vibrations in the ground...one hit me stronger than the others. Someone approached me at top speed.
I yanked the dagger from my leg and hurled it in the combatant’s direction. A grunt sounded.
Wait. I’d heard the grunt. The ringing had already begun to subside, my eyesight clearing, the effects of the toxin wearing off as my avian blood worked to neutralize it. Ignoring a flare of pain, I climbed to my feet, my weapons in hand.
How long until King Philipp ended the match? Minutes? Hours?
Either way, I had work to do.
I gripped my weapons and leaped into motion.
8
When you’re high or when you’re low,
it’s always great to slay a foe.
Ashleigh
The way Saxon fought...
I’d never seen anyone more vicious or frightening, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away. He was magnificent, his muscles flexing with every action. No matter how many times he’d gotten hit, he’d always rebounded to slay his attacker, his skill unmatched. But...
He needed better weapons. The brass knuckle dagger was amazing, yes, but it needed ridged blades or tiny hooks that would do more damage more quickly, since some of his opponents healed in a snap. Not that I would tell him what adjustments his weapons required. As long as he dished those petty restitution tasks and retained unlawful possession of my dragon eggs, books and designs, he’d get no help from me.
I disdained him. I did. So why was I perched on the edge of my throne, utterly rapt, silently cheering him on? I alternated between stroking my mother’s ring for comfort and stuffing my face with the remaining lemon tarts—anything to soothe the churning in my stomach.
When one of the two competing giants toppled, spectators leaped to their feet, screaming instructions, insults, and praises. I hated to admit it, but I clapped my hands.
As a child, I’d watched tournaments like this from my bedroom window. I remembered the roar of the crowds and the atmosphere of excitement as men and women had harmed each other for the enjoyment of others. Back then, I’d cried over every wound. Here, now, I better understood the merriment. The battle hardly seemed real. It was like a game, every onlooker rooting for a champion, the other combatants merely obstacles in his way.
Father stood and moved to the edge of the dais for a closer look at the battleground. He gripped the railing and leaned forward, exuding excitement. Ophelia and Noel remained in their seats, muttering about being bored. Dior—had—not—stopped—talking—to—me. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. Words. Sentences. Rambles about her life. I’d stopped listening a hundred years ago.
Speaking at a louder volume—and talking over Dior—Ophelia said, “So. Ashleigh.” Her leading tone made me instantly uneasy. “Have you met Eve yet?”
“Eve?” Dior asked, bouncing in her seat. “Who is Eve?”
Sweet goodness. She was excited about the prospect of making a new friend, wasn’t she?
Before meeting Dior, I’d thought myself a good person. Kind, mostly. Generous...at times. Forgiving, eventually. Yet, she made me feel like a she-hag who’d cursed all the land to die forever. Was she even real? Had she sprouted from a rainbow or something? And why was I being so petty to her?
“I did meet Eve, yes,” I replied to Ophelia. I told my stepsister, “Eve is an avian commander who serves Prince Saxon.” The man I still watched. I winced as he took a blow to the temple and dropped.
Multiple onlookers gasped, proving they watched him, too.
“I wonder if she’ll like me,” Dior said, chewing on a fingernail. “Do you think she’ll like me?”
Finally a question I could answer beyond any doubt. “Of course she’ll like you.” Who wouldn’t?
The princess beamed at me. “You really think so?”
“What have I told you about neediness, Dior?” Noel asked.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, well, I meant to tell you that your prince hates it.”
Dior gasped, excited. “I’ll wed a prince? Like Prince Saxon?”
Oh...weeds. How many princes had entered the tournament? No, I didn’t need to know. I didn’t care.
“I’ve said all I can say.” Noel looked to me. With a tone as leading as Ophelia’s, she asked, “So. What did you think of Eve?”
Saxon had gotten back up, fought a few more soldiers, but dropped again. He hadn’t gotten back up. He was shaking his head, as if trying to clear the haze from his mind. My stomach churned faster.
“Ashleigh?” Noel prompted.
Oh, yeah. She’d asked a question. “Eve is wonderful. Smart. Independent. Strong.” Would Saxon recover in time to block an incoming blow?
“Wonderful?” In unison, Noel and Ophelia cackled. Why?
Yes! Saxon had rallied and fended