I pool my attention on the two beasts powering in my direction as the crowd turns their bellowing hate from me. Turns their famished affections onher.
“FIRE LARK!”
“FIRE LARK!”
“FIRE LARK!”
Their idolization for the nickname packs me full of rage, and I roar while hacking through the abdomen of a squirming razah, splashing myself with blood that burns. At the same time, the other beast lunges, my spare hand coming up to grip its throat—squeezing.
It gnashes at my face, its breath the putrid exhausts of a geyser full of rotten meat, tongue lashing past gray teeth. Its throat finally collapses, and the beast goes limp like a doll.
I toss it aside, looking up. See Slátra sprinting toward a retreating beast with another hot on her heels, hunting her with concerning speed.
I throw my sword.
It whips through the air, and the crowd gasps as it plunges into the back of the trailing monster’s head. With its dying screech, Slátra spins, sprayed by the boiling blood of her prey’s slit throat.
She doesn’t flinch, gaze roving from the slain beast to the blade wobbling in the back of its head, to me—also wobbling. She snarls, tosses her own limp kill aside, then scans the arena. I do the same, realizing—
It’s just us left.
Just us, and a scatter of bleeding bodies being swallowed by the ground.
Even the crowd has grown quiet, waiting. No doubt wondering what will happen next. If they’re about to see the Burn King fall, or their beloved champion.
I know the answer. So does she, evident in the way she looks at me. With a depth toootherto be fae. A guttural compassion born from something that knows so much more than us simple folk can possibly comprehend.
Working through a series of short, rattling breaths, I traverse the jagged terrain, finally coming upon the last beast I slayed. I wrench my sword from its skull just in time to save the weapon from being sucked in by the smoldering blister reclaiming the razah.
Slátra begins to circle, and I catch her discreet nod from the corner of my eye.
Except that’s the love of my existence. Even those glinting black eyes urging me todo what it takescan’t make me see her as anyone other than Raeve. Other than the broken princess I fed in a hall, playing the songs that used to make Mah smile, hoping to see some light in her eyes. To give her a little strength to keep going; keep fighting tolive.
The thought of swiping this sword at her, of spending my final moments pretending to try and maim her … it goes against the grain of my soul.
But our daughter’s life is on the line. So is Veya’s.
Slátra prowls closer.
Feeling the cloying pressure of Arkyn’s scrutiny, I sweep my blade in a wide arc. Though the crowd gasps, the action bears none of the gusto required to inflict any wounds.
Slátra leaps away, growling beneath her breath as she stalks around the back of me. “We must make this believable!”
I tip my head, face screwing. Repress the urge to obliterate the lump in my throat with an anguished scream.
Again, Arkyn’s perusal heckles my skin.
Sensing Slátra’s approach, I let my head drop forward and heave a gurgled breath, then whip around and launch. Somehow manage to catch her off guard, knocking her to a patch of cool ground—straddling her hips with my blade poised at her throat.
Her wings sputter, shock and respect blazing in her eyes. Until I press my forehead to hers, ignoring the bellowing crowd. The corpses being swallowed by the ground. The burning blood on both our bodies.
“I love you, Moonbeam.” My voice breaks against the words, eyes stinging as the vision of her distorts. “Can you hear me?I love you.And I’m sorry …”
I’m so fucking sorry.
Her eyes flare.
Sheshoveswith unnatural strength, sending me skidding across the stone to the gasps of the bloodthirsty crowd. I somehow manage to cling to my sword.
