She holds the sword easily in her hand, no sign of the pain she must be in, and I take the chance to get a closer look at the weapon. The Seelie steel catches in the light, not ornate or extravagant by any means, but it's far sharper than any of the training blades we usually spar with. The only decoration is a single emerald secured within the cross-guard where the grip meets the blade, the deep hue of it matching the raw gem of her scepter. It’s an unusual place for a stone, but I haven’t seen enough Seelie weapons to know if it’s their design or hers.
She rolls her shoulders to loosen them and check for any tightness in her movement, the same checks any soldier would do, and yet my gut curls at the sight of it. The Fates are silent within me, but the echoes of her screams only hours ago still ring in my ears. The thought of her trapped in those nightmares again is unthinkable, especially here.
Rooke murmurs a prayer in the old language, Roan and Tyton both chuckling at her sincere words. A smirk stretches over my lips that I’m sure will haunt Mercer long after this night is over.
Matyr, ignorant of the language and overconfident like the worst fools always are, scoffs and calls out, “The Fates can't help you now, witch.”
Tyton sends him back his own lopsided grin. “She's praying for your survival, not hers, idiot.”
A smattering of laughter echoes around the room, Tyton having far more friends here than the rest of my family put together, thanks to his easygoing nature, only slightly hindered by the rumors of his madness.
When Rooke opens her eyes once more, determination in the set of her mouth, she steps away from the shelter of my household and into the cleared area set out before the thrones. The swirling patterns of silver and blue on the marble floors form a perimeter, and the crowd shifts to the very edges of it as they jostle for a good vantage point.
Prince Mercer steps back to the small ornate chair sitting in front of the Celestial thrones, set a respectful distance away but clearly at the head of this household. There's another seat beside it, and I share a look with Roan before I take it, the arrogant look still fixed on my face. The scar makes it worse, the crowd all hesitant to look in my direction as the savagery rolls off me in waves.
Mercer bows his head to me, waiting until I incline my own before he calls out, “Begin!”
Matyr immediately lunges at Rooke, a stupid show of force, and she side-steps him easily. Her body spins and her sword never lifts to catch his as she simply dances past him then watches as he recovers. If she were at full strength, it would have been as easy as running him through while his back was turned, but the move requires speed. The sharp edge to her eyes is cautious, but only about her only injuries and limits.
This fight isn't about winning at all costs.
This is a show of who’s truly at the helm here, and it certainly isn’t Prince Mercer or his recklessly useless cousin. Better for my witch mate to force Matyr to stumble with each swipe while she dances effortlessly around each of his attacks, wearing himout while showing the room that their expectations of her are baseless and stupid.
Roan chuckles under his breath and leans toward Tyton, making a show of murmuring, “It's like watching a child against a sword-master. She's going to wipe the floor with him.”
I want to spar with her and see how she fairs then, at full strength and without this pretentious audience. Better yet, no audience at all.
At his words, Matyr’s wife, Savyn, lets out a choked gasp. Chuckles and horrified murmurs sound around the room, but there's no denying his observation. At every lunge from the male, Rooke twirls away perfectly, the two of them engaging in a perfect show as the household watches on. It’s impossible to look away, even as I know I should be studying the crowd to see which of the royals and nobles are falling into line at this show and which grow more resentful. With any luck, Tyton is watching, or maybe Reed, but I have the feeling we’re all enthralled by the graceful arc of Rooke’s blade.
We rode through the day and night to get here, then fought the witches without a moment of rest between. Rooke lost consciousness from the effects of the poison and the toll of using her magic, waking in pain a few hours later without the benefits of high-fae healing. It’s with the Fates’ blessings that she’s even standing right now, and yet she cuts Matyr down with ease. Every inch of this female is a reckoning for this kingdom, her silver eyes shining with ferocious determination, and Mercer’s household see it too.
