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11

A FAMILY MATTER

CEDRIC

The grand hall of Castle Lumin was, Cedric imagined, quite the impressive sight in its prime. Now, the cavernous room where champions and spectators gathered just seemed...sad. Thick layers of dust and rot had settled around the space. Painted frescoes crumbled from the walls.

The Gate stood alone in the center of the room, an archway with intricately welded metal doors that sat open, leading to nothing. Beautiful but otherwise unremarkable. A deception, of course, made all the more evident as the Gate began to glow around the edges, like it was readying itself.

Friends, family, and spectators took up spots along the walls as champions began stalking closer to the Gate. Cedric watched each face as they stared down their impending fate. He recognized a few and offered a casual wave to Alden Ashford from across the room. He’d made a point to seek the saint out at camp. Cedric agreed with Lord Church’s assessment that allying with a healer wouldn’t be the worst idea—at least for the early parts of the trials. Alden waved back, an excited grin on his face. That was good.

He caught the eye of Brandon Cormac, the sage that Lord Church mentioned. Cedric offered the champion a nod. A lock of long blond hair fell into Brandon’s face as he nodded back. Cedric took it as a positive sign, even while recognizing that a telepath could make for either the best or worst kind of ally.

A group of three other human champions huddled together to the side of the Gate, their heads popping up in rapid succession to cast dirty looks in the direction of the Arcanian champions. Cedric recognized Leona Blackwood, though he hadn’t had the chance to do more than introduce himself briefly to the sorcerer. He didn’t know anything about the other two, a man and a woman with matching ginger hair and sharp gray-blue eyes. Siblings—perhaps even twins. Something told Cedric he would have to be vigilant about the trio.

Several Arcanians were spread out on the other side of the hall. A stout dwarven man with a long, intricately braided beard stood with his arms crossed, scanning the room. Cedric noted the fierce-looking hammer leaning against the wall with appreciation, and when the dwarf’s blue-eyed gaze fell on him, Cedric gave him a nod to communicate as much.

Cedric thought he saw one side of the dwarf’s mouth tip up in a smirk, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Unlike most of the Arcanian races, dwarves were well-tolerated—respected even—by most of Havensreach. As master weaponsmiths and craftsmen, keeping open trading relationships with the few who crossed into the human kingdom was valuable.

That sentiment did not apply to the other races of Old Arcanis, though, something that Cedric was forced to recognize as his gaze landed on a pair of nocterrians lurking further down. One spoke animatedly, their crimson hands gesturing toward the Gate. They were being fastidiously ignored by the other, a tall and imposing figure with indigo-hued skin and two crossed batons slung on their back. Their slick black hair was pulled into a bun that sat between two curved horns.

Cedric tried to tamp down on the growing discomfort that rumbled in his stomach the longer he looked at them.

Finally, his eyes drifted to a trio of fae who were deep in conversation. Cedric was taking stock of the builds and weapons of all three, trying to catalog them and discern the level of threat they represented, when Thibault’s voice drifted into his ear.

“All good, Ric?” he asked as he sidled up next to Cedric. “We lost track of you for a minute there.”

Cedric’s eyebrow arched. “Of course. Why would it not be?”

Hargrave came to a stop at Cedric’s other side, dark hair slicked back, tied low at the back of his head. “Thought some fae witch might have gotten her claws in you on the way in. Convinced you to enter her Sanctum.” He gave Cedric a salacious wink as Thibault made a noise of disgust.

Cedric snorted and resisted the urge to smack Hargrave. “Hardly.” He knew the guard said it in jest, but while Cedric’s reactions were a bit more measured than Thibault’s, he couldn’t disagree that the very idea was insulting. Perhaps a weaker man might be enthralled by the thought of adding an Arcanian or two to the notches on his belt. He supposed he understood the temptation. The unique circumstances of the Crucible offered an opportunity for fraternization that few humans would ever see again in their lifetime. Not Cedric though. It would take a lot more than a striking face, shimmering green eyes, and pretty purple hair to get him to stray from his mission—and his morals.

