Every head in the amphitheater turns toward me.
My eyes find Peeble on the caller's platform, perched on their shoulder. The beetle raises one front leg and gives me what I can only describe as their version of a thumbs up. Their mandibles are spread in what is absolutely a grin.
I am going to end that beetle.
The crowd parts around me, murmuring and staring. I set my jaw and push toward the platform, ready to remove Peeble from the situation by force and get us both out of here before—
An arrow buries itself in the wooden post six inches from my left ear.
I have my blade drawn before the sound finishes, body dropping into a combat stance, eyes tracking the trajectory. My gaze finds the archer.
She's standing on a root terrace about thirty feet away. Red hair pulled back in a rough braid, leather armor that's seen hard use, a recurve bow still raised with a second arrow already nocked. Her crew flanks her. Seven, maybe eight rough-looking fae, all armed, all watching me with expressions that range from hostile to amused.
But I don't see any of them. I see her.
Elle.
Something in my chest gives way. Everything I've been holding since she dispersed. The grief, the desperate searching, the months of empty sleep and chilly mornings. All of it rushes forward. She's here. Standing right there. Whole and solid and furious and alive and—
I take a step toward her.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Peeble lands on my shoulder so hard I feel the impact through my armor. "Lover boy. Slow down."
"That's—"
"That is not your Elle." Peeble's voice is low, urgent, stripped of its usual theatrics. "That's Iteration Fifteen Elle. The one I just told you about. The baddie with the attitude? The one who ganged up with outlaws and told you to eat rocks? That one."
The second arrow is still pointed at me. Iteration Fifteen Elle's expression is pure murder.
"Get off my range, princeling," she calls out, and her voice, gods, her voice is the same. The same cadence, the same slight rasp when she's angry. "Or the next one goes through your throat instead of past it."
I sheathe my blade. But not because she told me to.
"She hates you in this version," Peeble whispers. "Like, really hates you."
"Noted."
"Maybe we should just go."
But I don't move. Because even if this isn't my Elle, even if she wants nothing to do with me, she might have seen something. Sensed something. If the current version of Elle passed through this iteration, this Elle might know. And that makes her the most valuable person in this clearing.
"I need to talk to her," I say.
"Oh, that'll go well. She just shot at you."
"She missed on purpose. If she wanted me dead, that arrow would have been three inches to the right."
"And that makes you feel BETTER?"
The caller, recovering from the interruption with the practiced ease of someone who's seen worse, clears their throat. "Well! Seems we have some tension! Perfect for the Games! Competitors, take your marks!"
I look at the competition grounds. Then at Elle, who's already conferring with her crew. Two of them are warming up. A large male with bark-encrusted arms and a wiry female with tattoos that glow faintly.
"She's competing," I say.
"Yep. Her crew's won the last three Games running. She's kind of a legend in this iteration."
"Then I compete too. The winner of these games gets something, don't they? Some kind of reward?"
