Laughter ripples through the courtyard.
“Sharp words to hide a dull blade,” Morana retorts, but the damage is done. Her singular hold on the crowd’s attention is fractured.
Nevander hates to be grateful to Gevain, but he uses the opportunity to center himself. He has to stay steady so Seren can depend on him. The accusation is just so cruelly absurd. Seren has flung himself into learning about Elladar and the fae. Centuries of stories and traditions. Enough history to drown in, but Seren never stops trying.
“You must name a champion,” Nevander says, turning his back on Morana. She’s harmless at the moment. To strike outside the dueling circle would forfeit her claim. “You cannot win against her on your own.”
Seren’s gaze darts like a tidingbird. “How much time do I have?”
Primrose lumbers towards the dais. The guards make way.
“The challenge must be answered within the hour, or you forfeit,” Nevander explains. Quietly, but there’s no privacy in this arena.
“I’d recommend against forfeiting,” Morana calls out. “The people want a show.”
Nevander takes Seren’s wrist. He can’t embrace his prince now, can’t kiss the worries from those pale lips. But Nevander wears Seren’s flower in his hair. He can do this much. “No need to rush. Ignore her.”
Seren’s golden eyes alight on him, and only him. “What are the terms?”
Primrose settles beside them.Challenger and champion will negotiate the terms. You must choose a champion you trust to make promises on your behalf.
“Are there specific criteria for champions?” Seren asks, and Nevander suppresses his surging anger.
Seren shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t hesitate. He should already have declared his champion.
They must be available within the hour,Primrose says.And of course they must accept.
“What about you?” Seren asks.
Primrose sighs so hard petals fall from her fur.I preserve order. I do not take sides, however fond I may be of you.
“You will choose me,” Nevander snarls, releasing Seren’s wrist before he grasps too hard. “No other.”
Gasps and laughter weave through the crowd, then muffle with a twitch of Primrose’s ears. As the circle of silence settles around them, Seren’s attention never wavers.
His panic is gone.
“I did not enjoy the last time you fought for me,” Seren says, and touches Nevander’s armor. Right where Midnight’s blade pierced him through.
Nevander covers Seren’s hand. Memory surges like a fresh glamour. Not the fight but the moments after. Seren’s need. Nevander’s unraveling.
“I survived that,” Nevander says, shoving the memories aside. He has to focus. “Morana is far less powerful than Midnight.”
“Can I give you an elixir in the middle of a duel?” Seren demands. When Nevander doesn’t answer, he exhales harshly. “It hurts to see you hurt.”
That tenderness is a gift Nevander dares not accept. Not now, when he needs every wit and instinct honed to a single edge. His hand tightens over Seren’s. Then he pulls Seren’s hand away.
Morana is far less powerful than Midnight. She’s less powerful than Nevander, in terms of raw strength, though hopefully she’s unaware of that. But she’s a cunning, deadly duelist. Nevander can’t think of anyone else who would agree to be Seren’s champion and survive.
Logic names Nevander as the only choice. His vow of protection echoes the call. The mad song of possessiveness is even louder.
“If you choose another champion,” Nevander says, “I will first challenge them for the right to fight in your name.”
Seren rocks back. Then resolution stiffens his shoulders. “Gods, Nevander. Fine. What do I need to say?”
The precise words aren’t important,Primrose says.Simply say Nevander will answer the challenge as your champion. I can explain the rest while my ritekeepers prepare the circle, and Nevander readies himself.
“All right,” Seren repeats, vulnerability hiding away. “Do you need a moment?”
