Briony sent a curse spiraling toward him. He blocked it, and his arm throbbed as the Shark’s Skin refilled. But he advanced anyway. Now was not the time to look weak. He had new enchantments from his game with Alistair the night before, and he was ready to use them.
Isobel stepped between them, the Cloak draped around her shoulders. “Stop. It doesn’t make sense to hurt each other.”
Gavin hesitated—she had the Cloak’s defensive high magick. If she sided with Briony, he couldn’t take them both down.
Seeming to share his thoughts, Briony relaxed her shoulders. “Good. We can still talk this out.”
Isobel glanced from Briony to Gavin, and Gavin held his breath, waiting. Isobel had told them to stop fighting, but nothing about her expression reminded Gavin of a mediator. It was calculating. She was making a choice, and Gavin braced himself, knowing it wouldn’t be him.
But then Isobel murmured, so low Gavin almost missed it, “I’m sorry.”
Isobel turned to Briony and cast her curse.
The wooden beams above them sagged, suddenly corroding; the walls and floor began to creak and groan. Gavin stumbled backward, struggling for purchase, but the table had decayed, too, leaving dark brown rot behind. Tendrils of muck squirmed through the floor, wrapping around Briony’s legs, then pulling her down.
Briony yelled with pain as the floor collapsed beneath her, but it didn’t pull her in all the way. Just enough to coat her body in that awful, rotting mud, as if Isobel had disemboweled his Landmark. When the grime touched Briony’s face, she fell silent, eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her entire body went limp.
Gavin wondered warily if Isobel would go for him next. After that disgusting curse, he didn’t put it past her. But she didn’t summon any more magick—she just looked at Briony sadly.
“She’ll wake up eventually,” Isobel said quietly. “And she’ll be furious.”
“You didn’t kill her?”
“I don’t want to.”
Gavin frowned, considering the scene before him. He wished she’d found a way to do this that hadn’t destroyed his dining hall, but the mess before him was the least of his concerns.
Isobel had betrayed her friend, but that didn’t mean she’d chosen him—she’d merely stopped them from fighting. If he seized this moment and killed Briony, he’d lose any chance at this strange new alliance. And the truth was, Gavin was realizing he couldn’t win this tournament alone. Not with his flawed, mutilated magick that gave out when he needed it most.
He had to handle this right.
To make things all the more confusing, Alistair Lowe burst in through the door. He took in the scene before him, his eyes swiveling toward Gavin.
“What did you do, Grieve?” he asked, his voice accusatory, but Isobel was already speaking.
“I’m the one who cursed her,” she said wearily. “She’s not dead, but … I couldn’t trust her to work with us.”
“Shit.” Alistair ran a hand through his hair, looking rattled. “I thought you were willing to hear her out. I thought you agreed to stay—”
“I did,” Isobel said. “And I will, if we become what we should’ve been calling ourselves last night—an alliance. But I’m done pretending there’s a way to end the tournament, and I’m done listening to Briony claim she has noble reasons. Either we fight together or we fight each other, but there’s no sane option where we don’t fight at all.”
Gavin understood. Alistair would go where Isobel went. And Isobel might not have been willing to kill Briony outright, but she still saw her as a liability.
This morning, Gavin had dismissed the alliance as foolish, but now he saw the merit in it. Both Isobel and Alistair were strong, and it was in Gavin’s best interest that he remain part of it as long as possible. But if that left Briony at their mercy and Alistair and Isobel a pair, Gavin was the odd one out. He’d need to find a way to disrupt that.
“So leave Briony here,” Gavin said. They both turned toward him, as if surprised to find he was still there. “The three of us will go after Finley and Elionor together.”
Alistair’s face turned a slight shade of green. He didn’t want this. But he looked to Isobel, waiting for her response.
Isobel nodded, and Gavin could hardly believe his success. A Grieve, on equal footing with a Macaslan and a Lowe. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s start preparing.”
She motioned for the two of them to follow, and they did, Alistair’s face grim, Gavin trying not to smile. Because he was already concocting the next steps of his plan.