Page 27

I step onto the sands, head held high, and stride forward. The brothers wait at the opening. Unspoken it may be, but it is clear they are reluctant and want to resist my command to let me handle this. They are good warriors and I am glad they are here, but I must face this challenge on my own.

Silence fills the arena as I walk a gauntlet of unfriendly eyes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but I keep my hands clasped before myself and my stride is carefully and consistently measured.

In the center of the arena the warriors quickly form a ring around us. The anticipation is thick as smoke roiling from a bonfire. I square my shoulders and meet Hakti’s glare with the quiet resolve of someone who has survived worse.

“The Challenge of Wits is simple,” the Al’fa announces, his voice echoing around the large chamber. I see, in my peripheral vision, that Rosalind is at his side, watching. “Three rounds. Each will make a statement, and the other must discern if it is truth or deception.”

I nod, dropping my hands to my sides. Hakti glares, his tail tapping on the ground in anger or nervousness, I’m not sure.

“I will begin,” I say, my voice level despite the churning in my insides.

Hakti crosses his arms, daring me.

“I once saw an Urr’ki warrior outfight three Zmaj and live.”

“A lie,” he scoffs. “No Urr’ki could survive three Zmaj warriors.”

A ghost of a smile touches my lips.

“True. But the warrior did escape, therefore he lived as I stated.”

Ripples of amusement and surprise pass through the crowd. I savor the small victory. Hakti’s eyes darken, his eyes narrowing.

“My turn,” he says in a low, seething voice. “When I was a hatchling, I survived being buried in a collapse for three days.”

I study him. His pride is palpable and his body language betrays no falsehood.

“True.”

“Correct,” he says, his glare is predatory.

One round complete.

“I have never killed,” I say softly, letting the words hang.

Gasps ripple outward like a stone dropped into still water.

“Lie,” Hakti snaps.

“No.” I hold his gaze. “It is the truth.”

Shock radiates through the arena. I can almost hear them questioning the idea. How can a queen not have blood on her hands? Hakti calls it weakness aloud, but I feel no shame. His turn.

“I have never been defeated in combat,” he says.

It feels too smooth, too proud. A mask.

“Lie.”

His grimace tells me I am right, reinforced by the murmuring of the crowd. The final round.

“I believe in peace,” I say, voice steady, but laced with iron.

“Lie,” he growls.

“No. You are wrong.”

Hakti’s composure cracks beneath the weight of humiliation. The Al’fa’s laughter rumbles warmly.