The air around me crackles faintly, and as I glance down toward the Podrosan fae. He’s watching me. Not openly. Not accusingly. But watching. His gaze lingers too long, brows furrowed, as if trying to solve a riddle written in starlight.
I sit back slowly, heart hammering. I wipe the rest of the blood away with the edge of my sleeve and force my face to stillness.
Dante claws his way upward, hand over hand, muscles flexing. At last he reaches the summit, and the crowd erupts in applause.
All at once, the world seems to shake. The semicircle of tiered benches shifts, rumbling as the entire structure seems to ascend, intact. The fae has elevated the seating area so that we get a better view of the summit. I shudder at the fae’s power. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before, and I can understand now why King Harold has made him part of his retinue.
The Ironshield soldier at the top of the cliff side steps forward with his blade drawn. Dante’s shoulders heave from his climb, but after a moment, he unsheathes his falchion.
His opponent—a broad-shouldered soldier bearing the crest of Podrosa—adjusts his grip on his longsword, rolling his neck, as if this were merely another day of training.
King Harold rises from his seat, lifting a hand for silence. “This challenge is a test, not a duel to the death,” he announces, his deep voice carrying across the space. “One must simply disarm the other.”
The Ironshield lunges first.
Dante sidesteps easily, pivoting on the ball of his foot as the blade sweeps past him. He parries the next strike with a sharp clang of steel, his grip firm but relaxed. The soldier presses forward, launching a series of rapid slashes—textbook maneuvers meant to overpower an opponent early.
Dante weaves between them like water slipping through fingers.
He doesn’t just block—he redirects, each deflection calculated to unbalance his opponent rather than merely stop the blow.
The soldier grits his teeth, frustration creeping into his movements as he adjusts his footing. He tries to press Dante toward the edge of the cliff, but Dante shifts, twisting his sword in a tight circle to disengage before stepping back to reset.
They circle each other, the sunlight casting their shadows long against the sand.
With a sharp feint to the left, Dante forces the soldier to adjust his defense—only to pivot sharply and strike from the right. The soldier barely blocks in time, the force of the impact sending him stumbling back a step.
The court murmurs, their intrigue growing.
The soldier recovers quickly, setting his jaw as he goes on the offensive again. He aims high—a downward slash meant to drive Dante to his knees—but Dante meets it with a high guard, then twists, rolling his blade along the Podrosan’s before flicking it away. The disarm is near-seamless, the opponent’s sword flying from the summit through the air.
The arena erupts into applause.
Dante steps back, lowering his blade as the Podrosan soldier exhales sharply, shaking his head with something that might be reluctant respect.
King Silas nods in approval, and beside me, Queen Eleanor clasps her hands in her lap, unreadable as always.
All that’s left now is the target.
Dante’s heavy breaths make his body unsteady as he nocks the arrow and takes aim.
“Steady, Dante. Concentrate.”
I realize then that my fingers are aching from gripping the chair so tightly, but in the next moment, that sharp pain shoots across my eyes, quickly replaced by that strange, calming static.
The arrow is loosed, and everyone jumps to their feet with shouts of triumph.
I release a slow breath, the tension easing from my body at last.
He won.
ChApter
Twenty-Three
The courtyard empties in a swirl of restrained excitement and murmured praise, the Podrosan nobles moving toward the long feast tables set beneath carved archways, where plain pastries and mead await. The scent of baked bread rides the wind, but it does nothing for the churning in my stomach.
I search for Dante, but the crowd makes even catching a glimpse of him impossible.
