“And when will they start—days? Weeks? Months?”
“Once all the competitors are chosen. We’d be lucky to have weeks.” The wind caught his dark hair, blowing it toward the forest path. “Not enough time to teach you a proper sword grip.”
“I can wield a blade.”
He gave a one-note laugh, nothing else.
“I trained for months.” I stepped closer. “I was a guard in my kingdom, on the wall. I was the best in my class with an edged weapon.”
I caught the edge of his profile as his head turned. “The best of how many?”
“Thirty-five.”
“The best of thirty-five.” He turned back to the water. “We’re saved.”
I expected his words to slough off me like everything else these fuckers said about me. But not this time. If I had any martial pride, it was in how I held—swung—a sword.
And I would never allow him to know that.
Right now, Dorian’s back was a wall unto itself. And I knew a little something about walls.
A little bit of Theo slipped into me. I tilted my head, forcing my lips to curl upward. “Of course, Ser Dorian is faster than me, and stronger. I don’t doubt smarter, too, and more capable in every way. It is only he who can carry us through.”
He crossed his arms, no doubt wondering if he’d erred in not killing me that night in the Dip.
“But I know why you brought me here, to Sylvanwild,” I said, gaze still on his back. “You were obligated because I turned toward your sword. And that’s a rarity among my kind, isn’t it?”
He didn’t speak, didn’t move.
“Have you ever seen it happen? What I did that night?”
Silence again, and in that I had my answer. How many humans had been at the ends of these creatures’ swords? How many had he himself killed with their backs turned? And I remembered why I hated them. I remembered why he bore that red nick on his neck.
“Rhiannon spoke of values. Sylvanwild values bravery,” I said. “That’s why you brought me. Not as some rabbit to run from you. That was just a bit of cruelty.”
At that, he turned. I’d expected to see contempt, but those hazel eyes held surprise. “And that’s what you consider yourself to be—brave?”
Of course not. That night I hadn’t felt brave. I’d been crushed, numb. I had stood only because of my dead mother’s voice in my head. But I would never, never give this monster the vulnerable parts of me. I would never give him the truth.
“Yes.”
“And what gave you the bravery to turn toward me?” His tone carried resentment, like he wished I’d just allowed myself to be run through.
“Why did you tell me to call for my gods?” The words slipped outbefore I could stop them. “You could have just killed me with one thrust.”
“That’s a deflection.”
“No more than yours.”
His lips stayed closed, their vague lopsidedness even more evident now in the light. He wouldn’t give me the truth, either. But he would stare into my eyes like he owned the right to do so.
Silence fell between us, and our mutual unwillingness to give felt like a sharp line from my stomach to my head. Somewhere a bird called through the forest, its echo resounding off the trees like a flute playing the same three notes over and over. We had few birds in my kingdom; the acid rain had long ago rendered them as rare as flowers.
When he finally spoke, his voice was unexpected and sharp. “I should not have spoken that night.”
He wanted to pierce me even now. I let out a quick, amused breath. “Could have just stabbed me and saved yourself a wagon ride.”
“You think me savage.”
