Page 21 of Of Nightmares & Fire (Elusive Umbra #1)

“I don’t need a recited blessing written by ancestors long forgotten.

Those words mean nothing coming from someone who doesn’t even want to be here in the first place.

” He growls under his breath. The crowd is still rowdy from Benat’s display, and no one is particularly close enough to hear what he said, but it causes my heart rate to spike regardless.

I don't know why, but something about his declaration causes me to pause and look at him in a different light.

Perhaps there is more to his standoffish presence.

The scar down the side of his face stands out in the low light of the amphitheater, and I find myself curious to know how it happened.

He sees me looking and tilts his head, allowing shadows to cover his face as he waits for my response.

“Kyros Kazhal of Diemos, regardless of what you think of me. I do wish you an honorable end, if one must come for you. I will not give you a false blessing, because believe me when I say, I have seen enough of the pain in my own eyes to know when I see the same in the gaze of someone else. I don’t give empty promises—and I promise you—those words?

They don’t mean nothing .” His jaw feathers, but his anger falters for only a moment as he bends down and I reach up to my tiptoes.

I place a hand on his shoulder because he would not give me his hand, and I need the balance.

Fluttering wings take flight in my stomach as my hand presses against the warmth of his bare skin and my lips press to his scruffy cheek .

He does not thank me, and he does not bow, but he keeps his narrowed eyes and heavy brows locked on me as I retreat.

Even as I make my way to give the recited blessing for the others, to both Ruaan, Prince of Pyraxia, and Wrensford, future Lord of Vadon.

Both Ruaan and Wrensford accept the blessings without pause and without causing an uproar, unlike Benat.

Looking back at my father, he twirls his finger with an impatient face, urging me to get on with it.

I look at the line of men, each one of them waiting eagerly for me to choose one of them to have my favor, but there is only one man who stood out to me in this line.

Only one man seemed to understand the feelings I have about this game .

The only man who, instead of looking at me like I am a prize, looks at me like I am a puzzle.

I know who I am supposed to choose—who I have been told to choose.

The decision was made by the discussions of men behind closed doors, sitting in high-back chairs, with a conversation over a table carved of bone.

The heightened awareness of his eyes burrowing into me causes my heart to send a surge of anxious energy through my veins at the decision I am choosing to make instead.

I step back, toward the center of the line, and reach up, pulling the hairpin free, my long loose, ebony waves falling around my shoulders and down my back.

When I step forward, the crowd goes silent.

I can feel the heavy press of my father’s eyes on the back of my head as I reach for Kyros’ hand, lock my eyes with the endless shadows that are his, and place the hairpin in his palm.

“I would like you to not only have my blessing, Kyros Kazhal, but my favor as well.” I take a step closer, and before I lose my gall, I lift my other hand, wrapping it around the back of his neck, and I push my fingers into the hair at the nape and pull his face down to mine.

Slowly, I close my eyes and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

He freezes. He doesn’t even breathe. No words.

No response at all other than turning to stone, and for some reason I feel like it was the right response, more so than any other he could have given.

I feel everyone’s silent stares on me as I return to the royal box in the stands. My father greets me with unbridled aggression as he grabs my arm above the elbow and pulls me in close so he can growl in my face.

“What were you told?” He asks with barely contained rage.

“I fucking told you that you would choose Benat for the first round! Stop playing like you have a mind of your own and do what you’re fucking told!

You just made sure that you are going to go to bed sorry tonight, sweetheart.

” His fingers are bruising where they dig into my arm, and I feel myself losing the confidence I had a moment ago as a feeling of disquiet floods me.

He pushes me back, letting go and causing me to stumble, and it takes everything in me to not reach up and rub my throbbing arm.

I turn without looking down at the men below.

I have a feeling if I were to see Kyros staring up at me right in this moment, tears would spring free, and that is something I will not let my father see.

When I finally take my seat, I focus on my hands in my lap.

I am both proud of myself for taking a stand and choosing who actually deserved my favor and also concerned for what will come of it.

The decision will likely put more focus on Kyros and Mavros by default, which was not my intention.

But as I look up at my father and I see the way he and Pravin have their eyes glued to the brothers, the decision turns sour in my stomach.

The battle drums start their pounding rhythm.

The vibrations rattling the ground and echoing off every surface.

The fire keepers at each of the braziers toss a handful of powdered aluminum into their flames, causing a theatrical plume to light the space.

An ode to the old magick people once had in our kingdom.

A mockery of what is no longer allowed, and I grip the edge of my chair to stop myself from shaking my head at the distaste.

The amount of people my father has killed because they have shown just sympathy for those who have magick or use any amount.

As soon as the flames level out and the clash of the cymbals strikes, the men begin moving. All but two are running for weapons that line the sphere. Mavros and Kyros stand true without moving a muscle, waiting for the fight to come back to them. And the fight definitely comes.

They are bombarded with attacks at all angles, but they move like a storm.

Fluidly working together, back to back, they block each blow, disarming the other men with ease.

My father and Pravin are bristling with pent-up rage.

Each one has their hands on the railing, their knuckles blanched with how tight they hold on to it, and just noticing them makes me realize that I too have a death grip on my chair.

The disarmed men change their trajectory when they realize that they are not getting past the brothers' defenses and turn on each other. This is a fight that could end in death; it’s likely what my father would prefer. I, however, hope that they just tire—

“END HIM! END HIM! END HIM!” The crowd chants, and I can't help but lurch from my seat to the railing to get a better look. All of the suitors are panting, exhausted from the fight. Mavros circles, who I now see is Kyros with his knee pressed into Benat’s chest, my hairpin angled under his chin.

He says something to Benat, which causes his already reddened face to grow deeper in color, and he spits in the direction of Kyros’ face.

The crowd makes the ground quake with their stomps.

Cheers are bellowed in response to the blood they see spray as Kyros sinks the sharp end through the soft underside of Benat’s chin.

He rips his weapon free, the motion causing more blood to spray, and it coats him in the red paint of war.

He spins it in his hand as he turns to face the stands.

To face me.

Our eyes lock, and a shiver of fear ripples through me at the sight of him and the almost intimate fervency that enters the shadows of his eyes.

Crimson drips from his face and coats his bare chest. His tattoos blend together in a wave of shadow and blood, and with the mark of the death bell, the victor has risen.