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I let my hand fall to my side. I fully meet Godric’s gaze as determination tightens my chest. “I get to decide where I belong. I’m not just going to enter these damned games. I’m going to win, and then I’m going to ram a sword straight through King Njord’s chest.” I smirk as Godric gives me a raised brow. “A real one,” I clarify. “Not a wooden one.”

He chuckles. “Your spirit is commendable, little moon. But we are still talking to Arwan tomorrow.”

I don’t disagree with him.

Because I have a few words to share with the Prince of Death, too.

CHAPTER 22

A restless night is cut short by a noisy encampment that has me throwing a fur over my head.

“Why’s it so loud?” I grumble.

Maybe Godric brought me a radio or something.

When there’s no response, but all the noises of various shifters talking and the clank of equipment rolling off the distant train make it impossible to sleep, I sit up.

The tent is empty. There’s no one here, and there isn’t a radio making all that noise, which would have made more sense than the sound seeming to just be coming from nowhere.

Narrowing my eyes, I realize I’m picking it up myself. All the sounds I’m hearing are farther down in the encampment, coming from the training grounds and even as far as the train tracks.

I don’t know how I know that. I just do.

Like a hunter would know.

This ability is from Ze’ev. I’m sure of it.

Which means I should be able to control it.

Tilting my head, I try to mentally turn the volume down. It works, slightly, but I can still hear everything.

“Another shifter thing,” I confirm as I throw off the furs and head into the other part of the tent to get dressed.

Or maybe it’s a hybrid thing. Supernatural hearing could very well be a vampire trait.

A strange thrill rushes through me at that thought.

My entire body is sore as I move, reminding me that I’m still very much human. My jaw may be healed, but the ache is still there, like the nerves can’t forget the trauma.

And the building heat in my core hasn’t gone away. It’s most certainly worse.

And now I’m going to have to fight.

There’s a leather combat outfit waiting for me, as well as a short dagger that has runes engraved into the handle and a holster. There’s a note resting on top. I frown at the elegant script as I scan the contents.

Ulara will escort you to the first combat. Don’t die.

Crumpling the note, I scoff. “Great advice, Godric.”

He seems to think that his order as pack master is so powerful that I can’t die just because he said so.

When I go to pick up the dagger he left for me, I feel my set of vials lying on top of it. Those, I strap to my thigh. I have a feeling I’m going to need them, even if I can’t fully banish the sinking feeling that I wish I wasn’t so reliant on them.

Sweat has already gathered on my brow, and even my eyes feel like they’re burning. After what Ze’ev did to me last night, my inherited traits only seem to be growing worse.

Physical contact is what strengthens my connection to my sponsors. I’ve figured out that much by now.

And sexual conduct seems to be a direct link to enable new abilities.