Would he?
ChApter
Twenty-Two
It is early morning when we are invited to the Podrosan tournament grounds, as they call it. It looks more like a huge outdoor arena to me, with a semi-circle of tiered viewing benches that look out over the expansive space. To the left and right of the seating area, high stone walls are draped in banners of deep crimson and black. The scent of warm earth and polished steel lingers in the air, mingling with the distant clamor of the city beyond.
I sit between Nadya and Queen Eleanor in the shaded viewing box, the heavy folds of my mourning gown pooling at my feet, suffocating in the midday heat. The sun beats down from a cloudless sky, glaring against the pale stone walls of the arena and forcing me to squint through the brightness. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades beneath the velvet, and I can already feel a dull ache building behind my eyes.
The Podrosan court is gathered around us—nobles draped in plain, red attire, guards stiff and alert along the stone perimeter, courtiers whispering into gloved hands. Just below our viewing box, Lord Marcos Trevose stands among the other lords. His outer robe is a shade deeper than the Podrosan crimson, belted in polished onyx that glints when heturns toward the sun. Silver embroidery coils at his cuffs and collar, etched in symbols of his house—a mark of old nobility.
He notices me watching and offers a shallow nod, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar, measured smile. Respectful. Thoughtful. Perhaps still hopeful.
I look away quickly, my gaze shifting to the arena—but his words return to me in a murmur, low and uncertain:I wonder if Lord Stregasi is up to the challenge.
At the time, I’d assumed he meant the diplomacy. The scrutiny. The maneuvering through a foreign court built on brittle, ancient pride. But now, as my eyes adjust to the brightness and take in the mountainous course beyond the arena sand, my stomach twists.
This isn’t politics; this is a trial.
The arena sprawls wide and open, a vast expanse of packed earth enclosed by towering stone walls. But beyond that lies the true test—the mountainside itself, carved into a brutal gauntlet of obstacles meant to break even the most seasoned warriors.
Wooden beams stretch at precarious angles, forming narrow platforms that jut like broken teeth from the rock face. Thick ropes hang from overhanging ledges, some coiled taut, others swaying lazily in the breeze. Jagged outcroppings form handholds—but I could swear their surfaces are rough, perhaps even sharp. This place feels like a trap disguised as a challenge.
I blink and glance to the left, where the Podrosan king stands speaking with a man in uniform—a soldier, but not like the others. His skin glows faintly golden under the sun, and when he raises a hand, the very rock beneath the lowest section of the course shudders. The stone settles, reshapes. Earth magic.
My throat tightens. He’s fae. And loyal to the Podrosan court.
They built this course with more than muscle in mind.
I turn my attention to the center of the arena, where Dante stands, his dark tunic clinging to him like it’s painted on. He rolls his shoulders back and stretches his fingers, the tendons in his forearms catching the light. I follow the movement of his throat as he swallows. Steady.Focused.
Did he know this trial awaited him? Whether he did or didn’t, there’s no turning back now. Everything is riding on this. Not just his title. His worth. His name. His future.
And mine.
I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Ezra, whose hand rubs at his chin, his brow wrinkled as he studies the rock face. He spots me and tries to give me a reassuring nod, but I know there’s no confidence behind it.
For a brief moment, my focus lands on Princess Orida. She leans forward, a faint smile on her face as she stares at Dante. She shifts in her seat, her hand coming up to wave in an effort to get his attention, but he doesn’t notice her. But she doesn’t let it bother her. She whispers something to the lady beside her, and they both modestly hide their mouths behind their hands.
A hush falls as King Harold steps forward, his voice ringing out over the crowd.
“In Podrosa, we do not crown a man untested.” He inclines his head to King Silas, who returns the nod. Then he gestures toward the mountainside. “This is the path that forges warriors. Every soldier in my army has proven himself upon these stones. And any man fit enough to call himselfprincemust prove the same.”
There is a beat of silence that seems to stretch on.
“The Ironshields of Podrosa are famous for their accurate aim with an arrow. The objective of this trial is to hit a bullseye on the target at the top of the ridge. But first, Lord Stregasi, you must climb.”
My eyes shift back to the mountainside. One of the overhanging ledges shifts, making the ropes sway. I glance back at the fae, who waves his hand in a swiping motion, guiding the rock formation. This isn’t fair. The fae has no doubt been instructed to make the structure impossible to ascend.
“If you reach the summit,” King Harold continues, “you will have to best one of my finest warriors in order to retrieve the bow and arrow, which await you.” A faint grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “If youget that far, you merely need to hit the target dead center to finish the trial.”
Tension tightens like a drawstring around the entire arena.
Dante gives a small nod. “Simple enough, Your Majesty.”
He says it in jest, but I can feel the aggravation in his tone.
The bell tolls and he launches forward.
