“I did believe you!” Finley’s voice shook. “I came here to help you. I broke all my rules for you, and now…”
He raised his Sword, and Briony realized she had no energy left to fight. No words she could say that would make him listen.
Part of her wanted to let him end it, here and now. At least then it would be over. But she would die a disgrace. Whatever shreds of her pride remained tugged at her, urging her to run.
“Come on,” she said to Gavin, and then she turned and bolted into the forest. A moment later, footsteps crashed through the underbrush behind her. She could only hope they were Gavin’s.
Everything was a horrible, muddled tangle in her mind. The pain on Finley’s face. The bloody ring in Gavin’s palm. All the betrayal and confusion that had brought her to this moment.
And overlaying all of it, waiting every time she blinked, was the image of those arrows deep in Carbry’s eyes.
She had killed him for a prize she didn’t even want to win.
Above them, the Blood Veil changed. The harsh crimson of the sky lessened slightly, a muted scarlet. But it did nothing to lighten the bloodstains on her hands.
ALISTAIR LOWE
Ilvernath drivers take a detour to avoid the Lowe estate. I don’t think they even dwell on the reason anymore. It’s just a habit.
A Tradition of Tragedy
When Alistair regained lucidity, he was still sprawled out in that same spot below the oak tree. A cool wind blew over his exposed stomach, and he moved a shaking hand to cover his skin. To his surprise, the mortal wound the Payne had dealt him was just another scar.
Isobel stood over him. She wore crystal spellrings on every finger, and her Cloak billowed out behind her, almost haunting.
“When I say it,” Isobel murmured, “you run.”
Alistair attempted to push himself up, but his strength gave out. “Joke’s on you,” he said mirthlessly. “I can’t get up.”
Isobel shot him an exasperated look. The footsteps approached through the forest, and Isobel readied to attack.
“Elionor!” she called. Alistair realized Elionor was probably the Payne’s name. “If you take a step closer, you’ll wish you—”
“It’s not Elionor,” choked a female voice. The Thorburn stepped through the trees, her hands up in surrender, and behind her, the Grieve.
Kill them, a voice in Alistair’s mind whispered, his Lowe instinct. There was no more perfect opportunity for Isobel to strike.
But as much as Alistair liked to win, the thought left him more fatigued than exhilarated. It wasn’t that he cared about the Thorburn’s or the Grieve’s fates—he didn’t even know their names—but their deaths would only bring Alistair closer to the truth: once he and Isobel defeated all of their competitors, there could only be one person to leave the tournament alive.
And even if he’d evaded death for now, he still wouldn’t let it be him.
“What the fuck happened to you?” the Grieve growled, looking at Alistair as though the sight of him bloodied and vulnerable personally offended him. The thought of a Grieve seeing him like this offended Alistair, too.
“You’re working with the Grieve now, too?” Isobel asked the Thorburn.
The Grieve opened his mouth to argue, but the Thorburn quickly cut him off. “I’m not with that alliance anymore. The two of us are alone.”
Alistair looked up and realized, for the first time, the Blood Veil had paled slightly. One of the champions was dead.
“Why should I believe you?” Isobel asked.
“I was betrayed. Carbry attacked me, but Gavin and I…” The Thorburn looked down at her blood-crusted hands and shuddered. “We both ran. We didn’t mean to find you, but maybe it was a good thing we did.”
Isobel’s gaze shot toward the sky. “Carbry Darrow is dead?”
Briony nodded gravely.
Alistair, for many reasons, didn’t like the idea of expanding their group of two to four. He didn’t trust the Grieve or the Thorburn. And he’d already made his plans for the end of the tournament. New alliances were only more complications.
Isobel took a deep breath and relaxed her stance. “You saved me before, Briony. Consider it a favor returned.” But the sharp edge to her voice made it clear she wasn’t happy about it.
The Thorburn’s—Briony’s—eyes shifted to the Grieve, then slowly back to Isobel. “Him, too,” she murmured, almost as an afterthought.
The Grieve nodded, though his expression looked more murderous than pleading. “Yes. Me, too.”