“I brought your favorites,” I say, setting the tray besidehim. “Honey and that ridiculous fig jam the cook insists you adore.”
He chuckles lowly. “Fig jam. The only good thing that came from that cursed summer harvest.”
I press my hands to his chest, letting the familiar thrum of magic flow from my palms. A cool ripple of shadowlight seeps into his veins. It never quite heals him, but it eases the pain. As always, his body relaxes, though the weariness beneath his bones lingers.
“I watched the Trial begin,” I murmur.
He lifts a brow. “And?”
“I hate that only humans are forced to participate. It’s too dangerous for them.”
“If they can prove themselves in these trials, with their magic and bodies being weaker than a fae’s, then they are proving they are strong enough to defend their kingdom. Besides, they sign up of their own free will. They are not forced unless they try to back out after being chosen from the applicants.” He pauses. “You know, I was one of those humans once.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just…wish things didn’t have to be this way,” I whisper.
“I know, Renya,” he says with a sad smile. “Tell me, what are the champions like?”
I hesitate, but I know I can talk to him about anything. “There is one man I couldn’t help watching more than the others.” I don’t say Koen’s name aloud, as if that might make the strange pull I feel toward him too real. “There’s something…different about him.”
“A dangerous kind of different?”
“No. I don’t think so. But it unsettles me,” I say quietly. “I don’t like it.”
He gives me a soft smile and pats the bed beside him. “Come. Sit with your old father and let me tell you of the trials when I was young. My own, and the ones my parents told to me long before.”
I smile faintly and curl beside him, resting my head on his shoulder. He smells faintly of cedar and the bitter herbs the healers give him.
“When I entered the trials,” he begins, “I was only twenty years old. Reckless. Certain that I would triumph simply because I was confident in my strength. And then the drake came.” His voice dips lower.
My breath catches. “A drake? I thought they were just in bedtimestories.”
He chuckles, but it’s strained. “Yes, a drake. Black-scaled, the size of a carriage, with breath that hissed like acid. Its fire clung to the flesh. Half the men ran before the beast even moved. The others were consumed in moments.”
I shiver at the image. “What about you?”
“I was a fool,” he says softly. “I thought courage meant standing tall with my sword raised high. The fire took me before I struck a single blow. My arm was burned from shoulder to wrist.” He slowly pulls back his sleeve, revealing skin with faint scars. “That’s where I got this.”
My chest aches as I trace the mark lightly with my fingertips. I’ve seen it many times before, but he never told me how he’d gotten it. He hasn’t spoken much of his trials before.
“I fell and thought it was over,” he continues. “I remember the stench of burning flesh, the screams, and the taste of ash in my mouth. Then…” His eyes glint, even in his weariness. “I remembered the stories my father had told me about the old champions who endured not through strength, but wit. So I dragged myself toward the tunnels where water dripped from the stone. Each step felt like it would be my last, but the drake followed me. I led it where its fire could not burn as bright, and when it faltered, I struck.”
“You killed it?” My voice is hushed.
“Isurvivedit,” he corrects gently. “There is a difference.”
I lean into him, heart heavy and proud all at once.
“And the other stories?” I ask quietly.
His smile warms. “Ah, yes. My grandfather told me of the year of the pixies. Hundreds of them, shrieking and laughing in the catacombs, impossible to strike down. In the end, the victor was not the strongest or fastest, but the one whosangto them. A lullaby, of all things. They carried him to the chamber like a child.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You’re teasing me.”
“Not at all,” he says. “The royal line is built on such stories. We are not crowned because we are invincible, but because we endure. Endurance wins more than the sword ever can.” His hand closes weakly around mine. “Remember that, Renya. When the time comes, it may be all that saves you.”
His words echo in my mind, even after his voice slows and softens. Soon, his words drift into silence as sleep takes him.
Careful not to wake him, I pull the blanket up around his shoulders, press a kiss to his temple, and slip from the bed. I quietly leave his chambers and make my way outside.
