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They have dressed him in black fighting leathers, which makes his russet hair even more noticeable. His face has a grim look as he stares at the stadium, but I know the moment his gaze lands on me. His eyes widen slightly as though he is trying to send me a message.
When I don’t respond, he yanks on the bond so hard I almost double over in pain. I gasp, but my mother moves before he can even take a step forward. She flits a hand in the air, summoning a pillar of ice around her. She stands, arms outstretched, as the ice raises her ten, twenty, then fifty feet in the air.
Applause rings through the arena.
“Honoured guests of the Winter Court,” my mother says, using magic to amplify her voice. It echoes through the stadium, silencing the onlookers. “Welcome to the Right of Retribution. As you know, this time-honored tradition takes place when a high-ranking member of our court demands retribution. We are all gathered here to witness the fulfillment of this tradition.”
A deafening roar fills the arena as the spectators cheer. Ice runs through my veins.
I dare glance at Nathaniel and see him tapping his hand against his leg.
He doesn’t look scared. He looks... ready. Thoughtful. As though a million things are running through his mind.
Gods, I wish I could talk to him one more time.
They won’t let us speak. It is against the customs of the Right of Retribution for the two challengers to meet.
What would I say?
I’m sorry my mother is making me kill you?
I shake my head. Maybe it’s better this way. I am empty and have nothing to give him except a clean death.
The Winter Court Queen drones on for ten minutes about the rules of the fight. It’s simple. Magic is allowed, weapons are encouraged, and we go until one of us stops breathing.
It is archaic, violent, and the crowd loves it. They scream and roar their approval of the process, banging their feet on the stadium floor in encouragement.
They disgust me. All of them. They are no better than my mother in their desire to see bloodshed.
When the Queen is finally done, she bows to the crowd. I don’t move at all.
Under the thundering applause of the crowd, my mother uses Iter Dust to transport herself into the Royal Box that overhangs the arena. She sits on a throne made of ice, her back straight, with a scepter in her hand. When the sound has died down, she grins before waving a hand. Instantly, the pillar of ice she was standing on shatters into a million pieces.
A loud boom rings through the arena before thunderous music plays through hidden speakers. It sends chills down my spine.
Entertainment.
That’s what we are now. I school my expression as weapons of every nature materialize in a large ring around us. There are swords, daggers, bows, and arrows with deadly iron tips, tridents, maces, and even lances.
There are no shields available. It would defeat the purpose of this disgusting game.
Nathaniel shifts, his stance wide, as he takes in the arsenal before us. A look of pain and anguish washes over his features as he studies me. He tugs on the bond, and for the first time, I do the same. His eyes widen, and I see a tear run down his cheek.
Never have I ever hated the Northern Court more than I do at that very moment.
“Any time now, Elva,” my mother purrs. I hear irritation lacing her words.
Oh gods, Nathaniel. I am so sorry.
I am going to regret this for the rest of my days. Keeping my gaze on Nathaniel, I walk backward and pick up a long sword. It’s a beautiful weapon, and maybe another day, in another life, I might have appreciated its beauty.
Today, I hate this sword almost as much as I hate myself.
Swallowing hard, I take a step, then two, closer to Nathaniel. I see him step back and reach down, his gaze never leaving mine. He grabs a dagger, his eyes wide as he holds the hilt as I taught him. I see fear in his eyes as he looks at me.
He is scared of me. He should be.
Everything within me wants to tell him to put down the weapons, that the best way to show him my love is to give him a quick death. By doing so, I am saving him from far worse at my mother's hands.
