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It wasn’t a question that she could answer. Not with what was coming in this fight.
But for eighteen long years, she had believed her mother was dead. And now, she was staring up into her face. A vision if she had ever seen one. The reason she was here and the answer to all of her problems. Even though Keres was right in front of her, she was as distant as she had ever been. It wasn’t as if Kerrigan was stupid enough to declare herself the daughter of Keres Andromadix. Not with the portents that Cleora had issued at the mere mention that she could be a Doma. It had been a joke from the start, set up by Constantine, but now, with Keres in front of her, it was a reality.
Every racing thought in her head wanted her to do it. To step forward and finally meet her mom the way she’d always dreamed of when she was young. Ever since her father had confided that she still lived, Kerrigan had wondered and hoped for this to happen. But instead of it being a touching moment, she was across an arena from the woman, set to fight a gladiatorial match to the death.
Well, there was nothing she could do. Might as well put on the show she had planned.
Kerrigan’s hand moved to the catch at her collar for the sweeping blue cloak that represented her master’s allegiance to Andine. Then, she put on her classic smirk and ripped the fabric aside, tossing the cloak into the sand at her feet.
Gasps came from the assembled crowd. Vulsan leaned forward in his chair. Even from here, she could see the displeasure on his face at her solid white fighting attire. Pants, a fitted shirt, and vest. Even her new boots were the palest, softest white leather. She had no idea what they were made from, but they fit like a glove. There was no ornamentation at all on any of it. Not the gold of Doma. Not the blue of Andine. Just pure white that would show every drop of blood in the arena.
Her allegiance to no one, save herself. No Doma. No Andine. No other country. Just herself.
She swept both Vulsan and Keres a mocking curtsy, as she had done in each of her fights. The crowd roared with laughter at her audacity. Even the announcer was silent at her insolence.
Then the moment broke, and Fordham Ollivier, the touted Fae king of Alfheim, stepped onto the sand. In contrast to her all-white attire, he was in his signature black. The black of the House of Shadows. Like her, the gear was all new. A black leather spectacle made from interlocking dragon scales across the chest, like armor.
Her heart lurched. Dragons weren’t treated here the way they were back home. In Domara, people believed dragons were nothing but wild beasts. They couldn’t be tamed. They could only be controlled to the best of their abilities. Crux bonds were used to hold them to service and keep them far from the general populace. They were used on battlefields to defeat their foes and not for their intelligence. She couldn’t imagine what must have happened to a pitch-black dragon to take its scales for this fight.
The noise was earsplitting at Fordham’s entrance. Despite the favor she’d garnered, he was the clear favorite. She hardly blamed anyone for believing that he would beat her. They didn’t know how much of her training he’d engineered himself, but it had been clear from his matches that he didn’t need any tricks or tips to defeat his opponents.
This was really happening. She couldn’t run from this any longer. She had known the day that Fordham strode into the arena that, eventually, they would face each other. Others might have doubted it, but she never had.
Fordham’s eyes locked on hers as they met each other at the center of the coliseum. The sand was fire under her boots. The sun beat down on her fair skin. The noise was at a new decibel. She had to block it out to stay present. Because fighting Fordham had never been easy, and today would be no different.
“Hello, princeling,” she teased. Only hours earlier, she had been empty inside at the prospect of what was to come. The horrible outcome that could follow. The only way to cope was to make light of it. “Are you ready?”
“My queen.” He bowed low. Low enough to show more than respect. Deference.
Her cheeks heated at the gesture. “Charmer.”
“Or simply the truth.” His sword slid free from its sheath. “At the end of this, you will have my title, my lands, and my people. What’s mine is yours.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“Oh, but it does.”
“We’d have to be married for that to happen.”
