“So?” the Unluckie snaps. “Someone has to take the coin.”
The coin.
Oh planes, if I lose, so will Benji. If I win, I will screw over this Unluckie. How can I levy someone’s pain against another’s? We fight over so little when the High Fae have so much.
The whistle blows. Time is up.
I send a request along the plane to a sharp rock at my foot. The rock declines, silent and stubborn. My genius pushes downward, finding a small root whose origins I do not have time to discover. Nature accepts this time, letting my energy collide with its own.
Hello,the root seems to say, and my genius sings in recognition.
Power floods me in a torrent stronger than any I have ever known.
The Unluckie lunges.
I sidestep, flicking my wrist.
The root shoots up from the ground like an extension of me, scraping against the Unluckie’s ribs. He thuds to the grass, scrambles, and stands. He reaches for me again, but the executioner is whistling once more.
We glance down at ourselves, each other. A small dot of red stains his thin shirt. There wasn’t even a fight.
“No,” the Unluckie says.
The power fades, the root returning to its rest once more. I feel cold in its absence.
“Illusion has won the match-up!” the executioner shouts.
Dominik yells something crass. A glass breaks. He has lost out on a hundred thousand debt rings, unless he wants to use his other player, Benji.
“No,” the Unluckie grits out again, shaking. “But you have so little debt compared to me!”
My throat thickens. “I’m sorry—”
“This isn’t fair,” he moans, tears streaming down his exhausted face. His eyes flick to the gold coin in the center.
He leaps forward, shoving me to the ground. Shouts erupt across the field as the Unluckie sprints to the Pith, diving for the coin. He lifts it up, crying out in joy, like a starving male who finally found a grape to savor.
The king reaches him a moment later and waves his fingers. The faerie flinches, opening up his empty palms to the sun. He drops to his knees once more. Sobs bubble up as he rakes into the ground with bony fingers.
“Where is it?” he wails. “Where is it?”
Tears roll down my cheeks. Someone sniffles beside me.
“Where did it go?” the male croaks. “It was right here!”
The king crouches down next to the faerie, placing a hand on his shoulder. He murmurs something soft, calm. I hold my breath, waiting for the faerie to strike or scream or spit, even if it means death. Instead, the faerie and King Maxian rise together, arm in arm, the dozens of tattoos of one clashing against the untouched skin of the other. The king holds up the debtor like he would any friend, gentle and patient. My jaw drops.
When they stride past me, the king is saying, “…but it wouldn’t be fair to the others. However, I appreciate your participation and for that, I can offer you this silver.”
The faerie holds it to his chest. “Thank you, my king. Thank you.”
“Thank you for your service.”
“He should be whipped for his insolence.” Dominik stalks up to them. His white tunic is askew, strands of hair falling from the ribbon that holds it up.
The faerie trembles.
“He will not be,” the king says, moving beyond his friend and toward the tent.
