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Stefan wouldn’t be able to hold against Davorin . . . except he was.
The man from the tenements of the West, who smoked countless herb rolls, wielded his sword as though he’d been born to do it. Davorin hissed and grunted with each strike. Back and forth they danced.
Stefan struck low. Davorin spun out. When the battle lord chopped in the center, Stefan knocked the strike off course.
“I know you.” Davorin spat through gritted teeth. “How do I know you?”
Stefan chuckled darkly. “I’ve lived again and again all to stop you. Crimson night, I will greet my king and tell him what a weakling you’ve become. We’ll have a good laugh over it.”
“You fight as I trained.” Davorin’s nostrils flared. “You’re a Rave. How?”
A Rave? How would a warrior from Riot’s court be here? Why would he think such a thing of Stefan? The man was built more for gambling halls than battle.
“I am so much more.” Stefan slammed his sword against Davorin’s, locking them together, so their noses were close. “You have gained strength all this time, but do not forget, so have they.”
I saw the movement and swallowed the sharp panic throttled my neck. “Stefan! Watch it!”
With his free hand, Davorin clutched a knife. My shout came too late. Cheap and quick, Davorin rammed the knife into the center of Stefan’s stomach.
“No!” Calista screamed. Saga had been pulling her away to keep to the plan, but they both froze. “No, no, Stef,no!”
Her brother glanced at her and smiled. “It has been . . . my honor.”
Davorin yanked the knife from Stefan’s belly and watched the man fall back. With the back of his sleeve, Davorin wiped his mouth, studying Stefan’s face.
I made a sloppy strike against the forest fae. The edge caught his ribs, a shallow blow, but enough he stumbled out of my way. Calista sobbed, desperately reaching for her brother, but Cuyler and Saga fought to pull her back.
I sprinted for Stefan but came to a halt five paces off. Like me, the battle lord gawked at his face, bewildered.
Stefan clutched his middle where the wound bled, only he didn’t look much like Stefan any longer. More turns on his face, wiry, dark patches of scruff lined his chin. Muscle bulked over his chest and arms, a warrior build.
I blinked. My lips parted. I knew his face.
Davorin cocked his head. “Annon?”
“Hello, scrap. How you’ve grown into a disgrace.” Stefan’s smile had faded into the face of the captain of Riot’s court. Blood dripped over his lips. He spit it at Davorin’s boots.
Calista had stopped fighting Saga. They froze, stunned.
“If you’re . . . is Riotalive?”
“Don’t speak his name.” Annon winced and clutched his middle.
Davorin’s face twisted in rage. He whipped side to side as if he expected the fate king to step out from the shadows. His attention landed on Saga, then Calista’s tear-stained face. Lip curled, Davorin pointed his blade at the storyteller, as though marking her.
“Run,” Stefan—Annon—rasped at the women.
Gorm blinked through his own stun. He shoved his son and told him to defend the queen. Davorin was already racing for them.
“Saga, finish this!” I shouted.
Saga didn’t give Calista the choice before she dragged the storyteller back toward the shore, Davorin close behind.
I paused for a moment at Annon’s side. He coughed, clutching his middle. “Leave me, Golden King. End him.”
I clenched my jaw and pointed my finger in his face. “Don’t you die.”
“Then hurry.” Annon winked, as though this was a game, and slumped back against a tree trunk.
