Page 209 of The Fallen Fae King

Freya is walking gracefully on Aurelius’ arm into the arena. Yet her expression is blank.

I tilt my head in confusion.

She is normally expressive and filled with life.

What is she hiding?

I glance at Daire, who is strolling casually next to Freya. He is wearing a fine linen ivory tunic, which in an identical way to Freya’s robe, sparkles with golden thread. A lavender cloak hangs from his shoulders.

His expression is the same as Freya’s.

To anyone who hadn’t obsessively watched them like I have, then they would appear composed and regal.

But they are pretending.

They hate being here.

They hate what is happening.

And they have a secret scheme; I can taste it.

My pulse roars in my ears. Sweat drips down the back of my neck.

Are they planning to save me?

I growl in frustration.

I don’t want them to risk themselves. How many times must I offer my death at their feet, only for them to jump into the Void with me?

But why does that warm my chest?

They won’t allow me to walk alone to my death.

My lips curl into a smile, revealing my fangs.

Aurelius’ golden armor gleams under the light of the braziers like he is the sun descended from the arena’s roof.

Everyone is watching their new Emperor.

I take a step forward, and Yara and Ahm mirror me.

I will put on a good show for my fated mates.

And if I die, then I will die well for them.

My nestmates approach the box created by the silk awning that flutters with golden dragon banners.

Maximinus doesn’t even bother to stand to greet the Dragon Emperor.

“Burn him to ash, Relius,” I mutter.

Instead, Aurelius merely ignores his uncle.

Aurelius’ expression is coldly emotionless. When he turns to face the arena, the trumpets fall silent, but the amphitheater fills with cheers instead, which echo up to the face of the false sun. Dust shakes down onto us gladiators, coating us like we are already being buried.

I wipe my face with the back of my arm.

Aurelius raises his hand, and the crowds fall silent.