I opened my mouth and closed it as hundreds of raging needles stabbed at my ribs. A healer’s palm shot out to cover it anyway.
“You shouldn’t talk,” the woman apologized. “It’s only been a couple of hours since your match. Now that the prince knows you are awake—the both of you need to rest. Especially you, my lady. Your injuries were… grave.” She glanced away quickly. “The Victors’ Ceremony takes place tomorrow and—”
He won. The words snapped out like a whip.
“I-I’m so sorry.” His voice was hoarse. “I never—I lost control, I—”
The dagger. My chest. The flames eating me alive. They were his.
Darren won the Candidacy.
“—Expected to partake, regardless of your condition—”
“Please forgive me.”
“—The Crown has ordered no visitors to expedite the healings, but it will take all of our staff and a heavy night’s rest just to have you walking around for the event.” The mage leaned down to apply a salve to my skin, motioning for one of the others to come forward.
I lay mutely as the healers set forth to mend my maladies, crying out as bones shifted and scraped deep inside.
Darren’s fingers reached out to brush my cheek, and I shut my eyes. His hand was trembling so violently the bed rattled.
The pain was terrible … but I wasn’t angry at him.
I was angry at myself.
****
A hot wash of envy threw up waves in the pit of my stomach, and I took a deep, rattling breath.
I was good. But I wasn’t great.
Twelve hours of sleep; it made not the slightest difference. Sure, I felt less pain than before, but physical agony had little to do with the turbulence of emotions inside.
I had beat out every single mage in my rank. By all accounts I should have been happy. I had achieved what most people only dreamed. And if I hadn’t achieved the dream, at least it went to the boy I loved. An adversary I could respect.
But I was a terrible person, and jealousy was a bitter seed. None of it mattered. All of those years telling myself one day I would be better… they were for nothing. Darren was the best, and he always would be. His pain casting had over-powered my own. His potential was the greatest.
Stop moping like a pitiful child.
I raised a hand and swiped at the corner of my eye.
“Ryiah?” Darren was still broken. All night long he had refused to leave that chair; I’d woken several times to see a mess of black locks against the side of my mattress. Now he was afraid to touch me—I could see it in the way he would reach out and then pull away, like I was made of glass.
He couldn’t forgive himself.
The both of us were our own worst enemies.
“I’m fine.” I swallowed. “Darren, what happened… it wasn’t your fault.”
“I lost control.” His voice was hoarse and bitter. “I’ve never lost control, Ryiah. I could have killed you.”
“And I could have killed Hadrian during the melee.” It was killing me now just to utter the reassurance. I wanted to hole up in a wall and scream until my lungs were hoarse. “We chose Combat. We knew the risks. You offered me a chance to surrender, and I refused.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
His eyes shot to mine, and the garnet cut at my lungs.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
I made myself breathe. “Please don’t apologize.” It only made me feel worse about myself.
“Would you like me to leave?”
I stayed quiet.
The prince slowly gathered his belongings and motioned for his guard Henry to follow. As he was exiting the infirmary he turned back to look at me. The self-hatred was written across his face.
“I’m sorry, Ryiah.”
He had nothing to be sorry for. Every Combat mage had known what they were getting into the moment they entered that arena. But Darren’s love for me had robbed him of reason.
I waited until he was gone, and then let out the breath I had been holding in. It burned the whole way up.
Jealousy had robbed me of mine.
****
A couple hours later, a retinue of servants arrived with my two ladies-in-waiting and Madame Pollina. Contrary to our previous interactions, the woman was nothing but genteel as she helped me dress for the Candidacy’s formal ceremony. I suspected it had something to do with the way I looked. I hadn’t had the courage to stand in front of a mirror since we arrived, but even a fool could see the bandage strapped to my chest and the tender purple patches dotting my ribs and arms.
I caught her looking at my back with a pang of sympathy when the others were plaiting my hair.
I wished the Candidacy had delayed the Victors’ Ceremony by a week, so I could appear strong. I hated looking weak.
“Ryiah!”
My best friend’s voice broke me free of my thoughts. “Ella?”
The girl burst through the room—looking every bit the daughter of nobility in her perfectly pressed appearance, her black mage’s robe glinting in the light. She had an air I never would.