Page 44 of Between Smoke and Shadow

“Beautiful?” Nordan scoffs. “Since when is beating someone to deathbeautiful?”

“The princes aren’t going to kill each other. That would be a waste,” she says. She tilts her head to the side, and I catch a glimpse of her ruby-red smile.“Yes, this is beautiful. Pure and animalistic and beastly. As humans, we tend to bury our instincts, you know. We pretend to be civil, kind, good. But this? This revealsexactlywho we are.”

I shiver at that. If this is Viana’s tame side, I don’t want to see her truest self.

Before Nordan has the chance to respond, the lights dim. I sweep my eyes over the audience one last time. The Architect sits on the opposite side of the arena with Queen Elaria and Princess Tora to his left. The women look bored, as if they couldn’t care less to be here. The Architect, of course, is hidden behind his mask. Still, I get the inexplicable sense he’s grinning.

I force my attention back to the enclosed arena. An elite, dressed in a lacy gown, strides into its center. She smiles at the audience, rotating slowly to address all sides. When she begins speaking, she faces the Architect himself.

“Welcome!” she calls. Her voice amplifies through the crowd, loud enough it echoes against the highest ceilings. “Tonight, youare honored to witness the first royal challenge in over forty cycles. This duel, the first of three, pits brother against brother. Prince against prince. Descendant against descendant.”

A burst of applause sounds from the crowd. People stamp their feet, chant their chosen competitor’s name, and laugh the way only drunk people can. Despite the significance of this battle, what the results will mean, the spectators are relaxed in their seats. They’re grinning. This is the type of entertainment most never dreamt to witness.

“The battle lasts until one prince surrenders or until he is deemed incapable of continuing,” the elite says. The crowd hushes, but their anticipation is still palpable. It’s a buzzing in the room, a stinging presence that grows louder with each second.

The elite introduces the Architect, the queen, the princess. Chaos builds through the crowd again, until it’s almost impossible to hear the woman at all. She’s going over rules, though there don’t seem to be many beyondno leaving the arenaandno killing blows. The audience boos that rule.

A flicker of movement catches my eyes, and I see him a moment before Viana seems to. She straightens in her chair and pinches Petra, nodding toward the two darkened figures. The opposing brothers stand with a guard between them. Malek is loose, his posture slouched and his head thrown back as if laughing. Harrick is rigid, arms tight at his sides. He’s too far, too shadowed to make out his expression.

Without consciously deciding to, I touch my lips.

“Your betrothed looks nervous,” says Nordan, his voice more of a snarl. “Perhaps he doesn’t find this asbeautifulas you do, Viana.”

She doesn’t respond. Her attention is now locked on Harrick, as if they are the only two people here.

“Please welcome longstanding heir, Prince Harrick Ademas!” the elite calls. The crowd explodes with applause, feet stamping louder and louder until it’s deafening.

Harrick strides into the arena, looking nothing like the man who has saved me more than once. There’s a heavy set to his mouth, a wild darkness in his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his irises were ebony.

“He doesn’t look nervous,” Viana says, lifting her chin. “He looks feral.”

She’s right, and I’m unsettled to find it as beautiful as she said. Harrick is a caged animal at the back of an enclosure, preparing to strike. I should be terrified, unnerved, but there’s something magnetic about his ferocious energy. Magnetic and inexplicably comforting, if only because he seems asgoodas he does powerful.

“And now, welcome Prince Malek Ademas, the Architect’s newly selected heir!”

The audience again cheers, but this time, a deep-toned chant rumbles through the lower rings. Young royals call Malek’s name, voices growing with each iteration.

Malek! Malek! MALEK!

“Looks like the crowd has picked their favorite,” taunts Nordan, resting his elbows on his knees. Petra starts to agree, but Viana cuts her off.

“The crowd has no power,” she snaps. “Magic will choose the winner, and Harrick’s got more of it.”

Opposite Harrick’s calm disposition, Malek waltzes into the arena like a preening peacock. He waves his arms, egging the crowd louder and louder. The chanting royals are all too happy to oblige. Meanwhile, Harrick remains motionless at the edge of the mat.

I’m so focused on the twins, I don’t notice when the elite exits. I only realize the brothers are now alone, squared offon opposite sides of the arena. Malek bounces on his feet, movements quick, effortless. Whenever he turns, the lights reflect his gruesome scars and easy grin. As feral as Harrick looks, Malek is somehow scarier. Where Harrick has proven time and again to be good, Malek has only shown the opposite. His excitement is unsettling, as if he’s waited far too long to wound his brother.

“Come on, baby,” Viana says, her voice a low whisper.

Nordan doesn’t taunt her now. He—and everyone else —is abruptly quiet. The entire audience hitches forward, collective breaths held, bodies growing tighter with each passing second. The two princes regard each other. Identical twins in identical red bodysuits, made different only by their individual lives. Malek’s unkempt locks and gnarled scars. Harrick’s untouched skin and sharp posture.

Though the elite remains out of sight, her voice radiates through the arena.

“Prince Harrick, Prince Malek. Prepare for battle.” Her words float through the strained silence, followed by an automated buzzing. It sounds like the changing of the hour, only faster.

Beep. Beep. Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeepbeep.

With the final note, a crash of cymbals and a momentary blackness ignites the battle. A second of blindness. Then, a piercing white light in the arena, made brighter by the lingering darkness everywhere else.

---