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Their emotion fills my heart with a heavy joy and I feel tears start to well. I’ve always wanted to find somewhere that I belonged. “That’s so beautiful,” I whisper and they’re reminded of my presence.
“Are you going to cry?” Ion asks in disbelief.
“No, of course not,” I sniffle. “That would be silly. It’s just, I know the situation is different, but I don’t have any family either.”
Bron wraps his arm around my shoulder. “We are your family now, aren’t we, Ion?”
“We are,” he says, his deep voice tinged with solemnity.
“Thanks,” I whisper, wiping at my cheeks. “You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”
Ion clears his throat as he goes back to surveying the crowd. “Enough now. We have appearances to maintain.”
“He’s right,” Bron agrees. “Plus, we need to concern ourselves with the deve.”
“But you said he’d be fine,” I accuse, my voice rising in pitch.
“Physically, yes. But emotionally, it must be a special kind of torture to have to dispatch one of his best friends from childhood.”
“What?” I breathe.
Bron nods. “I’d imagine it’s part of the reason the deve’s first reaction to your situation was so negative. The twins are of an age with him, and they were thick as thieves as children.”
Feeling sick, I murmur, “I had no idea.”
“Well,” Bron says, winking at me. “These warrior types are not known for their open communication skills, are they?”
The sound of drums fills the clearing and the crowd parts, revealing my intended’s arrival, flanked by Eldon and Noé. My breath catches. He’s magnificent. Dressed only in buckskin pants that fit him like a second skin and his boots, he walks with supreme confidence, his fists clenching and unclenching with pent up energy. His bare chest and broad shoulders scream of brute strength and power, and the gold torque of the Mountain Lion Deve that encircles his bicep glints in the winter light. He seems not to hear the crowd, as if all of his focus is turned inward, something that makes him appear all the more fierce.
They’re followed by two drummers and a cart filled with weapons. Last comes a limping Cayson. He’s flanked by his two other brothers, Gray and Crion, but on closer inspection I see his ankle is still shackled by a chain to the cart.
Eldon steps forward and a hush comes over the crowd. “People of the Mountain Lion, you are here to witness Cayson Cyrun’s attempts to win the Mother’s forgiveness for his betrayal of this realm and its lawful deve, Lukaron Djothar.”
Loud cheers erupt, but a few shouts of contempt spear into my heart. The sudden and terrifying reality that Luka may be lost to me today hits me like a battering ram. As if sensing my distress, the man in question lifts his head in my direction. His gaze is so steady, so heavy upon me that I can’t help but calm. He fears nothing and neither should I.Trust in me,those dark eyes convey.I won’t falter, I won’t fail.
When Eldon crosses between us, briefly interrupting the connection, there’s almost nothing left of my trepidation. I give Luka a nod, sending him an echo of the strength he’s given me. I can’t be sure, but I swear his expression fleetingly warms for me.
Cayson is unshackled and the swords and shields are distributed. Considering a man’s life is on the line, the ceremonial aspects are short and to the point. I’m coming to realize that actions carry so much more weight than words here in the north.
Without delay, the two men begin circling each other. When the blows start, the crowd erupts and almost drowns out the twang of sword on sword or the dull thump of sword on shield. Though the majority are there to support Luka, it’s clear that a few want Cayson to put an end to his rule. Among them are the men who were on the road that night.
A loud cry rents the air and my attention flies back to the battle. Luka has landed a kick, sending Cayson flying onto his rump in the dirt.
“Get up!” Luka roars and the crowd goes wild.
Once Cayson’s back on his feet, Luka doesn’t let up. He drives him back with strike after strike, somehow managing to twist and spin and avoid Cayson’s reach at every turn. I’m not ashamed to admit that my desire for him increases with every passing minute. He’s physical poetry and grace personified.
There are a few close calls that send my heart lurching up into my throat, but it’s obvious from the start that Cayson is outmatched. When Zola’s tormented cry of, “Mercy!” rings out over the din, both sadness and satisfaction swamp me. Luka, however, doesn’t hesitate. After a powerful combination of blows, Cayson finally goes down hard and has no time to react to the sword blade that spears right through the middle of his chest, pinning him to the ground.
A hush falls over the field, one that’s immediately punctuated by Zola’s wail of despair, then the roar of approval from the crowd. I can’t pull my eyes from Cayson, who’s still alive, choking on his own blood and feebly trying to pull the sword free. The only word I can think of to describe it ishorrifying.
Luka once again advances on his opponent, this time carrying a very large poleaxe. With Cayson watching, Luka takes his time before bringing the weapon down with such force that the single blow is the only one needed to sever the head from its body.
Blood sprays everywhere much to the delight of the spectators. Luka chucks the axe aside and yanks his sword from the corpse, raising it in triumph. The noise of the crowd reaches a crescendo and Luka roars his own approval.
“Let this . . .” he bellows, then waits for the crowd to quiet down before he starts again. “Let this serve as a warning.I. Am. Deve.Accept it . . . or challenge, but I won’t be intimidated. I won’t be manipulated. And I willnottolerate betrayal.”
With his people’s raucous approval reverberating in my ears, I start forward.