He frowned at the specificity of the image that came into his mind. He certainly wasn’t referring to anyone in particular.

Hargrave patted Cedric on the back as he turned to continue chatting with Thibault, and as if his previous line of thought had summoned her back into being, Cedric saw her.

She stood on the opposite side of the Gate, perfectly framed by its ethereal glow, the soft light painting the strands of periwinkle around her face silver. Her right hand was wrapped around her carved quarterstaff as she tilted to the side, leaning her weight on it.

Cedric’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head when he realized that despite her casual pose, she was arguing with the fae woman standing beside her. Their voices rose into the hall, cutting through the quiet conversations happening around them. He didn’t think there was a single person present who couldn’t hear every word.

The purple-haired hellion did not seem particularly bothered by this. “So that’s it? You won’t even let me finish saying my piece, Kit?” she screeched.

The one called Kit rolled her eyes. Even from across the hall, Cedric could see they were a fascinating contrast of colors—one of them ocean blue, the other green as new grass. She was of average height and strong body, with rich brown skin and silver-white hair cropped to her chin. A short sword was sheathed at each hip and a pair of silver-and-gold wings were folded behind her back. Not hidden, Cedric noted with interest.

“You’ve said more than enough,” Kit said.

“I haven’t even begun to?—”

“Look around, Elyria. It’s already happening. You need to let it go.”

Elyria.

The name was softer and more lyrical than Cedric had expected. He wasn’t sure it matched the hellcat currently seething at her...friend? Rival? That they knew each other was clear, though he couldn’t figure out the nuances of their relationship, nor did he have any notion as to what their quarrel was about.

Cedric recognized Lord Leviathan Church’s aggrieved sigh coming from behind him. “As I said before, no discipline, no restraint.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Cedric agreed, though he didn’t tear his eyes from the pair. Until Lord Church’s reminder, Cedric hadn’t put together that Elyria and Kit were clearly the ones who had been having that...family spat...when his party arrived. Had they truly been fighting about whatever this was this entire time? He sighed. They would be absolutely insufferable during the Crucible if this kept up.

“I can’t let it go,” Elyria said through gritted teeth, “if you won’t let me in. You’ve spent the past two days avoiding me.”

“Can you blame me?” Kit mumbled.

A grin played at the edges of Cedric’s mouth. He thought about the way Elyria had been flattened by that burst of water. Kit was a tideweaver, then.

If Elyria heard Kit’s sardonic interjection, she didn’t let on. “You wanted time to mope, I gave it to you. You wanted to stay distracted; I allowed it—much to my own detriment, I will add. But now we’re out of time. I can’t let you off the hook anymore.”

“You’re making a scene,” Kit said, her nostrils flaring. She seemed to be looking anywhere but at the many faces now staring at them as she stalked away.

Elyria followed. “I don’t care.”

“Clearly,” someone muttered. Another one of the fae champions—a woman with wine-red hair that cascaded between her orange wings in a smooth wave.

A smattering of snide laughter erupted in response.

“Mind your business, Gael,” Elyria sneered, her expression dark. The laughter cut off abruptly.

“I told you when you arrived that you wouldn’t change my mind,” Kit said, only a few paces from Cedric now. “You haven’t. I will go through that Gate. I will enter the Sanctum. I will take on the Crucible.” Her eyes narrowed. “I will win . ”

Cedric’s mouth was moving before he realized what he was doing. “You mean to keep her from entering the Sanctum?” he asked.

“Cedric.” Lord Church’s voice was a low warning.

Cedric barely heard it. “Are you so threatened by one of your own kind”—he suppressed the derision in his voice as best he could, but given the way Elyria’s eyes narrowed, he must not have done a very good job—“that you would keep her from championing your realm?”

Not that it truly mattered, Cedric supposed, given that he had every intention of winning. But there was something in the idea of Elyria trying to prevent Kit from entering that didn’t sit right with him. Champions trained for years—decades for the Arcanians, he presumed—to take on the Arcane Crucible. For the hopefuls in this room, today marked the culmination of long-held hopes and dreams. He might have had his moments of trepidation, but it was for Cedric too.

