Page 141 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

Artain’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as he huffs incredulous little laughs, antsy feet pacing over the rubble. “A coin toss…? What? But…you were jesting. You weren’tserious!”

“Maybe, but I’m serious now.”

And oh, am I. Basten’s life is bleeding out of him into the grass, and I’ve never been more deadly serious in my life.

Artain falls silent at the tone in my voice, blinking hard at me as though it’s the first time he’s paused to look beneath the pretty gowns and seenme.

Whatever he sees makes him swallow a knot of fear. “Fine. Whatever. So Lord Basten and I will toss a coin to determine the winner—you’re only prolonging the same game. It’s pointless. Not to mention, I don’t know how the hell you’re going to get an unconscious man to toss anything.”

I rake my sweaty hair off my face. “That wasn’t our bargain. I didn’t say anything about you and Basten. I saidwewould flip a coin.”

His pouty lips purse as he sputters little breaths, waving his hands in the air. I can tell he’s about to ask what difference it makes, when the realization crashes over him.

His face pales. The fey lines running down his abs flicker in intensity like a sputtering flame about to go out. Hoarse, he says, “You devious little thing.”

I pat my trousers and shirt pockets, pretending to feel for a coin. “Your bow can’t help you now. It doesn’t matter if you’re the best huntsman in the kingdom. There’s no skill to a coin toss. It’s up to chance now. Fate.” When my pockets turn up empty, I drop down to dig in Basten’s pocket. “Here—I’ll even let you toss it.”

I pull out Rian’s Golath dime and throw it to Artain as though it’s any other coin.

Like I haven’t played this exact game before.

He steps forward to catch the coin with a mixture of indignation and anger. A dangerous combination in a fae. Especially one as prideful as Artain, who, until a few minutes ago, thought I’d be on my knees for him tonight.

Gods, it feels good to prove him wrong.

“This is ridiculous!” Artain raises his closed fist around the coin. “We haven’t even set terms?—”

“Yes. We have. Same terms. You win, I spend my nights with you. I win, and I have my freedom. I can walk out of here whenever I want—and you don’ttouchBasten.”

I can see the indecision turning cartwheels in Artain’s eyes. This is outside of his wheelhouse. Immortal Popelin is the God of Chance, the patron god of gamblers, sinners, and competitors. If Popelin were to weigh Rian’s Golathdime in his hand, he’d instantly realize that it’s a weighted coin.

But wherever Popelin slumbers underground, he can’t help his fae brother now. And for the first time since I set foot in this kingdom, I see fear in Artain’s eyes.

“No,” he sputters, casting his hair back in his signature hair-toss, though it feels even sillier now. “No. You twisted my words.” His attention latches onto Iyre. “Iyre! Iyre, you heard the terms. Use that perfect fucking memory of yours to remind thishumanof what was said.”

Iyre’s lips pull in frustration as she hunts for something to say. It’s clear in the flare of her nostrils that she can’t contradict me. Finally, she spits, “Just toss the damn coin. You’re a fuckinggod. You’ll win.”

Artain whirls on Woudix next. “Do something. Bring death to her lover unless she takes the loss—he’s practically dead anyway!”

Woudix strokes Hawk’s head at his side, his face emotionless. “It was your game, not mine.Youplay.”

Artain garbles a curse before turning to Samaur. “Clap your damn hands and bring back dawn!”

Samaur rolls his eyes. “I can’t gobackwardin time.”

“Fuck!” Artain punches the air, pacing, until a light shines in his eyes. “Captain Tatarin! She can take us back to this morning! Can’t she? I don’t know how the hell her godkiss works…someone get Captain Tatarin here right fucking now to?—”

“No.”

A deep, unmistakable rasp travels over the rubble from the direction of the busted gate.

The sound raises the hair on my neck like I’ve walked through a graveyard.

Judging by Artain’s even paler face, he feels the same.

My father, in full fae regalia from his Battle Helm Crown to the fey lines radiating from his cheekbones, steps over a splintered piece of wood with terrifying calmness as he looks over the wreckage of the southern gate.

“Vale.” Artain recovers fast, giving another hair toss. “B—Brother. I’m glad you’re here. You can settle this disagreement.”

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