“Until we sort your battle casting out, and while you continue to make stupid bloody decisions, they never leave your person—you got that?”
Astrid nods, and Jessa opens her mouth to continue, but Astrid interrupts her. “Please stop. I know, alright?”
Jessa crosses her arms. “Fine. Quince, find her pack.” The fox slinks into the undergrowth, retrieving Astrid’s pack a moment later and dropping it at her feet. She thanks him and scans the ground until she sees her grimoire, damp from the snow. If Gram was alive, she’d kill Astrid for treating her precious tome this way. Astrid grimaces as she casts a dry heat spell over it, hoping the moisture hasn’t gotten into the delicate pages, then slots it inside her bag. She pulls out a leather strap and ties her hair up in a high ponytail, the wet navy strands looking almost black. Jessa’s hair, naturally dandelion yellow, is dyed navy blue to match Astrid’s. Though the roots are poking through.
“What is it?” Astrid asks at the look on Jessa’s face.
“Your mother just got home.”
“Ah, so that’s what he meant.” Astrid gestures at the dead man. “He said we’d gotten sloppy. He must have followed Mum through the tunnels.”
“Let’s agree not to share that tidbit with the queen, seeing as how we’re leaving anyway.”
“We’re leaving now?”
“Tonight.” Jessa clasps her shoulder. “It’s time.”
Astrid’s hands drop to her sides.
It’s time. Time to leave Isfjell, to sail for Vatra and its capital city, where—in seven weeks—she’ll duel Prince Zryan.
To the death.
All to decide whether Arturea or Vatra will lay claim to the Heart—the infinite source of the land’s magic.
When she was eight years old, her parents sat her down to explain what the duel was and what was expected of her. After the initial shock faded, after all the crying and yelling, denial and fear, Astrid finally asked a coward’s question. What if she didn’t fight? What if she forfeit the duel? It wasn’t as if Arturea relied on the Heart, not when they hadn’t taken guardianship of it in centuries. But her mum squeezed her eyes shut—a rare moment of vulnerability—and told her the terms of the Covenant wouldn’t allow it. An heir could not forfeit. Anheir could not run from it. Then she’d said the five words that would shape the rest of Astrid’s life.
You duel, or you die.
Astrid heaves a breath. It’s time.
She lifts her pack and retrieves one of her claws, looking for the other until she spots Quincy holding it in his mouth. She takes it, avoiding the gore, and ruffles his coarse fur in thanks. She’s the only other person allowed to touch Jessa’s familiar. The only person who would keep her hand after doing so.
“I suppose twenty-four is not so young to die,” Astrid finally says.
Jessa grabs her by the cloak. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say that. You’re not going to lose, do you hear me?” Jessa’s eyes are bright with emotion. It makes Astrid’s chest ache.
“Oh, Jess,” she says, taking her friend’s hands. “However much we wish it so, we both know that’s not true.”
Because Jessa knows as well as Astrid does that she has no hope of winning this duel to the death. Not when her opponent has a massive Hel-damned dragon.
2Skylar
Skylar stands side-on to the crowd. A blindfold is tied over her eyes, blocking out the light of the harsh sun. She used to stand with her back to the punters for this part, but people had claimed she was cheating. Around her, the crowd is buzzing, probably the biggest she’s ever performed in front of. Not that she cares, particularly. She takes a breath, the air hot and acrid in her mouth. The smell of the Stone City is overwhelming, unlike anything she’s ever known, a mixture of sweat and spice and something she’s pretty sure is sulfur.
“And now,” booms Aldric’s velvet voice, “behold as Dancer puts her trust in Blade for our final act!”
The murmuring of the crowd grows louder, but Skylar blocks it out. She listens to the clicking of the wheel she knows Amara is tied to, as she’s been so many times before. She takes the first dagger that Torin hands her, grips the familiar hilt. She knows exactly how to time it so that each dagger lands on either side of Amara’s head, her waist, her feet.
She hears the nextclickand, without hesitation, she throws.
The applause on the street lets her know she’s aimed right, and she takes the next dagger from Torin, cricking her neck before she throws again. Sweat rolls down between her shoulder blades—it’s hot everywhere in Vatra, but the capital seems particularly unforgiving.
The crowd is chanting, shouting her stage name. She knows Amara loves it when they do this for her, but Skylar just finds it distracting. And today she’s more distracted than usual—because Cam still hasn’t come home.
Sweat licks her palm as she takes the last dagger. She counts theclicks of the wheel, finds the sound of Amara’s steady breathing in among the noise of the city. Then throws for a final time.
There’s a gasp, followed by huge cheers. She strips her blindfold off and, while Amara is unstrapped from the wheel, scans the crowd for the millionth time today. Still no sign of him.
