The moment Taron’s eyes land on us huddled closely against the wall, his expression darkens.
“Maeve,” he says, “is everything OK?” His tone is clipped and his gaze flicks between us, settling on Cyrus – his bare chest – with a cold, hard edge. “Is this jerk bothering you?”
I straighten, pushing against Cyrus to create some space between us. He steps back, burrowing his hands in his pockets, and I can finally breathe.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, though my heart is still racing. I can’t bring myself to look at Cyrus. It feels like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t. “We were just … talking.”
“Don’t worry, tough guy,” Cyrus says in Taron’s direction, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I haven’t stolen your girl just yet.”
“She’s not my girl.”
It’s the truth, of course, but the force of Taron’s response – as if the very idea offended him – leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“Sweet dreams, Maeve.” Cyrus blows me a kiss, casting a final glance at Taron before sauntering off down the corridor and disappearing around the corner.
Taron watches him go with his jaw pulled tight. “What was that about?” he asks.
“He proposed that we work together in the tournament.”
“Never. Cyrus is nothing but trouble.”
“You never know. Maybe to win this thing, we’ll need to place our trust in some of the other teams.”
“Not him,” Taron snaps. I’m surprised by the intensity of his reaction. Intrigued more than anything else. “I don’t trust him, Talia. Not for a second.”
My name feels odd on his tongue. It’s the first time he’s said it, I think.
A part of me wants him to say it again. Another part of me wonders where all this hatred for Cyrus is coming from.
For all his gorgeous features, I don’t like the Young Prince either, and I certainly don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. But I can’t shake the feeling that alliances – however temporary – might be our only way to survive this tournament.
Taron retreats into our cabin, and I follow him inside. The door creaks shut behind me as I take in the space.
It’s cramped, barely wide enough for the two narrow beds tucked against opposite walls. A single circular window lets in a sliver of moonlight, and between the beds sits a solar lantern on a low trunk. On each bed, neatly folded, are identical uniforms. A deep emerald green woven with delicate golden thread.
The fabric looks almost leathery, but, when I pick mine up, it’s surprisingly light and folds easily between my fingers. I examine each of the garments. The uniform is sleek, consisting of fitted trousers and a tank top.
Taron’s version mirrors mine, though his top has long dark-green sleeves woven with more golden thread. At thefoot of each bed are black boots and a utility belt loaded with slots for weapons and tools – anything we might need in the upcoming trials. Taron has two extra things on his bed. A map of Aurora Isle and a scroll tied with a red-and-gold ribbon.
A note is scribbled across it.
Open only when the gong sounds.
“Why are both of our uniforms green?” I ask, folding the clothes back up and placing the pile on the edge of the trunk between our beds. “I thought they’d coordinate our colours according to our talents.”
“I guess each team must’ve been allocated a colour or something. Looks like we’re green.”
“Looks like it.” I flop down on my bed, and I must be frowning because Taron tilts his head at me and smirks.
“What? Green’s not your colour?” he asks.
“Not my first choice, no.”
He gives me a quick once-over, something oddly soft in his expression. “I think it would suit you,” he says, almost absentmindedly, as though the words slipped out without him meaning to say them. “Anyway, we should probably talk tactics.”
I blink, processing his compliment. It’s jarring coming from Taron. Unlike Cyrus’s blatant flattery, his words feel different. Unsettling in their warmth. I want to cling to the feeling, burrow it deep in my mind to unpick later.
“Tactics?” I ask.
