Page 118 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

My father and the generals spare no time, only consulting for a few minutes with Tati before striding out of the hall.

“Oh, where’s the damn fiddler?” Iyre asks, frowning out at the crowd. “Can’t we get some music? More wine? And you—you, guards. Drag that dead beast out of here before it stinks up the whole castle.”

I narrow my eyes at her, but before I can say anything, I feel a hand on the small of my back.

“Come, Highness.” Artain deftly guides me through the crowd to where Basten stands. Then, he leans in between Basten and me, a wicked curl to his lips. “Looks like we have our chance to play, mortals. Vale will be in meetings all night and tomorrow with his generals. Tomorrow, meet at dawn, before the Seventh Hour bell. At the southern gate—it leads to the Vallen Forest. I’ll give the rest of the game guidelines then.”

I glance at Basten, my heart thundering, but his eyes are fixed on Artain while hisjaw clamps tightly.

“We’ll be there,” Basten says hollowly, the words falling like stones.

Artain’s smile never fades. “Excellent. I do so look forward to a good hunt. In any case, there’s no turning back now. The deal has been struck. It must be seen through. In a way, I suppose you could say that the game has already begun.”

A chill creeps up my spine. I can feel the threat laced in his words, the edge of danger.

Basten and I share one more look—and in the reflection of my sunken eyes in his, I know that neither of us will sleep a moment tonight, too.

Chapter 31

Basten

Dawn breaks with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Blazing rays cut across the horizon to torch my eyes. I swear that Samaur, that smug God of Day, cranked up the sun just to irritate me.

I tighten the straps on my leather breastplate one final time before descending the central staircase two steps at a time, headed for the southern gate that lies between the Aurora and Hailstrom Tower wings.

My breath grates. I flex my hands, anxious. Gods know I’ve spent hours agonizing over this bargain’s terms, trying to sniff out any fae trickery. Decades with Rian have sharpened my sense for deceit like a bloodhound’s nose, but I’m not dealing with second-rate cheats here.

For my own sanity, I run through the terms again.

From dawn to dusk, the game is in play.

Competitors may bruise but not break, bleed but not perish.

To the winner goes the prize.

See, when I lay it out like that, it all sounds safe. I can’tfathom how Sabine could be harmed when the rules explicitly forbid it.

So then, why do my bowels feel like they’re about to blow?

When I shoulder open one of the southern gate’s heavy double doors, blood-orange sunlight burns against my face.

Before me stretches the seemingly endless expanse of Vollen Forest. Twisted pines reaching for the clouds. A bleak ridge in the distance high above the Ramvik River. A whispering wind.

I stride toward a small treehouse pavilion constructed six feet high in the crook of a sprawling oak’s branches, where the gods are already lounging in their human glamours.

“Lord Basten. Good of you to join us. I was afraid you wouldn’t show, and it’s no fun to win on a forfeit,” Artain drawls from where he’s draped over the pavilion’s steps, basking in a band of golden sunlight with a Wicked Weed pipe in hand.

Iyre sits one step below him, drumming her nails on a green glass bottle half filled with a dark liquid.

Woudix and Samaur are in the pavilion, with Hawk, speaking quietly as they study the forest horizon.

Artain saunters down the stairs, sidestepping Iyre, to size me up with that damn smug smile. “Youarestill playing, yes?”

Do I have a choice?

“I wouldn’t dream of ruining your diversion,” I utter. “You’re certain that Vale isn’t aware of our bargain?”

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