Page 43

My heart beats hard against my ribs as I watch them come to a halt on the sand and face each other.

I sweep my gaze over the rest of the arena.

White banners and scarves and clothes can be seen throughout most sections while the Red Faction supporters seem to be more clustered together in groups this time.

And to my surprise, there are quite a lot of black banners now being flown throughout the whole audience.

Apparently, we made quite the impression during the last game. Or at least Isera did.

“You all know how it works,” Rosea calls, her voice booming across the arena and silencing the crowd. “The match is over when one of them is unconscious, dead, or surrenders. Other than that, there are no rules.”

My heart jerks. Goddess above, how the hell are we going to win this?

The crowd goes silent.

Anticipation crackles in the air.

I barely dare to breathe.

“Begin!” Rosea calls.

Draven shoots a bolt of lightning at Fergai.

He dives sideways to escape it. With a snarl on his lips, he rolls to his feet and yanks the whip from his belt.

But he barely even has time to stand up straight before a blast of wind slams into his chest. The force of it is so strong that he flies backwards before crashing down hard on the ground.

Clouds of sand whirl up from the impact before being blown away by Draven’s winds.

I gape at the scene. Draven hasn’t even drawn his sword yet. He’s just standing there in the same spot, his arms crossed over his chest while his storm magic crashes over Fergai.

And the crowd is eating it up.

Screams of excitement pulse through the arena, and the very walls around us tremble as the crowd above stomps their feet and claps their hands.

Fergai struggles to his feet but then has to leap away again when Draven shoots another lightning bolt at him. The Unseelie fae bellows in frustration and then sends a torrent of fire towards Draven.

Still standing with his arms crossed over his chest, Draven simply shoves the flames aside with another blast of wind. Fergai flicks his wrist, trying to hit Draven from afar with his whip. But the thin rope is shoved off course just like the flames when Draven counters it with wind.

My heart swells with possessive pride as I watch him.

Mine . That lethal man is all mine.

The mate bond remains inside me, as it has every day since it snapped into place, feeling like a faint pull towards Draven. It took me some getting used to, but now, it’s not distracting anymore. Instead, it feels comforting. As if he is always with me.

Usually, I can also feel a faint trace of his emotions through it.

But right now, I can’t feel anything. It doesn’t surprise me, though.

After the centuries he has spent deceiving everyone around him, he is an expert at blocking out all of his emotions, which is no doubt very useful in a fight as well.

The man from the Red Faction is fighting desperately to get one single strike through, but against Draven’s expert battle skills and overwhelming raw magic power, it’s impossible.

The crowd is cheering so loudly at the incredible display that I have to suppress the urge to shield my ears from the deafening roars.

Once Draven has thoroughly humiliated his opponent, he ends the match by hitting Fergai with two lightning strikes that leave him unconscious with his limbs shaking uncontrollably.

“Wow, what a show!” Rosea calls in the aftermath. “That has got to be the most one-sided match we have ever witnessed in the history of these games.”

A wicked grin steals across my mouth, and that possessive pride returns. Mine .

Draven is escorted in through a door on the other side of the arena while two attendants have to carry Fergai in after him.

“But the day isn’t over yet!” Rosea calls. “So hang on to your betting slips, ladies and gentlemen. Because now, it’s time for the Black Faction to face the White Faction.”

Cheers erupt once more.

Alistair starts in surprise when his name is called but then straightens his spine and strides out into the arena as soon as the door swings open.

His match is not nearly as showy as Draven’s was. Instead, Alistair practically mows his opponent down with sheer brute force within the first minute. It’s brutal, efficient, and shockingly fast.

His opponent from the White Faction has water magic, which should have given Alistair trouble. But because of the difference in raw power that the Icehearts’ selective breeding has created, it doesn’t even matter.

The audience in white, who were so sure of their faction’s win, gape in stunned silence as Alistair leaves their prized fighter gasping on the sand with severe burns.

Hope flickers in my chest. Maybe we do stand a chance after all.

After that, the White Faction fights the Red Faction.

The spectators who are carrying white banners regain some of their enthusiasm as the female fae from the White Faction beats her opponent in a surprisingly close match.

But a win is a win, and the crowd is once more cheering.

Though not the Red Faction supporters. Several of them even drop their red banners and instead borrow black ones from their neighbors.

Apparently, the rivalry between the White and Red Factions is strong, so cheering for our team instead appears to be the only suitable compromise.

Then Lyra’s name is called.

She tenses. Her normally so cheerful face is filled with worry as she stares out at the sand.

