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No sooner do I take it than Moria grabs my other and Sigurd says, “Hold on.”
“To—”What.
That’s what I mean to say. But the word turns into a screech as the world shifts and bends around me. The air becomes heavy and thick, closing in like a rubber band. Everything in me feels shaken like a martini, and if they weren’t holding my hands, I’d definitely fall.
As quickly as it began, the band of air pops, and the world solidifies. Only, the scene around us is different. A lower, solid ceiling hangs overhead. Actual solid walls surround us on three sides, forming a small room. The furnishings here are different too—gaudy chaise lounges and tables draped with heavy linens. Tapestries hang on the walls depicting various scenes of people—or rather, fae—doing battle. My boots shift on carpets of deep blue.
Sigurd flexes his hand. Only then do I realize I’m squeezing it, and Moria’s, in a death grip.
“What the fu…dge was that?” I ask, only barely holding back the curse.
“Fudge?” Moria asks, but I ignore her and release her hand.
Sigurd, however, doesn’t quite let me go.
“Shifting?” he says. “It’s a way to move quickly from one place to another.”
Magical fae transportation. Freaking handy.
“You can all do it?” I look between him and Moria, the only other person in the room.
“No.” He shifts his grip, tugging me closer as he claims my attention. Strands of dark hair curl around his ear, and I have to fight the urge to tuck them back. Why do I want to touch him so? Sigurd’s lips curve up as his chin notches higher. “Only the strongest of us can.”
I roll my eyes. Of course. One moment I’m wondering what his hair would feel like between my fingers, and then he has to go and remind me of his less attractive side.
Cheers and chatter echo into the room, and not the voices of a small group. A roar like that only comes from thousands, and I’ve seen enough football games to know.
“Shall we?” He gives my hand a squeeze, and for the briefest moment, he almost seems nervous.
A king, nervous? Surely not.
Me, on the other hand? I am not ready. It takes everything I have to put one foot in front of the other as we travel down a long hallway to the ever-rising tide of sound. It crashes over us, building in intensity and twisting my insides into a knot as sunlight spills into the hallway, nearly blinding me.
I’m Maximus inGladiatoras we walk out the end of the tunnel into a massive stadium. My mouth drops open, and I blink against the light, taking in the unfurling sight. If this were a football stadium, we’d be halfway up the lower bowl in a box of sorts. It’s similar enough in shape that it may have been modeled after one. Or…
A lump forms in my throat. Maybe humans borrowed the idea from the fae.
Fae—at least I think they’re fae—crowd the stands. There are no team colors here, not that I can tell. The rainbow of color filling the stands looks like someone dumped a massive amount of confetti everywhere. Confetti that moves and cheers. Pennants of blue bearing a gray bird poke up from the crowd all around the stands and flutter in a light breeze.
But they’re not cheering for their king, who just made his entrance. Or me, thank goodness. Instead, they’re focused on the figures standing in the large, grassy oval in the center of the stadium.
The competitors? I lean forward, aiming for a better look.
“You’re late,” Hawke says.
The comment snaps my attention away from the crowd. Hawke and Uncle Mark occupy one side of the box. I’d been so preoccupied with the scene before us I hadn’t even noticed them.
“Can I be late when I’m the one who starts the ceremony?” Sigurd asks.
I hear Hawke’s sigh, but his annoyance is the least of my worries. Instead, I stare Uncle Mark down, begging for the slightest hint.Did you get me in the tournament? Should I be down there? Help me.
He gives a slight nod. Acknowledgment or just a friendly greeting?
Sigurd drops my hand. My fingers twitch, aching to reach for his. Not because I want him. No, of course not. But holy moly, I am unprepared for this. Either I’m about to piss off a king, or my shortcut home is gone. And handling either of those is going to be a disaster. My knees wobble, and I reach for a nearby chair to cling to its back.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Sigurd’s jovial tone makes my stomach drop further.
Moria slips her arm through mine. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
