Page 8 of Shadows of the Crown

I suppress a shudder and continue forward, not peering back to be sure Isaiah is following—he will. It will be nice to have a friend in my last days, though publicly showing a partiality toward him will only put a target on his back. We must maintainthe appearance of indifference when around others; as if we are only acquaintances because we come from the same guild.

My eyes struggle to adjust when the sun peeks from the dark clouds, illuminating the arena we’re being led to by a few guards, all of whom are draped in nauseating red and gold. The large arena behind the castle is known for hosting bi-annual tournaments, where soldiers from our military stronghold—Frostwell—compete to be assigned as castle guard. I curl my lip. That particular city has always confused me; why would our military only be stationed behind the capitol? Not that we’re enemies to the realm’s other cities, but the placement lacks logic.

Well, it is the Blackwood family who made such decisions…

The thick, humid air dampens my skin, seducing my hair to stick across my neck like an obsessed lover. We walk a wide path around the annoyingly large castle, which is rather empty. To my right is a small hill that leads down to training grounds, where several weapons lie sprawled around the mats.

Two men circle each other at the center of a mat, my eyes close enough to watch sweat drip down the muscles of the one not wearing a shirt. The sun illuminates every curve to his body, forming shadows along the many lines. He lunges for his counterpart—a guard, I presume, as the standard issued jacket they are all given is thrown off to the side. The two tussle, their laughter reverberating through the grounds as neither can seem to get theupper hand. Pathetic.

The shirtless one twists his hand before one of the swords rushes to rest in his palm. Kinetic strand…interesting.

Our path begins to lead us from view, the hill growing higher the further I walk. At the last moment, the elemental weaver turns, wild eyes meeting mine briefly just as the land covers him entirely.

A finger taps against my thigh. The giddy anticipation I feel to look the king in his eyes is a confession the worst of tortures couldn’t pry from my mouth. I want him to see me. Recognize me.

Fear me and what he knows is coming for him.

Whether he is aware of who I am other than the wraith, I’ve yet to discover. Though I’ve half a mind to show him exactly who he invited to his castle the moment I step into the arena.

I won’t, though. No…I did not imagine the moment of his death for twenty years just to fuck it up on impulse. I will wait and watch. Plan.

I suck in a breath when Isaiah shoves my shoulder. “You good?” My head snaps to his, causing his eyes to roll.

“Why wouldn’t I be? This competition is a mere game for the king’s amusement—child’s play, if I’m to be specific.” He chuckles, shaking his head.

Raine snorts from my other side, waving a hand toward the arena. “Yeah, for you. The rest of us weren’t born knowing how to perfectly wield a blade,” he mutters, sucking his teeth.

“Yes, well, we all have our talents, Raine. You, for example, would likely do well in the theater—I’ve yet to meet someone else that is just as dramatic.” My head tilts, and I hum. “Actually, take Isolde with you. That woman must be good forsomething, and it certainly is not at the guild.”

He grimaces, shaking his head. “No thanks,” he drags out his words, and I almost smile.

Cheers reverberate through the space just beyond the tall stone structure of the arena. Sentries stand at each entrance door, though the ones guiding our group veer to the right where a tunnel appears. I slow, nodding for Isaiah to walk ahead of me as the tunnel is only wide enough for one person at a time. My hands itch to drag him from the enclosed space, but standing at his back will have to do. Too many people have already seen us here; I cannot walk away now.

Despite the suddenly bright day, light does not reach very far into the tunnel, completely surrounding us in darkness for a minute. I unsheathe my blade, pushing off my hood and angling my head to listen behind me, my relief unfound even after we emerge from the opposite side unscathed. I twirl my blade, scanning the arena twice before focusing on the assessing group we approach. There are a dozen assassins here already, all huddled in their respective guilds, I assume.

From the wide eyes of my competitors to the mutterings of the audience, I tense and settle into the calm awareness that aids mymind in such crowded places. Especially when so much attention is on me.

Our trio halts next to the others, turning to face the gilded throne that awaits my subject himself. I focus on the details of the thrones instead of the whispers—four in total, all gold with red cushioning, though it’s easy to discern which is for the king. I doubt he could have made it more obvious if he tried. At least twice the size of the others, intricate carvings through the back that are filled with a glimmering ruby in each.

“My, my…” a lazy voice drawls from my left. This should be interesting. “Never in my wildest fantasies did I imagine meeting the Silver Wraith at such a…lowly competition. The tales of your merciless ways reach even the far corners of Frostwell, though I must admit how disappointed I am that they do not speak of your beauty.” The pale man appears in front of me, arrogance exuding from his every movement. His broad shoulders are covered with worn leather, likely cracked from the cold of the mountains just as much as from his frequent training. Red, curly hair rests sluggishly over his thick head as his nearly black, amused eyes drink in my body.

When his gaze finally meets mine, clearly expecting a reaction, I raise a brow and wait. A dark smile tugs at his lips, his eyes flitting to someone in the group before returning to me.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” No answer—his brows furrow. “That’s fine…I never enjoy the screamers, anyway.” The darkness that passes through his features confirms that he certainly prefers to bed women who are crying and struggling, rather than willing.

He steps closer, the heat of his body warring with the sticky air around us. He looms several inches over me, curving his shoulders as if to intimidate me—I nearly roll my eyes. “I’m Jeth, by the way—and now that we’re familiar, what do you say you give me a tour of your room when we’re done here?” A couple of the other assassins snicker behind me.

I lean toward Jeth, looking up at him with wanting eyes. He smirks. “I say that the next time you dare to get this close to me, my blade will gladly find a new home.” His forehead creases just before I drive my knee into his cock and lean back to kick his chest hard enough that he flies backward, spraying sand when his body smacks into the ground. He groans, cupping his groin as two other men rush to his side.

“I’m fucking fine. I don’t need your help.” He shoves them away as he stands, pinning me with a hateful glare. “You’ll regret that, wraith.” I drag my eyes to the audience, where the king occupies the once empty space in front of his throne. His beady eyes stare through me for a moment until he seems to remember where he is, focusing a thoroughly practiced smile at the thousands of people watching.

“Citizens of Eldoria, welcome to trials that mark the first of their kind! Where members of our kingdom’s guilds will compete for a single victory, upon which they will be rewardedhandsomely.” Cheers ring through the arena, movement from my peripheral turning my head to the right, where the final three competitors stand—I must have missed their arrival when Jeth insisted on signing his death papers. The king raises a hand, effectively quieting the noise. “There will be three trials, the likes of which will remain hidden until they begin. Each competitor will be given a room in the guest wing of the castle, where they are required to live while they remain in the competition. However,” he mutters icily, training his eyes over all eighteen of us before speaking again. “You are permitted to leave the grounds when you are not attending a trial or training—you are not prisoners!” He chuckles, moving on to announce other rules I do not particularly care to listen to.

No, I’m interested in him.

He makes loud gestures with his arms, as if he must act out each word he spews. Not one strand of his light hair flows with the breeze, remaining perfectly styled on his imperious head.

“Ariella Mistaire,” he spits my name thickly, attempting to disguise his disgust, though the curl of his lip gives away his true feelings. I intertwine my hands behind my back and smile at him challengingly. He averts his gaze. “Isaiah Cheral, and Raine Nicolae join us from Valoria’s very own guild!” Applause. My jaw clenches as he introduces the rest of the competitors. Jeth and his two companions—Bessan and Jaspar—each wave to the audience when the king utters their names with a sense of pride. “—ObrenSparre, and Ally Dimir traveled from our wonderful Meridian to be with us today!” The group to my right stirs, the raven black haired woman casting her eyes downward when attention shifts to her.

---