Then she quickly wipes the expression off her features and turns to give us all a beaming smile.

It fools none of us, but I force a smile anyway.

Isera gives her a nod while Galen squeezes her arm.

Then she’s striding away towards the middle of the arena.

Hushed anticipation washes through the arena as Lyra faces the woman from the Red Faction.

“Begin!”

I gasp as stones shoot through the air towards her.

Next to me, Galen grips the edge of the door slot hard.

Lyra throws herself sideways, rolling across the sand with her sword already in hand. But her opponent shoots another hail of stones at her. She twists, and they slam into the side of her dragon scale armor.

Worry courses through me as the Unseelie fae woman rushes her. It turns into sickening dread as the match progresses. Lyra is skilled with the sword, but she barely manages to get any strikes through since her opponent is hammering her with blocks of stone.

Galen tightens his grip on the door slot before us as Lyra cries out in pain when she’s hit hard in the side. More stones are shot at her.

But Lyra doesn’t surrender.

Pain pulses through my heart as I watch Lyra fight hard until a stone slams into the side of her head with a dreadful crack. She collapses onto the sand, her chest still moving but her eyes closed.

Galen lets out something between a growl of rage and a whimper of dread. Rosea calls the win in favor of the Red Faction, and then Lyra is carried away across the sand and in through the same doorway that Draven and Alistair left through.

“They’ll take care of her,” I find myself saying. “She’ll be alright.”

Neither Galen nor Isera answers.

Once the arena floor has been cleared yet again, Rosea announces the next match. Isera doesn’t so much as blink when her name is called. Without a second look back, she simply strides out the door.

The crowd yells in anticipation when they see her.

And by Mabona, does she deliver.

Her entire match is pure entertainment. She toys with her opponent from the White Faction, making the Unseelie man look like a fool who challenged a goddess to a fight. Attacking and defending expertly with her ice magic, she makes the fight into such a spectacle that it’s impossible to look away.

The crowd goes wild.

This time, I do have to press my hands to my ears to block out the deafening screams and cheers that fill the entire arena. It looks like Isera is about to become their new favorite celebrity.

Once Isera has finished entertaining the audience to the fullest possible extent, she knocks out her opponent with a block of ice and then bows theatrically to the crowd before blowing another kiss in what I assume is the Unseelie King’s direction.

Since it’s located somewhere right above us, I can’t tell for sure.

But he was sitting in that section last time, so it must be aimed at him.

Another wild roar sweeps through the crowd.

Isera saunters away and disappears in through the door while her opponent is carried in after her.

After that, the White and Red Faction fight another battle, which once again ends with the White Faction as the winner.

Then it’s Galen’s turn.

My heart sinks as I watch him fight a fire wielder from the Red Faction. It ends with Galen on his back, his leg broken and his hands burned. The crowd dressed in red cheers as Galen is forced to surrender with a sword to his throat.

I can barely breathe as the second to last match is called. The White Faction against the Red.

That dread in my chest turns into a furious storm of panic as I watch the guy from the White Faction beat the girl from the Red Faction.

There is only one match left now.

The Red Faction has two wins.

The White Faction has three wins.

We also have three wins.

And the match that remains is between me and a member of the White Faction. Which means that whoever wins this match wins the entire game.

My mouth is so dry that it feels like it’s full of sand. I try to swallow, but I can barely get anything through the tightness in my throat.

It all comes down to me.

If I lose this match, we will be trapped here as the Unseelie King’s prisoners forever.

Panic and dread crackle through my veins like bolts of lightning as I stare out at the bloodstained sand outside the door. I am not a warrior. My magic is meant for stealth. For sneak attacks. For spying. For intimidating. For distracting an opponent while an ally strikes them down.

So how the hell am I supposed to win in a one-on-one fight against someone with actual battle magic?

“And now,” Rosea calls. “In the closest one-on-one battle game we’ve had in years, we will get to witness a thrilling finale that will determine who wins this round’s Great Games. Will it be the White Faction?”

The crowd dressed in white screams in affirmation and waves their banners high.

“Or will it be the Black Faction?” she finishes.

The rest of the audience, both the ones wearing black and the ones who previously flew red banners, cheer in encouragement. It’s so loud that it vibrates in my ribcage. But it does nothing to reassure me.

My hands shake and I have to wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs as I drag in a shuddering breath.

“Let’s bring in the fighters!” Rosea bellows. “Oleander Darkmane from the White Faction. And Selena Hale from the Black Faction.”

The crowd screams.

And the door swings open.