“We have our first match-up,” Death announces. “As two faeries cannot occupy the same space, they must fight for it. The fights can include root magic, but the High Fae will decide. First to draw blood will win the spot. The losing faerie will be disqualified.”
The Healing faerie swallows. My hands dampen with sweat. Kassandra’s pale eyes pierce into me, cold and distant, and I do not keep the hate from mine.
How dare she? How dare she set me up like this?She chose to split her number this way—protecting Briar and setting me up for a fight and elimination.
“Lady Kassandra,” the executioner says. “Will this fight include magic?”
“No.”
I glare at her. The faeries whisper. The High Fae whip in her direction, mouths agape.
I think of the phantom hand, feeling my arm.What are you, made of rocks now?
The executioner simply nods. “Then it will be a fight of the fists.”
My mind goes blank. If anyone protests or cuts in, I do not hear or see it. I only register the male in front of me widening his stance. We are similar in height, but his tattooed arms are as lean and muscular as mine from physical labor. He may outlast me, so I must end it quickly.
“I will give the signal in three,” Death says over the murmuring High Fae.
They are betting.
They are betting on us.
White-hot anger flashes through my mind, and I remember standing outside a fighting pit long ago, watching my father pin down another faerie, pummeling him over and over, sweat and spittle and blood flying in every direction as coins changed hands and new bets were made.
“Three. Two—”
The executioner whistles.
I lunge, tackling the faerie, my back slamming on the grass as he twists to land on top of me. The air knocks from my lungs, his knee crunching my side. He winds up for a punch, but I surge forward, smashing my skull into his nose.
The faerie jerks back, swearing, but there’s no blood yet. I throw an elbow against the nose with a crunch. He flops onto the ground, blood gushing from his nostrils.
“Fuck,” he spits.
“Sorry,” I say, offering a hand as I climb to my feet.
He knocks it away. “Don’t bother.”
He walks off the lawn, eliminated.
My dress stains with pigment, and I wipe the sweat from my forehead. From the tent, there’s a quick shout, a laugh. Death announces my victory. The next turn commences, and I scan the board.
Benji cries out from the starting line.
He lands on the fourth square, a black one. My heart wrenches. He returns to the beginning, blinking, face blotchy with the onset of tears.
“The round is finished,” Death declares. “You may speak to your faeries now.”
The High Fae scatter like pearls off a snapped string. Only Dominik stays behind, grabbing another drink, a smirk on his face.
He will not let Benji win.He just wants to torture the boy. Fury awakens my genius, tingeing the air.
Kassandra whispers with Briar before making her way to me. When she reaches my side, I clench my fists.
“When plans changed, I asked Briar to tell me everything about herself and anything she knew of you,” my mistress says. “She told me she’s quick with water and your father was a fighter in the pits. Then you showed up, your genius and body different, and I knew how I wanted to place my bets.”
I grit my teeth, then ask, “What’s different about my genius?”
