muscle memory evident in every movement. Rowan gave ground, his parries precise but seemingly defensive.
“Still weak, boy,” the king taunted.
The third exchange changed everything. The king committed to a rising cut that would have opened most opponents from hip to shoulder. Rowan wasn’t where the blade expected him to be. He’d stepped inside the arc, too close for the sword to cut effectively. His pommel strike came fast—aimed at the king’s temple. The king barely jerked back in time, the pommel grazing his ear instead of crushing bone.
First blood went to the king anyway—a thin line across Rowan’s ribs where the king’s recovery slice caught him.
“Your whore mother’s blood makes you soft.”
Rowan’s expression didn’t change, but his stance did. No more testing. No more giving ground. He attacked. The king had expected rage—wild, exploitable rage. What he got was controlled aggression, each strike flowing into the next without pause. Rowan’s blade became a blur of silver, forcing the king backward step by step. The king’s parries grew more desperate. His centuries of experience couldn’t match Rowan’s speed. When he tried to counter, Rowan was already moving to his next attack, building pressure like a rising tide.
The watching fae gasped as the king stumbled.
That’s when the king changed tactics. Earth magic erupted—stone spears shooting up between them, forcing separation. Rowan met earth with fire. The king’s stone walls shattered under sustained heat, metal-enhanced flames cutting through centuries-old rock like it was paper.
The king opened sinkholes beneath Rowan’s feet. Rowan rode wind above them, striking from angles that shouldn’t exist.
“Impossible,” the king hissed, stumbling back. “Your earth magic shouldn’t?—”
“I’m not just fae.” Rowan landed behind him with a savage grin, lightning crackling along his blade. “I’m Covenant.”
Fire. Wind. Lightning. Earth. Four elements where the king had only one.
The king raised every defense he had—walls of stone and root, traditional fae earth-working centuries in the making. Rowan cut through them like morning mist. When the king’s shoulder armor split under Rowan’s blade, reality settled over the court.
Their king was losing. Not just losing—being overwhelmed.
“Guards!” the king screamed. “Kill him! Kill the usurper!”
No one moved.
The king saw his isolation in that moment. His court watching with dry eyes as he bled.
Desperation made him vicious. He poured everything into one massive attack—the floor exploding upward in stone spears aimed at the crowd. A final “fuck you” to the court that abandoned him.
