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9

TYPICAL FAE

CEDRIC

Two days later, the aurora vanished.

For one glorious moment, the sky looked like it was on fire. The brilliant, eddying colors of the aurora burned brighter and brighter until they finally coalesced into ribbons of pure white light.

Then they were gone.

And the gates to the Lost City opened.

The tension was palpable as people disassembled tents and packed wagons, readying themselves to make their way to Castle Lumin. Travelers from the two camps converged on the road into the city, humans and Arcanians both keeping a wide berth from the other.

With so many people all heading in the same direction, the crowd moved slowly. Voices engaged in conversation— enthused and apprehensive both—drifted in and out of Cedric’s ears as he fell into step beside Hargrave. There was excitement in the air, but trepidation, too. Fear. The combination made Cedric’s skin feel itchy, like the very sky was holding its breath to see what would happen. Like he was waiting for magic to strike.

It was the humans who seemed the most eager. It might have seemed ironic, Cedric thought, given their frail bodies and mana-dependent magic—not to mention their supremely mortal lifespans. Stars knew Cedric himself grappled daily with the knowledge of the disadvantages he and the rest of the human champions held when it came to the trials ahead.

But perhaps it was these very limits that also allowed humanity to revel in the excitement and glory of the Crucible. That drove them forward with greater purpose. This was their chance to keep the crown out of Arcanian hands, to wrest power from them—power they did not deserve.

Cedric’s jaw tightened. This time will be different , he told himself. Maybe not for the scores of Arcanian spectators who would spend yet another Crucible watching and waiting for their champions to emerge.

They would continue waiting.

But Cedric would ensure this was the very last time they did.

Because he was going to win .

He’d only had the chance to meet a few of his fellow champions thus far. Lord Church had gone to lengths in advance to ensure Cedric’s prowess and abilities were well known amongst the spectators in attendance. As a result, he’d been rather popular during their time in the camp. The attention had made him supremely uncomfortable—something that came with the title of champion but for which he never felt adequately prepared.

So instead of establishing himself to his rivals and reaching out to potential allies, Cedric had chatted with spectators, graciously accepted favors, and listened politely to unsolicited advice. Advice that, regardless of how well-intentioned and well-reasoned it might have been, was ultimately useless. Nobody could truly advise on what to expect inside the Crucible. Because nobody had ever made it out alive.

Cedric kept his chin down and shoulders back as he walked toward the castle, offering dutiful nods to the occasional passersby. Even those who only pointed and whispered at him. Though he did think it rude, and by the fifth or sixth time it happened, he’d had enough.

Cedric was about to say something to a pair of wide-eyed gossiping young women when a sudden blur of motion caught his attention. He barely had time to react before nearly colliding with something—no, with someone. He staggered back, his hand reflexively moving to his weapon.

A streak of purple blinked past him. She was moving so fast, he might have missed her entirely if she hadn’t stopped. But she did, coming to a halt just a few footspans ahead of him. Periwinkle hair cascaded down her back, elaborately interwoven. An uneasy expression settled on Cedric’s face as he followed the flow of her braids to the pointed tips of her ears.

She searched the crowd of spectators before them, stretching onto the tips of her toes to get a better look. No wings, Cedric realized as he looked over her back. Two thin slits ran down the back of a leather bodice that clung to her lithe frame, a gauzy cream blouse peeking out from underneath that left the pale, peachy skin of her shoulders on display. His eyes darted back to her ears. Fae, without a doubt. So where were her...Was she hiding her wings? Cloaking them with magic?

He hadn’t realized that was something they could do.

Cedric found himself wondering whether some of the travelers surrounding him could be fae as well. He’d dismissed them all as fellow humans. But with hair and ears covered easily by hats and cloaks, and now knowing they could simply banish their wings from sight, there was no way of knowing. Not without forcing them to lower their hoods or getting up close and entirely too personal with one.

And what if cloaking their wings was not the only thing they could change about themselves? Cedric had long heard tales of shapeshifters from Old Arcanis—creatures that could transform into beasts great and small. Were they and the fae the same? Or was that something else?

