I fold my arms over my chest. “Why kill it? It hasn’t done anything to me.”
The Arachnoid recovers from its shock and starts fighting my tail. One of the demon’s legs breaks free, slicing through my leather armor and scratching my back. Pain rips up my spine. My eyes blaze demon-red.
“Okay, now it’s done something.” I spin about, hauling the Arachnoid with me. Once the demon has enough momentum, my tail releases it, launching the spider to the other side of the tournament grounds. The monster slams into the protecting wall with a thud, leaving a long smear of yellow goop as it slides to the ground.
I frown. “Well, now it’s killed. Yuck.”
The crowd erupts in another cheer. Cissy races out onto the green and gives me a big hug.
“Myla, that was amazing!”
“Thanks, Cissy.” It’s tempting to say ‘I told you so,’ but I don’t want to be a sore winner.
The Queen waves me toward the royal pavilion. I walk over and stand before her and King Connor.
Octavia grins. “You did well.” She and the King share a look that’s an entire conversation in itself.
King Connor raises his arm. “I hereby declare Myla Lewis from the House of Gurith to be the greatest warrior in all Antrum!” The crowd lets out a hearty round of applause.
Octavia addresses the crowd, a golden swath of fabric in her hand. “As is our tradition, I award a silk handkerchief to the winner.” She offers me the garment. “I thought you might prefer this, however.”
I take the fabric in my hand. It’s a delicate golden shawl with tiny pearl beading. “Thank you, Octavia. This is lovely.”
The Queen smiles. “The armor is yours to keep as well.”
“Wow. Thanks, again.” I rub the delicate fabric between my fingertips. The Queen planned this all along. My eyes sting, but not with rage. I’m not used to mom-figure types who have such confidence in me.
King Connor lowers his arm. “It is tradition for the winner to accompany each House on one demon patrol throughout the next year. I hope that meets with your approval?”
Demon killing on earth? My heart and mouth both kick into overdrive. “That would be sweet!” I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “I mean, I would be honored to join demon patrol, your Highness.”
Connor’s laugh lines curl up with his smile. “The winner may also make a single request of the King and Queen. As long as it is within reason, your boon will be granted.”
There’s no question what I want. “I’d like to keep Nightshade.”
A smile quirks the Queen’s mouth. “A kindred soul, eh?”
I shift my weight from foot to foot. I hope this isn’t a rude request. “Yes. Nightshade is very special.”
The King and Queen share a long look.
“Granted.” Octavia motions to a nearby servant. “Please make sure Myla’s horse is saddled and ready for her to ride home tonight.” She gestures to the open chair beside hers. “Now join me for the closing ceremony.” I step into the pavilion and take my place at her side.
The rest of the tournament is a lot of falderal and marching around. Trumpets play, lords parade, and ladies giggle. The Earl of Acca struts around like a peacock with a new set of feathers. Everyone stops by to say ‘good evening’ to the Queen and ‘congratulations’ to me. Finally, the guests go home, the sky turns dark, and Octavia rises to her feet. She pats my hand.
“Well done, Myla. You are a tribute to the House of Gurith.”
“Thank you.”
“Was I right to assume you’d ride Nightshade to the Ryder stables tonight?”
“I’d like to.”
“Of course. You’ll find her beyond that line of trees.” She gestures across the tournament grounds. “Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Octavia.”
The Queen walks to the other side of the pavilion. Connor’s sturdy form waits there by the exit stairs. The King nods in my direction, winds Octavia’s arm through his, and the pair step away.
It takes a bit of meandering in the dark, but I find the stables easily enough. It’s a long wooden building set into the trees. The front gate lies open. I step inside, seeing a central aisle lined with a dozen stalls on each side. Nightshade stands at the building’s end. An oil lamp casts a circle of light beside her as she nuzzles a crouched figure. Whoever-it-is sits half inside the final stall.
The stranger rises to his feet, and I see the familiar outline of Lincoln: broad shoulders, earthy-brown hair, and military bearing. My stomach twists. With his back to me, he scans a shelf of jars at the far wall. Nodding, he pulls out a white container. He crouches on his heels, leaning over something in the last stall.
I step closer. Nightshade brushes her muzzle against Lincoln’s back. Reaching behind him, the Prince absently pats the horse’s cheek. “I know you’re there, Night. I’m happy to see you too.”