Page 82 of Bound to the Fae King

Then I see it, a faint sheen of pink when the sunlight streams in overhead and hits it just so. There’s no need to taste this one. I know what it is. But the antidote… Now that’s another matter. A liquid, I think. Syrupy to the point of almost being a paste but bitter rather than sweet.

I race around to the antidotes, lifting the various vials and bowls. Sniffing, tasting.

Finally, I find it.

I scoop up the little dish, careful not to spill it in my haste, and set it next to the final glass.

And then I wait, back rigid, eyes wide, and pulse fluttering wildly in my chest.

A soft buzzing fills my ears. The healer raises one hand.

Shit.

I have something wrong. But which one?

I reach for the table as the horn blares. The woman opposite me steps forward and waves me away.

“You’re done.”

No. I clench my hand into a fist. “But I—”

She smiles. “The horn was for you.”

For me?

I blink once. Twice.

“They’re all correct,” I say, my voice almost a whisper.

She nods.

My breaths come short and fast. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I did it. I actually did it, and all on my own this time.

“To the stage with you.” She ushers me away.

The crowd is still roaring as I hop up the last few steps to the blare of a fourth horn. There’s only one finalist left.

I survey the competitors, and a heavy weight settles in my gut. Both Galen and Lysandir are still working on their cups. The prince has antidotes next to each cup, but something must be wrong. He lifts one, swirling it and sniffing at it. Galen has items by six and lifts the seventh cup to his nose.

Both are so close.

Only one can advance, if either.

So are many others. One man appears to be trying antidotes at random, picking one, setting it down by a cup, looking to the assigned healer, and then racing to swap it out again. He’s hoping he’s lucky. I’m hoping he’s not.

The blast of the horn has me covering my ears on instinct.

I gasp, searching my friends.

Galen’s healer has their hand raised. He smiles.

“Yes!” I bounced off my toes, my squeal caught up and carried away in the noise from the crowd.

He made it! We both actually made it to the finals.

But that spark of joy dims to almost nothing as I glance at Lysandir. He’s still staring at the cups, trying to work it out, but the set of his shoulders and his downcast look say enough. He knows he’s lost.

His chance for a wish, whatever it is, is gone.

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