Page 30 of Shadows of the Crown

Dying I can accept; buteating me alive? My blade no longer seems like a bad idea.

The griffin chirps, rubbing the smooth of her beak against my swollen cheek. The rumbling soft noises vibrate my head, but those are not what catch my attention. The majestic creature steps back and looks piercingly into my eyes before nodding once. Her wings lengthen and she pushes to the air from her feet, shifting the ground beneath me. I tilt my head back, watching her reversed form fly over the nest into the darkness.

I watch until the stark white of her feathers disappears.

“Fuck me…I’m alive,” I mumble to myself, no longer caring for whoever watches me.

My teeth grit as I stand, pausing until the dizziness passes. I look to the sky, noting the positional change of the moon. It will be dawn soon. I force the pain down and jog back through the mountain, wondering which circumstance will claim me first: my wounds or the beheading from losing this trial.

Chapter Fifteen

Caspian

Hard armrests press against my palms, their intricate carvings only slightly painful under my tight grip—a small discomfort amidst everything else. The vast throne room stretches for hundreds of feet before me, red tapestries and gold lighting setting the warm tone, broken up by some in the audience who chose to wear something other than the royal colors. Flashes of blue and purple are the most prominent, contrasting oddly to the unending crimson.

The tapestries along the walls flutter, their crinkling noise barely perceptible above the low murmur of the people. The audience is split into two groups—as usual—as they crowd along a blood red rug that paves the walk from the doors to the thrones.

I stretch my neck and chew on my lip, the hushed whispers and occasional clank of hands clapping or guard uniforms shifting grates on every bit of my nerves. Twelve of the competitors stand to the side of my family, all having successfully completed their trials—though I do not care about them. Two of them are still missing, one of whose absence is spinning the fuck out of my stomach.

Where is she?

I'd chosen each location and artifact for this trial, hers having been some noble in the upper district. She should have been one of the first competitors back…I swallow around rising bile.

Murmurs hush as the room's doors slide open, my mind instantly focusing on whoever is entering only to be let down for the thirteenth time. Jeth, that bastard. Grabbing her as if they're familiar—as if he's owed the privilege of even being near her. My veins heat again, and I close my eyes to remember that Ariella can handle herself…and she did. But that doesn't lessen my need to make sure he never thinks about her again.

I smirk at the blood still coloring his hands and shirt. He appears to have changed his pants after she sunk a blade into his cock and—

I bite back a groan. The glimmer in her eyes when she pinned me with a heated look, demanding me to watch—as if I'd ever look away—has forced me into quite an uncomfortable position these last hours. Attempting to hide the bulge in my pants from my father and the rest of the audience, without making it obvious…it has been a struggle.

“It doesn't appear the wraith will be joining us for the remainder of the competition,” the king breathes, his eyes flitting from the large windows to the doors. It's nearly dawn, plans to alter the rules skimming through my mind as I try to think ofanythingmy father will listen to…

The doors burst open, though it is not the guards or another assassin on the other side this time.

Ariella.

My heart skips. She is the embodiment of rage as she stalks toward the throne, her eyes leveled on my father. Blood is the new decor choice in the castle, so it is not until horrified gasps come from every direction that I see it. Them. The gashes running from her left collarbone to her right ribs. Pieces of her fitted suit swing with her confident movements, revealing much more than just the outlines of her breasts.

“Sit down, Caspian,” my father spits, loud enough for only me to hear.

I don’t listen. I can do nothing but stare at the blood that oozes from her wounds. It’s smeared over her face and down her jaw; and as she walks closer, I can spot the difference in the deep crimson and the black trousers she wears.

So much blood. How in the fucking Aether is she alive?

I lower myself on a step when she sees me. Those striking green eyes narrow, and I’m almost certain she’s cursing me and all of my ancestors.

The thought betrays my indifference, and I smile. Just for a moment before her dire wounds snag my attention again. She rolls her eyes, but I see the exhaustion. She’s barely holding herself together, yet insists on facing the king with the level of confidence I would expect from her when she’s healthy. Not dying.

She stops before the throne, father’s guards blocking her path. I nearly trip down the steps to shove the guard away; he does not need to be so close to her. She raises a brow and watches me scrutinize the injuries. The cuts are deep and large…this was not the work of some random person.

“Who did this?” My voice is quiet, but severe.

I shouldn’t care that she’s hurt. That is the nature of these trials: kill or be killed. Win or die. The wounds our healers care for each day speak to the brutal nature of these contestants. Something like this should not be a shock, nor should it squeeze my chest so tightly.

But it does.

The moment I ensure she is safe and offers me a name, Gavriel and I will leave for the city.

“Why don’t you ask your father?” she remarks loudly enough for part of the audience to hear. My brows furrow as I turn to the king and give him a questioning look. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but he also does not appear surprised at Ariella’s pronouncement.

---