Nik’s chest was heaving from the effort, but hers wasn’t. She stood on her dais with hands raised but not so much as a bead of perspiration frozen to her brow. Her eyes were alight, her lips curved up.
The lava rock held there for a moment, and then ice burst through their designs, pushed the detritus to the edges of the arena, and new ice formed beneath them, pushing them up the few inches without any seeming effort on her part.
But not the clear, flat ice it had been before. Designs were worked into it, crystal and snowflake patterns.
Always the artist.
Nik stood, turned to Daemon.
Daemon lifted a brow. “Your show, Nikanor.”
It shouldn’t have been—but he wasn’t going to turn it down. He strode forward, his family falling into some sort of formation behind him, given the way their steps sounded. He stopped a few yards in front of the dais and knelt, as did the others behind him. “The Aflame bend the knee to our queen!” he shouted, voice reverberating through the arena.
For the first time since he’d left the kyrka after the Song, he could see Kyrja clearly. If she’d looked regal and beautiful in the cloak earlier—which she had—she was pure feminine beauty now. Her gown dripped over her form in a silken waterfall, the cut accentuating each curve and making his mouth go dry. Then his gaze drifted up to her head. Her crown—it wasn’t the sharp,deadly spears of ice that her father’s had been. It was an intricate weave of points and curls that somehow evoked fire in the ice.
Their queen. Truly their queen. She inclined her head and lifted her right hand, the fluttering sheer sleeve of silver-white falling to her elbow with the gesture, light catching on the crystals sewn all over her gown like ice. “The Crown acknowledges the Aflame. I pledge my service to you for all my days.”
They all pressed their right fists to their hearts. “So shall it be.”
Nik stood, holding her gaze for a long moment. She’d have some words for him later, no doubt—and he doubted they’d be all gratitude, given the weeping he could still hear in the stands.
So be it. He moved forward, as did the others, to array themselves where the Blessed should have been, standing against the rails on either side of her. Nik closest on her right, Daemon on her left. His mother and Eldrid on Nik’s side, Logi and Ember on Daemon’s. They all turned to face the arena.
Would the Blessed take their cue now? Nik had, in essence, just stolen their position from them. Declared that he was the most powerful being of magic after their queen. Surely Ivar would want to try to reclaim the order.
The man’s mask of indifference had boiled off into pure rage. But still he made no move.
Someone did, though. Nik heard the clang of metal on metal, felt the thump of feet stomping in unison but had no idea who could be making it. If they were to simply skip over the Blessed, then the Fjorders ought to be going next, but why would that make such a racket?
Vektors spilled onto the arena from all the places they’d been stationed, Viggo leading the charge. He ran on spiked boots over the ice, spear held aloft and a shout worthy of their ancient ancestors ripping from his throat that sent a frisson of fear downNik’s spine, even knowing he could melt the projectile if he had to.
It came flying through the air at Kyrja—Viggo’s, and dozens of others besides, all hurtled at full strength and with impeccable aim.
Kyrja brought up her own spears of ice and sent them into the air, each one intercepting the missiles and sending them clattering to the ground. She swept them away a beat later, toward the basalt.
Viggo, still running, dropped to a knee where Nik had, his regiment behind him. “The Vektor Guards bend the knee to our queen,” he shouted.
Kyrja drew in a breath. “The Crown acknowledges the Vektor Guards. I pledge my service to you for all my days.”
The guards pressed their right fists to their hearts, like the Aflame had done. “So shall it be.”
This time, no one waited to see if the Blessed would act. Dania stood from her seat of honor, snowball in hand, and an excited-looking group rose with her. Their projectiles flew through the air, making it over the rink before Kyrja turned them all into snow-dust—and sent them swirling in a picture-perfect dance.
Her friend had stepped onto the ice, an assortment of Fjorders behind her. They all knelt. “The Fjorders bend the knee to our queen.”
“The Crown acknowledges the Fjorders,” Kyrja said without hesitation. “I pledge my service to you for all my days.”
“So shall it be.”
The other Blessed were sending Ivar panicked looks now—and no wonder. With each group of people he let overtake them, the further down the social hierarchy they fell. When another Blessed shoved Ivar in the shoulder, he finally stood.
A wall of ice blocked him, and Kyrja sent a glare his way much like the ones she’d leveled on the High Council in theirchambers. “The Blessed have made their stance clear. They will wait until the thanes have spoken.”
Perhaps Ivar and the others tried to fight their way through the ice, but if so, they failed so completely that their efforts weren’t even noticeable.
The thanes were supposed to just throw their roses, not step foot on the hallowed ice. Instead, they climbed over the rails, cutting their way across the ice on their skates, their faces all positively glowing.
The one in front was a young woman, two golden braids wound onto her head. She dipped a curtsy. “Three cheers for Her Majesty, Queen Valkyrja! Hip-hip—”
