She wove three red locks into my white hair, braiding them with deft fingers until they crowned my head like a warrior’s coronet before blending seamlessly down my back.
To match her vision, I wear a sleeveless tunic dyed crimson, stitched by temple women since no seamstress of Viele dares touch the taboo red material. Loose white trousers brush just below my knees and my nails have been sharpened into blood-bright points. At my hip, my black polished whip gleams.
“One last thing,” Peonica says, producing a tiny container filled with something that looks suspiciously like crushed rubies. Without hesitation, she scoops some onto her finger and smears it over her lips, the tint instantly flaring to a deep red.
I arch a brow.
“Beetroot mixed with beeswax,” she explains with a mock sigh, then she puckers twice at her reflection, making two playful pops with her lips. But when she leans closer to admire herself, I see the tightness at the corners of her eyes. The brave grin that wavers. She’s trying to dazzle me with lightness, but dread shadows her face.
“Hey,” I murmur, then grip her shoulders firmly, turning her to face me, forcing her to drop the act. “I’ll be alright. I will win this challenge.”
Her teeth press together, jaw rigid, but she doesn’t speak. The silence between us grows heavy, squeezing my chest.
I stare into her eyes, pouring every ounce of my will into them, wishing her to see it, to believe it. To believeme.
For a long moment, she only stares. Then she lifts her chin, and the faintest crack runs through her bravado.
All her preparations land at once. The braid. The tunic. The breakfast. A need to be the one taking care of me as if she’s afraid she won’t get another chance.
Suddenly, a bitter regret of denying her the offer to eat togetherthis morning overcomes me. I thought nothing of it, but it takes only now to realize how afraid she must be sending me to the most dangerous fight after only just getting her sister all to herself, something that she’s dreamed of for years.
“You’re my younger sister,” I say with a slight quirk of my lips, pushing aside prickly feelings. “So you must do as your elderly says. And I am telling you, I will come back today. And you can make a whole lunch, and we will eat it just the two of us. I will even allow you to have a glass of wine.”
Peonica bristles, shrugging my hands off with a quick, nervous flick. “I don’t need your permission to drink,” she snaps, but the words barely mask her nerves. “I’m a grown woman, I’ll drink when I want.” After a beat, she sighs. “Fine. If you insist, I’ll make us lunch. But you must swear to come straight to me the moment the challenge ends, the moment you’ve kicked Zyrel’s arse in front of the whole kingdom.”
“I promise. I’ll come straight to you, bleeding and all.”
Peonica’s mouth quirks into a grin. Without warning, she dabs a blob of red wax onto my lips. “Spread it evenly,” she orders, fighting a laugh at my startled expression. “To complete the ensemble,” she drawls, exaggerating each syllable as though lecturing someone truly hopeless.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and turn to the mirror. I smooth it over my lips until it gleams evenly, pretending it’s simple makeup when it feels more like warpaint.
I study my reflection a moment longer, and then my thoughts drift toward the changes I’ll forge once Zyrel falls, once I strip the rot from this kingdom and build something worthy from what remains.
Istep into the arena and am immediately blinded by the blaze of the rising sun and shaken by the thunderous cheers of the crowd. For a moment, the brilliance and the noise drown my senses, leaving me blinking and unmoored. I raise a hand to shield my eyes and let my gaze sweep across the arena.
Not a seat remains unclaimed. The benches sag beneath the press of bodies, the air vibrating with the fervor of those eager to witness the final challenge.
Then my attention snags on the ground ahead, and confusion knots my brow. The once-level earth has been raised, sloping upward in a subtle incline toward the far end. At the far end, two vacant thrones wait.
My thoughts leap to Ryker and Mael. The younger prince’s calculating gaze flashes in my mind, and I banish it at once. The seats cannot be for them—no royal would risk sitting so near whatever storm is about to break here. Then who are they for?
The clamor is suddenly interrupted by a booming thud to my right, followed by a roar that reverberates through my very bones. All eyes swing to Zyrel, who strides into the arena, flanked by his dragon. The black beast lunges, its massive bulk surging in our direction.
I brace for the strike, magic thrumming beneath my skin. But Kaelzar is faster.
Before my next heartbeat, he’s standing in front of me, ready tounleash devastation. Yet the dragon doesn’t attack. Instead, it opens its maw and roars, a sound so deep it shakes the air. Ash-gray breath pours from its jaws in a thick, seething wave.
But the wave never reaches us.
Instead, it slams into something unseen standing between us. As the echo of that roar fades into silence, Kaelzar glances at me, his expression mirroring my confusion.
Our gazes shift to where the smoke met resistance, and then I see it. A wall of glass, so impossibly clear it’s barely noticeable, stretches across the arena, dividing us from Zyrel and his Godbeast. I follow it up until the glare swallows its top edge. There’s no climbing it. No going around.
We’re separated. A slow breath leaves me, half relief, half disbelief. The odds no longer feel impossible. I had promised Peonica I would return, though part of me hadn’t believed it. How could I, facing an opponent like Zyrel, in a physical battle?
Now, with this barrier between us, victory suddenly feels within reach.
Relief starts to ease the tension in my chest when, without warning, my body locks up. My muscles seize so hard I bite down on my cheek and taste blood.