And damn anyone who would actively try to prevent those dreams from being realized. Even for a fae.

Elyria whirled, her eyes narrowing on Cedric. “In what realm is this conversation any of your business?”

Cedric jutted his chin. “With the way you’ve been carrying on, I believe you have made it the business of everyone present.”

“Hear, hear!” cheered Gael.

Elyria ignored her. “This is a family matter, human. Stay. Out. Of. It.” She punctuated each word with a tap of her staff.

“She’s right,” Kit said. “It is a family matter.” Her voice was like ice when she turned to Elyria and added, “So why are you here again?”

The shock that flitted across Elyria’s face was quick as a lightning strike, but Cedric saw it. Saw the flash of hurt, the words cutting deep. And then, in the next instant, he saw the way she transformed. How she masked the pain, clawed the raw anger she’d been exuding back into herself.

A chill ran over Cedric as Elyria rolled her shoulders. Cocked her head to one side. Pasted on a caustic smile. “Apologies, my lady ,” she said to Kit, the words dripping with sarcasm. “I misspoke. I meant only that as I was sent here by your mother, I am acting in the best interest of your remaining family.”

Kit flinched.

Cedric didn’t understand the sudden need he felt to move closer, like something was tugging him toward the arguing fae. He took a single step forward before a hand wrapped around his upper arm, keeping him in place.

“Control your emotions,” Lord Church hissed in his ear. “Extricate yourself from this mess. This is behavior unbecoming of a champion.”

They’re champions and look how they’re acting, Cedric wanted to say. But he was quiet as he stepped back into place at the nobleman’s side.

Elyria was still speaking. “I see now my efforts have been in vain. Do allow me to take my leave.” Kit didn’t meet her eye as Elyria sketched a mocking bow, slung her staff over her back, and turned toward the entrance doors.

Cedric’s brows shot up. Was she truly leaving? The thought shocked him into motion, even as he felt Lord Church’s hand tighten on his arm. This was the opposite of controlling his emotions, he knew this.

He just couldn’t help himself.

“So, you aren’t a champion, then?” he called out, ignoring Lord Church’s sharp inhale as he pulled himself free and took off after Elyria.

Her steps slowed. She turned. “Decidedly not ,” she said with a derisive snort.

“Then why?—”

“Best of luck with your little game, Sir Knight.”

His temper flared, heating his chest. “This is not a game.”

“It is the precise definition of a game. We simply aren’t the ones making up the rules.” She threw her narrowed gaze to the ceiling, as if issuing a dare to the celestials themselves. Her mouth had curved up on one side when her green eyes met Cedric’s once more. “Hope you all have fun playing together.”

“You’re not taking this seriously. People die in the Crucible.”

Her smirk faded, replaced by a hard look that she directed at Kit. “I take it all very seriously. Now, why don’t you go back to sending your futile prayers up to your banished god? You’re going to need all the help you can get in there.”

“Just fucking go, Elle,” Kit said, sounding tired.

Cedric’s mouth quirked as he attempted to smother a laugh.

He failed.

Elyria’s eyes narrowed to emerald slits. “Was there something else you wished to say?”

“I suppose I’m just surprised that, for all your posturing, you won’t be entering the Sanctum.” A wave of boldness crested in Cedric’s chest, pulled the next words from his mouth. “And perhaps I am a little disappointed that I won’t have the opportunity to best you.”

“Well, I’m not!” called Gael, humor still scrawled across her face. One of the fae next to her let out a bellowing laugh. “And neither should you be, Sir Knight, given the way you’ve managed to rile up the Revenant.”

Cedric’s breath stalled in his lungs. He was sure he’d misheard those gossiping girls outside. He was sure there was no possible way that this fury-filled harpy was...

Disbelief carried Cedric forward, closing the distance between Elyria and himself. “ You’re the Revenant?”