Page 77 of The Realm That Falls to Her

“I cannot deny you your right, Climent and Hartflood. You may fight Prince Ruskin together, with Lord Turis and Lady Clearglen.”

Ruskin slips between our chairs, heading out towards the center of the cavern. I catch his hand as he brushes past me, squeezing it tight. The brief physical contact isn’t enough to quell my rising panic. I’d only been a little worried about the fights themselves before, but now the odds are very much stacked against Ruskin.

Despite this, there’s not the slightest tremor in his voice as he looks up at the four High Fae he’s challenged, and then to his uncle, addressing them all.

“Then let the challenge begin.”

The four accused are given a short time to prepare, sending servants to collect weapons and protective gear. Most of them opt for the same clothes I saw them wear in the bastet arena—tough but lightweight enough to move fast. Meanwhile, other Unseelie members place wards in a circle around the center of the throne room—to avoid rogue spells or weapons flying into the audience, Jasand explains.

As I watch the four Unseelie step into the circle of magic, I’m hit with the urge to shout at Ruskin to get out of there. Turis and Clearglen have both opted for swords, Climent wears a small dagger at his waist, but I suspect he plans to rely on his magic to do any real damage, and Hartflood…I watch the fae’s body shift and grow, becoming the huge stag that nearly killed several of my teammates in the bastet game. His black eyes glitter menacingly and he paws the ground, his antlers finishing in sharp, metal-tipped points.

I have to fight myself not to channel every ounce of magic I have to Ruskin right now. But I can’t. That would be cheating, and even if it’s unlikely anyone would be able to tell, the challenge is too important to risk. Ruskin managed to respect that in the bastet game, and I have to do the same now, even though it makes my stomach churn and my heart stutter.

The three opponents still on two legs ready themselves, adopting fighting stances, ready to swing or cast. Ruskin looks more casual, one hand dangling, empty, at his side, and the other holding his sword only half aloft. I wonder what he’s planning, knowing that this must be for show to put the others at ease. It’s obvious they think they have the edge over him. That overconfidence, as I remember Halima once explaining to me, will make them prone to mistakes. They stand there, Ruskin and the Unseelie, watching each other for a few agonizing seconds, then Lisinder claps his hands to signal the start of the challenge, and the crowd roars.

The first charge happens so fast my eyes almost miss it. Turis and Clearglen sprint at Ruskin with their swords raised, but Clearglen barely gets a few steps before a thin, knotty branch bursts through the ground, shoving aside paving stones, to shoot up and twist around her sword arm. She tugs furiously at it, as Ruskin ducks and blocks a spell thrown by Climent with his sword. The movement allows him to simultaneously dodge the swipe from Turis’s blade. Before the silver-haired fae can halt the momentum of his swing, Ruskin kicks out his foot and slams Turis so hard in the stomach the fae flies back several feet.

Turis is now down and Clearglen is still struggling with the tree that has her in its gnarled grasp, but Climent begins to cast again and Hartflood, who until now has been hanging back, unable to attack without injuring his peers, paws the ground again. The sound of hard hoof against stone rings round the chamber, making Ruskin jerk round. The stag lowers his antlers and, in the moment Ruskin is distracted, Climent releases his spell.

I try to shout in warning, but the sound is drowned out by the noise of the crowd, and I watch, powerless, as the magic hits Ruskin’s sword in a flash of heat and light, sending the blade spinning across the floor, out of reach.

If we were in Seelie, I’d expect Ruskin to call on more of his High King magic, but I know it takes longer to manifest here in the Unseelie Kingdom. While he had it ready to go in the first attack, he might not have time to call on it now. Even his claws won’t be much use against the hulking beast squaring up across the circle from him.

Hartflood snorts and charges.

It’s like time slows down. The fight was a flurry of activity, but now I feel like I can see every detail—each ridged bone of Hartflood’s antlers, every crease in the fabric of Ruskin’s shirt.

Except something’s happening to Ruskin. I watch as his skin darkens, his shoulders expanding and limbs lengthening. My mind can’t make sense of it at first, but he’s changing before my eyes, jet black fur bursting from where his clothes were a moment before, his body becoming long and leonine.

Paws as big as my head hit the ground, their great claws scratching across the stone. Hartflood shakes his head, lowing in alarm, and the stag aborts his charge to change direction and canter to the other side of the circle.

But Ruskin is after him now.

He’s nearly as big as Wistal’s bull, a panther-like animal with long, curving fangs and larger versions of his Unseelie horns. Ruskin’s eyes—still the same slitted pupils and yellow-green hue—cast about the chamber, taking us all in.

Then he roars.

Chapter 23

The sound seems to shake the very stone of the throne room, and I feel the vibrations in my chest. Destan grabs my arm.

“Did you know he could do that?” he shouts to me over the excited hollering of the court. I shake my head and look to Lisinder—he’s almost on the edge of his throne, and though his face is stern, I think there’s a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

Ruskin leaps forward after Hartflood, the stag scrambling just out of Ruskin’s reach, its eyes wide with panic. My mind is still reeling, but the fight is already well underway again. Turis has recovered from the kick Ruskin delivered and is now using his sword to slash Clearglen free of her bindings.

Hartflood, meanwhile, seems to be panicking as he realizes he’s limited by the perimeter of the circle, unable to put enough distance between himself and Ruskin’s huge panther form to charge again. He twists back on himself to try to catch Ruskin with his antlers, but Ruskin jumps back, angling his paws to drag his claws across Hartflood’s face as he does so. The stag bucks and yaps in pain, which soon mingles with Ruskin’s own agonized roar. My stomach drops, and I see that while neither Turis nor Clearglen want to get close enough to use their swords against Ruskin, Climent has struck again with his magic, catching Ruskin in the flank.

To my relief, I can’t see any blood—just a singed ring in Ruskin’s fur. I have to assume this version of Ruskin must have a thick hide. Either way, Climent soon regrets his attack as the panther turns on him. His casting isn’t faster than Ruskin’s jaws, and Ruskin uses them to seize Climent and toss him across the circle. There the Unseelie lord hits one of the wards with a crackle of magic and a heavy thud.

Hartflood makes another half-hearted charge, but I can tell that Ruskin’s opponents are thrown by his transformation. They’re disoriented, and the stag’s attack quickly falls under the ferocity of Ruskin’s claws, as he gouges at the deer’s flank, drawing a splatter of scarlet.

Screeching horribly, Hartflood staggers out of reach, collapsing on the other side of the circle, where Ruskin seems content not to pursue him. After all, death is not the object here. He turns, lips drawn back in a snarl, and stalks towards the two fae still standing.

Clearglen is as pale as newly fallen snow. The sight of Ruskin’s hulking black form advancing on her is clearly too much to bear, and she throws her sword down with a clatter, surrendering. Turis glares at her, his hand still wrapped tightly around the handle of his blade. I’m sure he’s too stubborn to back down so easily, and my theory is confirmed when he steps forward and raises his sword, adopting a defensive stance. Defiance burns fiercely on his face.

“Give it up, Turis,” Clearglen calls across the circle to him.

“And let this mongrel taint our court with his Seelie filth?” Turis snarls. “I’d rather die.” I believe it. The conviction in his voice unsettles me in a way I don’t fully understand.

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