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“The cauldron,” Hawke says, “grants a wish to one who drinks from it. It’s how my husband became fae.”
Became… Fae… I blink, trying to take it in. Instead of what?
“And poor Hawke hasn’t been able to beat me in a duel since,” Moria laughs.
I all but ignore them, the cogs in my mind turning. If this cauldron can change someone into a fae, maybe it can do other powerful things too.
Chapter 6
Irubatthetattoo around my wrist, pondering the magic of this cauldron and whether it would be enough to free me of my bond to Sigurd. The other members of the table carry on, oblivious to my rising hope.
“A worthwhile sacrifice.” Hawke gives an uncharacteristic smile.
Moria rolls her eyes. “I suppose extra magic from your marked human is nothing to remorse over compared to love.”
“If I were to drink from the cauldron,” I interject, “would it remove the magic binding me here?”
The table goes eerily silent. Sigurd stares me down as if I’ve just asked for the moon.
Hawke swallows. “I believe it wou—”
“You’re not entering the games.” Sigurd slams his palms on the table, rattling the platters, and rises to his feet.
The hardness of his command has me sliding back in the chair, struggling to get as far away from him as possible. My spine stiffens against the backboard. “Why not?”
“It can be dangerous. What if you got hurt?”
“You could heal me like you did last night.”
His lips thin. “It’s not the same. You, out there—”
I shove to my feet, matching his stance as I lean over the table. “Then let me drink from the cauldron now. You got me stuck here, so get me unstuck.”
His eyes slam shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that simple.”
“The cauldron can only grant one wish before it has to recharge for quite some time,” Hawke says with even calm. “Even my husband had to win his chance.”
I cross my arms. “Seems like you’ll need to cancel those games after all then.”
Sigurd’s lips twitch. “Things are too precarious to risk canceling the games for such a favor.”
“Especially with all the mess you’ve gotten us into…” Moria trails off as she sips at her glass, ignoring the daggers Sigurd stares her way.
“Then you owe me the chance to try.” I slap my palm on the table for emphasis. If he doesn’t have the decency to undo this mess, then he sure as heck won’t stop me from trying.
A muscle ticks in Sigurd’s jaw. He opens his mouth to reply when the main doors groan open, drawing all of our attention.
“Ah, there he is.” Hawke’s tone fills with warmth.
His husband. But the man walking toward us is nothing like what I’d pictured. Hawke said he’d won the games before, so my mind painted him as a young, tall figure with bulging muscles, fitted clothes ready for a sparring match—like Moria’s. Maybe a goatee. Instead, this man is only an inch or two taller me, with heavily graying-brown hair and more than a little extra girth around his midsection. He’d be more likely to conquer a tax return than win some sporting match.
“Sorry I’m late.” His voice carries across to us and strikes something deep in my chest. The world tilts.
It can’t be. It’s not possible.
But as he nears, I can make out the angle of his face and the familiar dimples of his cheeks. His gaze slides my way as I collapse onto the chair.
“Who’s our guest?” he asks without the slightest recognition.
