“Gods,” he cries, spilling into me, heat flooding my core.
He lowers his body to mine, leaning into kiss me deep and slow—still twitching inside me. Silas pulls out of my wet heat as he rolls me to face him. He moves a piece of hair from my face, the strand soaked with sweat.
“Don’t scare me like that again. You can’t let the anger control you like that,” Silas whispers.
I don’t respond—instead, I kiss him. It isn’t anger that floods me; it’s my true nature—the Briar I’ve kept locked away since my mother died—someone I never thought I would need to set free.
Until now.
Chapter 32
Silas and I walk hand in hand toward the fourth and final trial being held just outside the kingdom—near the Cita mountains—in an ancient dueling arena. The cold mountain air whips my face as the sun disappears behind the clouds, offering no warmth. We discuss every possible outcome and element of the duel throughout the night. We know fire must play a role, as indicated by the scrolls, but we can’t figure out how. Already at a disadvantage against Thatcher’s apparent knowledge, I wish Oak and Maines were here more than anything.
The arena is chilling and dark. Its dusty stone floor exudes silence—like a grave yet to receive its dead. Despite my preparations, a sensation of uneasiness lingers like an ever-present sickness settling into my bones. Two axes—my chosen weapons since the second trial—are sheathed at my back as I stand before the fourth trial. An ominous cold shadows us, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ll ever feel the warmth of the sun again. The uncertainty of the order in which we will fight adds additional tension among the competitors.
My father, seated upon a throne erected for this occasion, surveys the arena and the townspeople who have braved thejourney to witness this historic duel. The mentors, with Calia nearest, stand close behind him. She whispers something in his ear as the crowd settles and points to us below.
In the center of the arena, the competitors and I face the judge—my father—who rises and quiets the audience with a simple gesture. "Today marks the fourth trial—a duel of strength and bravery among the competitors," he announces, his voice echoing off the stone. "As a gentleman," he smirks, "we start with the ladies first."
A knot forms in my stomach as I take a deep breath to calm myself.
"Rohhit Harte will be the first to compete against your princess," my father declares.
Exchanging a glance with Rohhit, I see the worry in his eyes but nod to affirm my readiness.
"Next, Silas and Thatcher will duel. The victors will face each other in the final challenge. You have only minutes to prepare. Please ready yourselves and take your positions in the arena."
Silas's hand rests reassuringly on my back as he guides me to the sidelines. "You can win, Briar. Remember our strategy and where to aim. I know Rohhit is your friend."
"I don’t want to fight him, Silas," I confess, feeling my stomach twist.
After ensuring no unwanted eyes are upon us, Silas kisses my forehead. "I know, but if you don't fight, your father wins, and all is lost." I nod, checking the security of my axes.
"You can do this. I know you can. Move quick and swing hard."
Facing Rohhit, his smile is tinged with sadness.
I return a soft smile, whispering, “It’s okay, Rohhit.”
As I walk into the arena, I quickly braid my hair and toss it over my shoulder. The crowd's anticipation builds like thunder in the distance. Rohhit positions himself a short distance away.In one last act of defiance, I face my father and narrow my eyes. My gaze could ignite fires as I mouth, "You're dead when this is over. " A laugh escapes me as the absurdity sinks in.
"Begin," commands the King of Daramveer, his voice cold and unforgiving.
Rohhit faces me, regret in his eyes, then charges. I widen my stance and draw my axes, ready for combat. "Come on!" I yell into the biting wind.
As he approaches, I notice he is unarmed. "I'm not here to fight you, Briar, but we need to put on a show. Knock me out, stab me—I can endure it. I’ve suffered much worse recently," he declares.
Shocked, I barely dodge his feigned punch, which ignites the crowd's excitement. I retreat, searching his eyes—deep pools of unresolved sadness.
Why the sorrow?
With a spin of my golden axes, I prepare to engage, knowing my aim and purpose—my hand, my life, my kingdom. I lunge, my braid snapping like a whip behind me. As he leaps, I duck, intentionally missing his legs with my blades to avoid actual harm.
He spins, urgency in his voice. "Do it, Briar! You have to end this because I won’t."
I pause for a moment in understanding—he won’t hurt me.
I attack then, aiming for his shoulder, but he rolls away, evading my strike. The crowd gasps. I immediately swing again, closing my eyes, hoping I don't kill him by accident. He dodges the blow again, falling over a broken rock. While he’s down, I take the opportunity to boast in the crowd's celebration, giving him a moment to collect himself. I shove both axes over my head and yell, spilling out all the hurt deep within me—the frustration, the betrayal. The guttural scream echoes throughthe arena and the crowd stops clapping, shaken at the release I just performed. Something snaps.
