Alistair turned around. “What?” he snapped. “Do you have other demands to make of me? Or are you going to kill me like you obviously dream of?”
Even with the iciness in Alistair’s voice, the Grieve didn’t avert his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Winners aren’t sorry, Grieve,” Alistair said, then he whipped around. Before he disappeared down the hallway, he glimpsed something flickering in the corner of his vision: crimson specks of high magick in the courtyard air, like smoke wisping in wind. The spell finally dissipating, he thought. But the raw magick in the air should have been white, not red, and when he turned to see it properly, the magick was gone.
ISOBEL MACASLAN
Supposedly, the Blood Veil shields the tournament from outside influence, but I believe it simply allows us to avoid looking too closely at what’s going on inside.
A Tradition of Tragedy
In the early red sky of morning, Isobel lay in bed and studied the cursering that dangled on her necklace beside her locket.
Reid had warned her that the Reaper’s Embrace wasn’t appropriate for the tournament. It fated a person for death rather than delivering it, ensuring that every wrongdoing they committed was a step closer to the grave. If Isobel had known that ahead of time, she would never have risked her life to craft it.
But now that she had, she could only behold the stone in awe—it held the most powerful curse she’d ever possessed.
It was time to fill it.
No sooner had she dressed and placed the ring at the center of her spellboard than someone knocked on her door.
“Come in,” Isobel said.
It was Alistair. “Good. You’re awake.” He seemed paler than usual, perhaps even a little green. He cast nervous glances at the hallway behind him before slipping inside and closing the door. “We need to talk about your friend’s tournament-breaking theory. Did you already craft the Truth or Treachery?”
“We’re far from friends,” Isobel said tightly.
“Okay, but did you already craft it?”
There was something strangely tight about his tone that she didn’t understand.
“Not yet,” she replied carefully. “Why?”
Alistair didn’t respond. Instead, he sat beside her while she worked. She emptied the flasks of raw magick she’d collected last night over the spellboard. Because the Reaper’s Embrace was a class ten, it required a huge amount of magick, almost everything she had. The shimmering particles swirled in a cloud over the septogram, funneling into the ring.
“I know Briony said we could stay here,” Alistair finally answered, “but I don’t trust the Grieve, and this is his Landmark.”
Isobel tried to guess what might’ve happened last night after she’d gone to bed. Briony had also retreated to one of the bedrooms, leaving the boys to their own devices. Maybe something had happened between Gavin and Alistair, a threat, an argument. If Alistair was determined not to trust him, then Isobel wouldn’t, either. She’d preferred their alliance when it was just the two of them anyway.
“What should we do?” Isobel asked.
Alistair gazed at her intently, and her stomach fluttered in a way that was both terribly distracting and terribly pleasant. Last night, Isobel had committed to being a proper champion, and proper champions did not feel like this about other ones—not even their allies. It was foolish. It was dangerous. And as harshly as Isobel had scolded Briony for chasing fairy tales, a part of her still desperately wanted to return to the Cave with Alistair. To see how far these feelings could take them. To pretend their story was anything other than a tragic one.
Alistair rested his hand on Isobel’s, intertwining his fingers with hers. And before he even spoke, the word “yes” was already formed on her lips.
“What if Briony’s right?” Alistair asked.
Isobel stiffened. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say.
“If she is, it would be … we would be…” The ghost of an expression crossed his face. Because Isobel had never seen it on him, it took her several moments to recognize it. Hope.
She squeezed his hand tight enough for him to wince. “Al. It’s just a fantasy.” The more she dwelled on it, the more she realized it should’ve been no surprise that Briony had fallen victim to such notions. It wasn’t good enough for Briony to just be a champion—she had to be better than all of them. The hero she’d always dreamed of.
“Haven’t we always been living a fantasy?” he murmured.