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Elma set down her wine, gripping the arms of her chair as she leaned forward to watch.
“Five silvers says he’s dead in under a minute,” said Godwin, pulling thoughtfully at his beard.
Rune twirled his blades, an effortless boast. The crowd’s jeers rose up in a wild roar — the city of Frost knew well what he’d tried to do to their queen. Just as the advisors had claimed, Elma’s subjects hungered for justice.
“I think he’ll win this,” Elma said, knuckles white and teeth clenched. “Easily.”
Godwin raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
The fight was over as suddenly as it began. Rune circled the bigger man, grinning, and obviously taunting him, though Elma couldn’t hear over the roars of the crowd. And when the bearded warrior lunged, flail swinging, he was as good as dead.
Rune darted beneath the weapon, moving like quicksilver, his sword slicing across the other man’s stomach. His dagger found its home in the man’s kidney, a clean kill. There was a moment of shocked silence as the warrior fell, and when his body hit the packed snow, a deafening thunder of protest rose up from the crowd.
“Luck,” Godwin muttered. “Double it for the next fight.”
“Done,” said Elma.
Three more opponents fell to the assassin’s blade. He seemed almost lazy, casually dispensing the arena’s most brutal criminals as if it were a waste of his time.
“You owe me an immense amount of gold,” Elma said, shooting a playful look at her uncle, whose frown deepened with every one of Rune’s wins.
“They’ll be bringing out the Fang in a moment,” Godwin mused.
Elma raised a brow. The Fang was the reigning champion of the arena and rarely came out to fight anymore except for ceremonies. “Five gold pieces says they don’t,” Elma said.
But she didn’t hear Godwin’s reply; she was already focused on the next battle, Rune against the Twins, a pair of swift fighters who excelled at disorienting their opponents. Yet, even they fell before the Slödavan assassin as if their deaths were inevitable.
A strange fire ignited in Elma’s chest, at the beautiful,efficient slaughter. The way Rune’s body moved; it was… unreal. He wasn’t strikingly tall, nor was he heavily muscled like most of the arena’s successful warriors. But he was fit, athletic, and flowed like water. What else could such a body accomplish if given the right opportunity?
And then Elma’s attention snapped away as a goblet of wine toppled into her lap, soaking her furs and gown in spiced burgundy.
“Shit,” Cora gasped, scrabbling for the dropped goblet. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I lost my balance. The ice on the steps—”
“It’s all right,” Elma said, silently glad for the distraction. She stood, shaking her clothes. Hot droplets sprayed everywhere.
“Let me help you,” Cora said, obviously flustered. Elma had never punished her maid for anything, let alone a simple spill. But Elma was queen now, and Queens of Rothen were known to be ruthless.
Elma swallowed and held out a hand, preventing Cora from assisting her. “I have spare gowns in one of the dressing rooms. I’ll go and change.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Godwin, half rising from his chair. “You shouldn’t go anywhere alone.”
“I’ll befine,” Elma replied, turning to hold her uncle’s gaze. “The assassin is in the arena, in full view. As you said, there’s no danger here.”
Godwin hesitated.
“It will take no more than a few minutes. And…” Elma hesitated, vulnerability never having been part of her relationship with Godwin. “I need a moment alone.” She hoped he would assume she meant a moment away from the horrors of the arena, the sight of her almost-killer.
“If you’re not back in ten minutes,” said her uncle, “I’m coming to fetch you.”
When Cora offered to attend to Elma, she shook her head in refusal. She could dress herself; she was a grown woman. Queen or not, she wasn’t helpless.
Nobody stopped or questioned Elma as she made her way up a short set of icy stairs to a narrow corridor manned by silent guards. Someone had laid carpet for the benefit of women’s dainty slippers. The crowd’s bellowing was muffled in here, softer, almost like the sound of a distant seashore.
Passing an open doorway, Elma caught sight of colorful fabric, of bearded faces. She stepped quickly backward, hoping the men inside hadn’t seen her. It was Lord Ferdinand and Lord Bertram, obviously taking advantage of the warmth and the casks of wine that Elma knew lay within. She knew the arena as well as the citadel and had mapped every room and corridor.
The last thing she wanted was reprisal from the advisors, or worse, discussion of politics. She’d had more than enough of that. All she wanted was solitude.
Elma gathered her skirts in her hands, preparing to dart past the doorway as quickly and quietly as she could, until a few choice words caught her ear, freezing her in place.