A growl tears from my chest at their eyes all on her like this, watching her in awe, and I’m struck with the urge to get her out of this room, this castle, this territory, and back to Yregar where she belongs. With me, my people, in my chambers where no one else can behold what is mine.
Her blade slices the air, the first of an attacking motion, and Matyr is forced to lurch to the side to block the move, his feet stumbling. Rooke’s sword sings sweetly as it cuts through the air again, this time slashing his shirt buttons. Savyn lets out a shrill shriek as the first few drops of blood the hit the marble, a commotion in the crowd as she puts on a terrified show of her own, but my gaze stays true to my Fates-blessed mate in her victory.
Matyr lets out a startled yelp, but Rooke is as unstoppable and merciless as a blizzard rolling in. Swipe, swipe,swing, the high fae catches the first two blows but misses the third and is taken to the ground at the force. With the next swing, I'm sure for a moment that Rooke is about to behead him, but with a heroic show of strength with such damaged hands, she halts her movement abruptly, leaving her sword pressed at the side of his neck. Blood wells there under the unforgiving edge of her steel, but she doesn’t say a word to him, simply stares down and waits.
A fine tremble of rage works its way down Matyr’s body while Rooke stands as steadfast as the Augur Mountains themselves, enduring every hardship no matter the petty opinions of the royal high fae. Her silver eyes are as sharp as the blade in her hands, and she allows the subdued quiet of the room to talk for her. One of her eyebrows slowly rises as the silence stretches on, broken only by Matyr gasping pathetically for air at her feet.
"I yield," he says finally, through clenched teeth, and a smirk stretches across my lips.
The applause is divided, though loud, thanks to Tyton and Roan. There are others looking at my Fates-blessed mate with a new appreciation, but their gazes flick to me before dropping entirely.
Rooke ignores it all as she removes the blade from Matyr’s throat and stretches out her arm, and then the pop of light puts it away. She nods at him, clearly the closest he'll get to a respectfulbow from a competitor, but he only grimaces in reply. When the applause grows louder at Rooke’s honorable retreat from her defeated opponent, Matyr finally scrambles to his feet and storms off, shoving at Savyn when she throws herself at him.
Pure, unadulterated rage flashes across Rooke’s face before she catches herself, fixing the blank mask there once more, as though his callous actions haven’t lit a fire within her.
She steps back over to where Prince Mercer and I sit and bows deeply to me and me alone before stepping back to join the others. My gaze never leaves her as Reed hands over her cloak. When her hands shake, Roan takes it back from her and sets it around her shoulders, murmuring praises for her form. He speaks as though she’s a soldier, and it calms some of the tension within her. She gives him a stern nod and tucks her hands into the folds of the fabric, as though hiding them from the light will ease some of her pain.
"I can see why the Fates gave you that one," Mercer says dismissively, as though his own spoiled cousin wasn't just decimated by an exhausted and injured lower fae so effectively.
I look over the crowd, gaging their opinions and then deciding I don’t give a Fates-filled fuck for them.
They'll kneel before her whether they like it or not.
"The Fates gave me ‘that one’ because she’s going to kill Kharl and end the war. I've never met a high-fae female who could swing a sword with such precision or use magic the way she can. Kharl doesn't stand a chance." I project so much confidence in my words, I almost believe them myself. “It's true she's an unstoppable force, but Kharl has been playing games with us for centuries while building his armies, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. There’s every chance today was both a retaliation and a test. How will the high fae respond to machines of war from other lands? How will we fare against his generals, those with magic, where we have none? There’s onlyone witch who stands at our side, but she can’t fight the entire Witch Ward alone.”
Mercer's eyebrows pinch together before he lets a smile slide across his face, his gaze dancing over his wife, who is entertaining some of the upper members of the household. Their marriage was determined by the Fates, as all high-fae royal unions are, and there's a real affection in his eyes as he looks at her. The Fates don’t always bestow love or even peace. Mercer should count himself very lucky to have both, instead of just being smug that I don’t.
