The man is still there – still alive – and now he’s moving, lowering himself down the slick rock face, one step at a time.
What. The. Fuck.
His muscles glisten with sweat, which must weaken his grip, yet his hands and feet find impossible holds that are invisible to me from this distance. I’m an excellent climber, but the way he moves bowls me over.
I momentarily tear my gaze away from him and take another step towards the mound on the floor. It’s revealed to be nothing more than a rich fur coat.
Embarrassment courses through me at the thought that I was preparing to aid a mound of cloth. Clearly this man has no need of my help, and with my offering to Etta given, I have no reason to remain in the temple. Yet I stand rooted to the ground, watching his descent. The olive skin of his back is rippled with muscles and ghosted by scars. Every single fibre is taut as he stretches and bends, reaching out with nimble fingers. Where has he come from? All men in Morathka can fight, but to climb like this? He must surely be a knighted guard or a noble from one of the other cities. Most of the others who have come from afar have already made their submissions, but like me, he is cutting it fine.
I don’t know what the Eastern Isles are like, but maybe the cliff faces there are even more jagged than those beyond our walls. Or perhaps he comes from Dorain or Rowell? I’ve heard the further north you get, the rockier and harsher the terrain is. Coming from one of those places could surely explain such skill.
More than once, his footing slips slightly, causing my breath to stutter, but every time he manages to find his place again, and from what I can hear, not so much as a gasp leaves his lips. When he’s about six feet from the ground, he looks down, twists his body, and jumps. He landssilently, knees bent, and I watch as his shoulders drop in relief. So hewastense. That’s something, at least.
As I stand there, the fur still by my feet, I consider whether I should make him aware of my presence. Unless he saw me when he first entered through the clerestory window, he’ll have no idea I have been here all this while. Watching him.
I said my prayer aloud to the Goddess and would loathe for someone to have heard my private words. I owe him the same privacy. I prepare to clear my throat, but he turns just then, and his eyes snap to mine.
The colour alone is enough to steal my breath. Every shade of crystal blue shines within his gaze.
My pulse skips and my throat tightens as he brushes his thumb against his bottom lip, but beyond that subtle motion, neither of us moves. He is about my age – twenty-three, perhaps a couple of years older – but I was wrong in thinking he came from outside Wrohelm. Black ink marks his skin in six perfectly concentric circles that cross from his shoulder onto his chest. The six circles of our city. He is Wrohelm-born, meaning that perhaps I knew him growing up. He would not have looked like this all those years ago, of course, but I’d have remembered him.
Silence swells between us as his gaze shifts down, first to my charcoal-coated fingers, then to my body. He goes slowly, as if taking in every part of it. Of course he is. I’m wearing rags, whereas I suspect every other woman who’s made it this far has been in full fighting leathers. Or at least had shoes without holes. Then again, it’s not like he’s fully dressed either. If he were, my eyes wouldn’t keep absentmindedly drifting to that place where a thin line of hair disappears into his waistband.
His lips tip up into a smirk, and when he speaks, it’s with a velvety baritone that makes my knees weak. ‘That’s not the kind of wet I normally like my women to be, but I guess it’s a starting place.’
My gaze pings up to meet his, indignation flooding me, and it takes a split second for me to realise he’s referring to my clothes.
‘Wading through icy water was undoubtedly more enjoyable than any weak attempt at foreplay you could possibly offer,’ I shoot back.
‘If icy water is the best you’ve had, sweetheart, then you’ve been tragically undereducated. I could always help rectify that.’
A ripple of static spreads across my skin, tingling in the most inappropriate places considering I’m standing in a holy temple. Fuck.
I scramble for a retort, anything to cut him down, but those piercingeyes pin me in place. My gaze slips instead to the puddle of heavy fur still lying at my feet.
His eyes must have followed mine, because contemptuous amusement is lighting their azure depths when I look back to him. ‘You believed that to be a body,’ he says. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I don’t fall. I can stay up all night if you need me to.’
I ignore his asinine comment in favour of studying him further. There’s something achingly familiar about him. The shape of his jawline, that slight frown line crinkling the skin between his brows, and that blue shade of his eyes … it stirs something in my memory. I’ve seen that shade of blue before, but in the eyes of a woman instead. I cannot remember exactly where or when, and he speaks again before I can chase the memory further, sending my thoughts skittering away.
‘Were you going to move it?’ he questions, a curl of disdain raising his upper lip. Once again, I stay silent, causing his sneer to lift even higher. ‘Compassion is suicide in the Retterheld. You should pray to Etta that she doesn’t choose you. You won’t survive the first trial.’
And just like that, I can speak again. ‘Worry about your own prayers,’ I snap with a nod towards the altar. ‘She’s already heard mine.’
‘Was it to die in a trial you have no hope of winning?’ He frowns, looking at my hand. Abruptly, he reaches out and grabs me by the wrist. He twists my hand over to display my palm and the angry red wound still oozing blood. I didn’t realise quite how deep the cut was. Wordlessly, he takes his finger and traces the skin just beside the wound. Static radiates from his touch. Stifling a gasp, I snatch my hand back and press my palm against my side.
Blue Eyes shakes his head at me. ‘You get wounded in the Retterheld, you die.’
Prick.
‘You should watch how you speak to others,’ I snarl as the attraction I felt moments ago leaves, and anger rolls in.
Fucking lords. I was too young when I lived at the High Hold to realise just what arseholes they are. But I know now. ‘Making enemies before the trial has started doesn’t seem like the wisest thing to do. Unless…’ I quirk my eyebrow. ‘Unless you’re relying on me beating you to a pulp to provide the tears needed for your offering?’
His sneer shifts to an amused smirk, revealing a hint of dimples in those chiselled cheeks. Good Gods. Jerk or not, he is a beautiful specimen of a man. If he does get into the Retterheld, I’ll need to pray to Etta thathe’s eliminated as quickly as possible. There’s no way I need a distraction like him.
Though since he’s such an asshole, I probably won’t feel too guilty about his death. He’s willingly signing up for all of this. And Etta knows the world could do with fewer men with egos like his.
‘I’ll leave you to your prayers,’ I say before nodding to the fur on the floor. ‘And pick up your coat. It’s bad manners to litter.’