There was much even the most accomplished sages and sorcerers still did not know about Arcanian magic. Despite the long hours spent studying with Lord Church and the best magical tutors from the Academy in Paideus, Cedric’s magical education suddenly felt woefully inadequate.

He suppressed a shudder. He’d already gotten complacent, begun to let his guard down. And the Crucible hadn’t even begun. He wished he had time to discuss this with Lord Church, to figure out what it might mean for his strategy during the trials. He would have to be extra vigilant. Who knew what a sneaky, motivated fae might be capable of beyond the Gate?

Cedric hated that his experience with Arcanians was so limited, his knowledge primarily formed from study and Lord Church’s tutelage. His personal encounters had been limited to meeting the occasional dwarven trader from the Midlands and the even more occasional occurrence of stumbling across one in the course of duty.

That’s how he saw firsthand what happened when Arcanians strayed too far from Nyrundelle, saw what happened to the poor humans they bewitched. Turned into Arcanian sympathizers—traitors against their own people. Convinced we were hurting the planet by channeling mana with our tokens, by trying to claim just a smidgen of the power and magic that every Arcanian was born with.

Idealistic idiots.

As if Varyth Malchior and the Cult of Malakar wasn’t already enough to deal with.

Cedric had dragged more than one poor sod to the gallows for consorting with the enemy. Once, he even caught a fae in the midst of sowing the seeds of dissent...quite literally. The bastard had impregnated a human woman, had defiled her with a mixedborn child. Or perhaps she had done that to herself, being so willing to lie with the enemy. He swallowed hard, remembering how she’d cried, how she’d screamed , when Cedric’s fellow knights dragged the fae away.

It brought Cedric no joy to think of what happened to the babe—what happened to all mixedborn children when they were discovered. But as for the father...seeing him carted off to the castle, his magic bound, his wings clipped...Well, that was rather satisfying. Served the fae bastard right for trying to infiltrate Havensreach.

Granted, this particular fae did not seem especially interested in subterfuge. The fae woman in front of Cedric loosed a frustrated sound—somewhere between a growl and a whine—that had his attention snapping back to her.

“Fuck,” she muttered, the coarse word coming out in a melodic voice that immediately burrowed beneath Cedric’s skin.

Why was she here? Was she a champion? With a dagger strapped to each of her thighs and a long, carved staff strapped to her back, she looked like she knew her way around a sparring ring, at the very least.

She was on the taller side of average—didn’t have much muscle on her and Cedric still towered over her in height—but he knew better than to judge a fae’s fighting ability by their natural slightness. They had magic on their side, after all. And even if she didn’t know a pommel from a blade point, he knew with a sudden, powerful conviction that bit into every fiber of his being that it would be incredibly foolish to underestimate her.

There was something about her. Something . . . else there. Something dark, unnerving.

She darted her head from side to side, continuing to search with a petulant look on her face—softer and more delicate than he’d thought fae typically looked. Wide high-set cheekbones. A sharp jaw that tapered into a soft point. Were those her true features? Or had she done something to her face? Magically made herself look more beautiful in the hopes that she would be mistaken for a less competent challenger?

Irritation sizzled in Cedric’s chest at the thought.

“ Excuse me,” he snapped, surprising himself with the uncharacteristic brusqueness of his tone as he shoved past her.

Mere moments had passed since she’d nearly ran him down in her hasty pursuit of, well, whatever she was in pursuit of. But the boorish woman clearly had no qualms about her behavior. She barely seemed to register he was there.

Typical fae.

Almond-shaped eyes the color of shining emeralds met Cedric’s for a split second. She cocked her head. Ran that jeweled gaze up and down his armor. “You’re excused.”

Then her eyes flashed, locking onto something behind his head.

Cedric bristled, but before he could even muster the beginnings of a retort, she shouted something unintelligible and took off. She wove through the crowd, chasing a glimmer of moonlit silver that disappeared beyond the castle steps.

It was only after she was gone that Cedric realized the wide-eyed gaze of the two girls he’d thought were whispering about him had followed her. A crease appeared between his brows as he strained to hear their hushed exchange. He could make out only one word.

“Revenant.”