A drop of blood, anchoring quiet power.
Fuck.
Nevander casts around, seeking with magic as much as sight. He senses nine scattered drops of blood. Then a tenth, as Morana turns in midair.
Duelists can’t bring charms into the circle. Morana must have cut herself intentionally during her first strike, and she’s using her own blood to anchor a ritual. Some sort of trap. Her darting attacks aren’t to wear Nevander out—she’s maneuvering to place the blood drops.
Nevander underestimated her.
Ten drops. If the ritual wasn’t completed with seven drops, it probably needs twelve. Maybe thirteen, but Nevander can’t count on that. He needs to finish this fast, before he finds out what the ritual will do.
Nevander tucks his wings and dives. Air rushes past. Morana meets his blade with a jarring impact. Sparks blur her face. She parries with more power than she’s shown so far.
Her offhand dagger finds purchase in Nevander’s thigh. Pain lances the muscle. Instead of retreating, Nevander wrenches sideways. He scrapes against the boundary, shedding feathers in the bruising blow. The feathers swirl away on the wind of his collision.
It works. Morana swears, losing hold. She climbs skyward as the dagger plummets. By the time Nevander rights himself, she has twenty feet on him. Her face is unreadable, her violet wings shrouding the sky.
An eleventh droplet hovers beside her. It flashes. The air pulses with anticipation.
One more.
Nevander surges upwards. His wings burn with exertion. With magic. He has the disadvantage from this angle, but he has no choice. His blade swings with reckless force, weaker this time, as his magic concentrates somewhere else.
Morana dodges sideways with ease. Then she chokes, confused, as a magic-flown feather slices her throat.
Nevander’s second feather carves its own path beneath her jaw as insurance. The telltale drops of blood rain down, unfulfilled.
Two can play at feinting. Nevander hit the wall on purpose to break off feathers.
Dropping her sword, Morana clutches her throat in a futile, mortal gesture. Blood sprays between her fingers as her wings falter. Her magic bleeds out with her lifeforce, and her wings fail completely. Feather and bone dissolve into golden mist.
She crunches to the stone beside her fallen blades.
Nevander pants, watching, waiting, until with Morana’s last heartbeat, the boundary vanishes. Voices rush in, manic delight and dismay no longer muffled. The fae of Elladar will be talking about this duel for years to come. The great Lady Morana’s final show.
But Nevander only has eyes for one witness. His prince sits rigid on the dais, pale and angry.
32
Softer and Crueler
BrittlesilencecarriesSerenthrough marble halls and moonlit gardens. If there are any more ritual declarations, he doesn’t hear them. He refuses to look at Nevander, even as he clutches Nevander’s wrist with bruising force. Between glove and gauntlet, the point of contact pulses like a heart.
Seren needs to breathe. To think. He needs a compass to navigate his own storming emotions. He can shut out a crowd of strangers, but not himself.
His tension only heightens as they reach the royal quarters. It’s unfair. The carved goldwood doors had started to promise sanctuary, and now everything feels so fragile.
“Thank you,” Seren says to the guards flanking the doors. The first words he’s spoken since the duel ended. The guards bow, and Nevander jolts in Seren’s grasp.
Gaze locked forward, Seren pulls Nevander through the gossamer wards, into the parlor. The doors whisper shut, and Seren halts, lost. His hand loosens, then falls away.
“Harmony?” Seren calls out. He could really use a squirrel to hug right now.
But Harmony takes one sniff at him, then flees for the balcony. Fair enough. Seren is unpleasant company tonight.
“Sit down,” Nevander says, pressing the doors, as if they could shut even tighter. “Would you like tea, or something stronger?”
“No.” Seren jerks back, startled his own sharpness. “No, you shouldn’t be comforting me, when you were the one…”