Page 11 of A Match Made in Error

Stops.

Silence stretches.

One breath. Then two.

Then light explodes overhead, and a giant number eighteen flashes on the score crystals above our heads with photos of Riven and me glittering beside them.

Not my score.

Our combined score.

Fate has matched us…again.

Gasps ripple through the crowd as all twenty sigils ignite at once in a circle around us, blazing gold into the air above us. A critical match. Magic slams down like a vow made manifest, sealing around us in a radiant halo that hums with promise—a soulmate-level promise.

This has to be a mistake. Panic claws at my throat, chest constricting like Riven is sitting on my chest instead of the other way around.

The arena erupts.

Cheers. Laughter. Shouts of outrage and awe crash together into a cacophony of chaos.

“I didn’t enter this year!” I cry, voice raw, breaking. “This wasn’t supposed to⁠—”

Riven stiffens beneath me.

I feel it—the exact moment the implications hit him. The way his breath catches. The way his arms tighten, instinctively bracing us both as the magic settles.

On the dais, the Moirai huddle together, whispers sharp and hurried.

“Administrative error?” the Maiden whispers.

“An old application, perhaps. She’s entered many times before.” Thanks for reminding me, Crone.

“This has never happened,” the Mother adds.

I feel stripped bare. Plucked for matching when I never asked to be. My pulse hammers wildly, adrenaline flooding me, and beneath it, treacherous and terrifying, a spark of something that feels like hope flickers.

Riven stares up at the blazing number. Then to me.

Something unreadable flickers behind his eyes.

His mouth quirks, a brittle reflex kicking in. “Well,” he says lightly, though his grip never loosens, “that’s not what I expected when I woke up this morning.”

“What in the seven hells just happened?” Angora screeches, silencing the crowd.

“Shit,” Riven mutters like he’s just remembered her, pupils blown wide with what looks like fear.

He rises carefully, setting me on my feet before turning to her—only for a golden thread between us to snap taut. It yanks him back mid-step, slamming him into me. His arms come around me automatically, holding us upright as the magic thrums, possessive and unyielding.

“This is unacceptable!” Angora stamps her foot.

“I agree,” I say hoarsely. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

Riven goes very still.

Then he exhales, slow and deliberate, and lifts his head.

He doesn’t look at Angora when he speaks.