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“So that’s why you can’t go back?” I press.
He slides a sideways look my way. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
No, not a bit. All I can do is smile.
“I’m oath sworn to Sigurd. He ordered me to stay here.” His eyes pinch closed. “Unless he changes his mind, I don’t have a chance of explaining things to Sylvie unless I can win this competition and force him to free me of my oath.”
Poor guy. And stuck here because of Sigurd. I lean back in my chair, attempting to see the man in question. From this angle, I can only see the front edge of the box, and he no longer clutches the railing. Is he still there? Other than accidentally sticking me here, he’s been mostly kind. Albeit a little flirty but maybe—
A thought strikes me.
“He can remove your oath if he chooses to?” I ask. “It’s that easy?”
Galen shakes himself from the trance he’d fallen into. “Yes.” His lips thin. “But don’t expect any favors fromhim,” he nearly spits the word.
I stiffen. Something hard settles in my chest. “Why not?”
He stares me down as if he could peel back my layers and see within. I squirm in my chair, everything in me yelling at me to flee, until finally he blinks and looks away.
His next words are so quiet I barely hear them. “You don’t know what he’s done.”
A shadow creeps across my heart. I glance this way and that, but no one is close. Even so, I scoot my chair near him before I whisper. “He almost accidentally got the King of the Forest killed.”
Galen stares at me. “Accidentally?”
Chills skitter down my spine. “He said… He told me he can’t lie, but…”
“Maybe that was an accident, but everything leading up until that was no accident, Wren. He plotted for years. Watching. Waiting for the right moment to strike.” His fist slams into his open palm, causing me to jump.
My heart races. Years. He plotted for years. “How do you know that?”
A pained grimace crosses his face.
Cheers erupt as competitors race into view, aiming for the stage. The two literally claw at each other, trying to be the first to the stage. Blood and shredded clothes leave a trail in their wake.
Color dots the edge of my vision, and I grip the chair for support.
That could have been me. If I’d run into someone else in the woods, it could be my blood painting the grass. One swipe would have done it. I don’t have claws, fangs, or magic. My nails dig into the wood of the chair below me.
Despite their struggle, both make it to the stage, and each advance to the next round. A scream builds in the back of my throat.
This is ridiculous. What am I even doing here?
I glance at Galen, and he still looks ill himself, though his faraway gaze tells me it’s not because of the violent show.
“A spirited struggle,” a new voice says at my side.
I jump at the new voice and nearly tilt the chair over. My pulse beats against my ribs as I take stock of the competitor who joined us. Dark red hair trails down over his shoulders. His features are smooth and even, almost angelic. If I had to guess, I’d mark him about my age, younger than most of the competitors. Unlike most of us, he doesn’t favor the blues and grays of the Court of Air in his attire, and suddenly, I remember who he is. My throat goes dry. The reds and yellows of his attire, the rubies dotting his earrings as bold as his hair—I’ve only had glimpses of him, but there’s no mistaking the prince from the Court of Fire.
“Indeed,” Galen replies, saving my tongue-tied self.
“You two made quite the entrance as well.” He tilts his head in a way that’s decidedly not human.
“Do you have a problem with that?” I bite out.
“Quite the contrary. It’s most intriguing. A human woman with the King of Air’s magic about her,” he says, and my cheeks burn long after he slides his prying gaze to Galen. “And a fae of two courts.”
Galen goes ramrod straight, and his gaze darkens.
