Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(56)
The corners of his lips tipped up. “Are you telling me I’m the only man who has ever explored those exceptional curves?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Don’t get cocky.”
“No, I couldn’t tell.” He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear and brushed his lips across mine. “You were incredible.”
I fisted his tunic in my hands and tugged him closer, relishing in the feel of his skin against mine and the rising steam that never failed to burn between us. I could get lost in that kiss, could forget about the Midsummer Games and spend the rest of the night exploring every inch of his skin.
But not now. Tonight’s festivities were far too important to miss.
He groaned as he pulled back, a sound that sent a delicious thrill down my spine. “Keep this moment in mind. We’ll revisit it when we get home tonight.”
My heart pounded. “I hope that’s a promise.”
He tucked a finger beneath my chin. “Oh, it most certainly is.”
I n the hills just beyond the village, spectators had sprawled across the grass on checkered blankets, and several tables had been carried over from the square. The caravans and stalls had followed, including Lilia’s Traveling Tavern where the atmosphere had taken on a very boisterous nature. Booming laughter drifted on the light wind that rustled the flowing skirt around my legs. Beside me, Rivelin carried the majestic dragon sculpture he’d been toiling over for the past several days. I’d helped as best I could with the larger pieces of the structure—the tail and the head—but the delicate, artistic wings and teeth had needed a practiced hand.
Several oohs and ahhs followed us as we approached the stage, where the others were already waiting. Gregor was nowhere to be seen, of course, though that did little to calm the pit of nerves in my stomach. He would be angrier than ever now, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he retaliated. Tonight would be the perfect moment to make his move against us, smashing Rivelin’s dragon into broken bits.
Hofsa nodded from where she stood overseeing the festival as Rivelin gently set the dragon atop the stage. Down the row, I could see what the others had created for this night. Beside us, Godfrey had created elegant candles in various pastel shades. Further down the row, Hege, the dwarf, had a plate of grilled fish. She’d gone with an interesting take on the fire theme, though not one I would have chosen myself.
Now that we were down to only four contestants, there was only one other left on the far end, and from what I could see, no item had been delivered to the stage just yet. Viggo, the winner of the previous challenge, stood there quietly beside his assistant, his red hands folded in front of him.
I leaned in and whispered to Rivelin. “What do you think that’s about?”
Rivelin frowned and shook his head. I knew what he was thinking. It was almost impossible Viggo had decided to forfeit his place in the Games, especially after winning the first. That could only mean he had something up his sleeve. Judging by his relaxed posture and the hint of smugness on his face, he clearly thought whatever he had could win.
And if he won two out of four…that could effectively clinch the entire competition for him.
“You don’t think—” I started to say just as a sharp, high-pitched whistle rent the night.
Bright orange light streaked through the sky and exploded in a confetti of sparks overhead. A hush went through the crowd as the first blast was soon followed by another—this time in a brilliant red. Then another in golden yellow. Again and again the sparks filled the sky, the light reflecting on the awestruck faces of the spectators.
Movement caught my attention down the row of competitors. Viggo smiled and lifted his hands to his sides, motioning at the display and mouthing something I couldn’t hear over the blasts. I didn’t need to, though. It was clear this was his submission for the Fildur Trial.
Something stirred in my chest. It truly was breathtakingly beautiful, and it was almost impossible not to revel in it. I looked up at Rivelin, noting the tightness of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. Whatever this display was, it would win, and I didn’t know what to say to ease his frustration.
When the final spark blinked out of the night sky, the crowd cheered. Then came the presentation for the rest of us. The others went first, showing off their grilled fish and their candles, which only resulted in a mild, scattered applause. Rivelin held up the dragon when it was our turn. The cheers were louder this time but nothing compared to the response to Viggo’s sky of sparks.
We wandered away from the stage when it was over. One by one, spectators came to add their votes to the glass jars. It didn’t take long to see there would be a clear winner.
“I’m sorry,” I said to him as we grabbed two bowls of bread and stew from one of the many market stalls. “I know how hard you worked on that dragon.”
“I can’t be angry when someone wins by besting my own effort,” he replied.
“I don’t think it’s your effort he bested. He just made something…well, remarkable. What was that?”
The tables were packed, so we found a couple of crates stacked up near the line of merchant stalls and settled in to eat our dinner. Rivelin took a few bites before finding an answer to my question.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I daresay no one else has, either. Must be something only fire demons know how to make. That’s why he’ll win.”