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“You wanted to talk to me? To see me?” Sigurd speaks out of the corner of his mouth. The words are barely audible, just loud enough to reach me.
“Yes.”
He turns, his gaze meeting mine, and for the briefest flicker, I see beyond the shield of formality. It’s a gale of desire, a lightning bolt of pleasure, and maybe a gust of hope.
And then it’s gone, so fast I may have imagined it.
Sigurd gestures to the other finalists, who wait in a row on the sweeping stairs behind our eccentric announcer and host of the games.
Bolstered by that brief glimpse, I take my place at the end next to Galen.
The announcer projects his voice louder than should be possible and calls for silence. Fae cease their conversations and move in, eager to hear whatever he has to say. The brief respite I had from their examinations is over. They may pretend to pay attention as the announcer begins another, likely longwinded, speech about the games, but their focus slides straight past to me, skittering over my skin like spiders. Goosebumps race down my arms, and I fight the urge to turn away.
Uncle Mark, Hawke, and Moria stand far to the left, too far for me to watch without turning away, and that wouldn’t go unnoticed. There’s only one familiar gaze in the crowd I don’t mind meeting, and he stands at the front, a witness to the games like any other of his court.
Sigurd’s eyes lock on mine. The hint of a smile quirks at the corner of his lips.
I don’t pay attention to the words being spoken. I don’t care.
Galen leans in ever so slightly to whisper, “He’s in love with you.”
His gaze flicks from me to Sigurd, leaving no question whoherefers to.
“Nonsense.” I look away from Sigurd, staring at the announcer’s back instead. So much safer. Why didn’t I think of that before?
“You humans and your lies.” Galen smirks.
“It’s… It’s not…”
But it is. That all-consuming look in Sigurd’s eyes says more than words ever could. Maybe it’s not love. How could it be, so soon? But it’s certainly lust. My chest burns as I recall the feel of his lips on mine and his strong arms holding me tight. My legs wobble underneath me, and I nearly tip over in my heels. Without Galen’s quick move to steady me, I certainly would.
“And you with him?” he says.
I have no answer for him. None that I’m willing to share anyway. Holy hell, when did this even happen? But then, Sigurd set my soul alight the moment we met. Even in that dark, rainy, terrible night, part of me clung to him with a need I tried to bury far down under all my fear and worry. No matter what I learned or how I tried to convince myself otherwise, the mere sight of him or whisper of his name would bring it crawling back to the surface.
Queen of Air.
But I can’t be. I have family. Responsibility. And they’re not here. Not all of them anyway. Maybe someday it could be possible, but that wouldn’t be anytime soon.
Unless I fail. Unless Lysandir’s portent means I won’t win and I’ll be stuck here for who knows how long until the magic runs its course and releases me from my bond. Would I be Sigurd’s queen then? Could I, knowing he’s the reason I would likely never see Gran again?
“Even with all that he’s done?” Galen whispers.
The reminder is just enough to send my thoughts tumbling further into darkness. The chill in his words freezes me more than a dunk in ice water.
Oh, the things he’s done…
Sigurd forced Galen to commit treason and then trapped him here. He tried to steal the forest king’s consort. Nearly got the king himself killed. Almost started a war, one that might still happen. And those are just the things I know about, the recent events.
I close my eyes against the truths cutting my heart to ribbons. “I don’t know.”
My hands twist together behind my back, and I will time to pass, to fly, for this night to be done and gone. Already, it contains too many revelations I can’t process. It has bred too many questions I don’t have the right answers for or any answers at all.
The naming of the finalists begins, giving me the briefest distraction. We’re introduced one by one. The competitors before me wave to the crowd, pump their fists in the air, and blow kisses. Well, Galen doesn’t blow any kisses.
“Wren Dawson,” the announcer calls.
Where the others are confident and bold, I curtsy, fanning out my dress and bowing my head in humility. Or I hope it seems that way. Truly, I don’t want their praise and cheers. I want nothing but my freedom. With my eyes downcast, they can’t see the horror churning there.
