Page 38 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

He fought like he was swinging among the jungle canopy outside his home, like his blades were cutting through nothing more than the waves that crashed against Lyra’s shores.

“Who is that?” Alana breathed beside her, awe in her voice. Awe and something else Emmeline couldn’t place.

“I don’t know,” Emmeline lied, afraid to say it aloud.

The crowd had taken notice of him, too. The cheers paused, banners for other contenders stopped waving. Murmurs broke out among them as they watched this newcomer slice through the warriors they’d been screaming for with a ruthlessness no one else matched, as this Angel of Devastation killed the men they’d bet on with sole intent.

He ducked what would have been a nasty punch to his temple, and a gasp caught in Emmeline’s throat. Rocarri’s eyes flicked to her, the observation a slimy second skin. She forced herself not to react again.

The fighter swiped through the back of the other man’s leg, sending a fountain of blood spurting across his own threadbare tunic and the warrior crashing to his knees. He didn’t bother to finish him off before turning to the next. Their blades met, each attack daring but confident.

Over her gown, Emmeline’s fingers curled around the ring hanging around her neck, the steel beating.

“Come on,” she muttered so low Rocarri couldn’t hear it.

Alana was firmly planted at her side. “He’s not one of the original twelve.”

“No,” Cyren’s voice came from right behind them. “He isn’t. I don’t recognize him.” Their exquisite face was pinched with what Emmeline thought was suspicion, but the General gave nothing away.

Emmeline couldn’t find her voice as the numbers dwindled. She could barely draw in air as the tip of a blade caught on the newcomer’s tunic, slicing through the shoulder when he spun away.

It drew a thin line of blood, but dark ink caught the light, flaming feathered wings overlapping around sculpted muscles. Alana leaned forward beside her, eyes narrowed and fingers twisting the ends of her hair.

“It’s got to be over soon, right?” Emmeline whispered. Her heart lodged firmly in her throat.

“One more death,” Cyren answered.

Twenty-nine had already fallen. They’d stop at thirty. Half of the men moving on to the second trial was the only rule the Chancellor put in place.

Cyren’s narrowed gaze flicked between Rocarri and the mess unfolding below. The councillors and governors in the box watched with a mix of horror and fascination, their questioning gazes flicking to Emmeline, judging her for her previous outburst.

And when the warrior she’d been devouring with her stare drove a man to the dirt and slammed his blade through his throat, a bellow went out across the arena.

Everyone froze, the remaining thirty men panting with blood-splattered armor. They removed their helmets and masks, revealing expressions drenched in glory.

But Emmeline didn’t give a damn about any of them.

She could barely breathe—only watch as that one soldier stalked forward.

As he traipsed over gore and through puddles of blood until he stopped below the Chancellor’s box, head angled up.

Toward her.

As he finally pulled that crimson-splattered helmet from his head and tossed it to the dirt, shaking back dark, sweat-soaked waves. Silver-streaked eyes met hers, and a part of Emmeline that had extinguished weeks ago came back to life.

Huntress, he mouthed, and his voice echoed through her memory. Every time he’d said it. That one word weakened her knees, made her want to weep in relief.

Reckless, she mouthed back, lips trembling and breath shuddering out of her.

Despite all he’d been through, despite the blood and grime covering him and the visible exhaustion fighting to take over his body, Roremar smiled up at her as if she was an Angel before him.

The part of her he’d stolen in the seeing chamber thrashed wildly behind her ribs, begging to go to him, willing her to leap from this platform now and feel his lips against hers, hear his voice low in her ear and press her head to his chest to ensure that steady heart still beat.

But a throat cleared beside her, shattering every dream and desire. Emmeline remembered exactly where they were, all the people appraising her and all the wants she couldn’t show right now.

“That was quite a display,” Rocarri said, reclaiming the control he’d lost so spectacularly. He stood right at her side, his presence slinking around Emmeline like a warning. “That concludes the first trial of Valyrie’s Races! We are left with half our competitors who have demonstrated the utmost strength, determination in battle, and loyalty to their cause—the greatest worth for our magnificent prize!”

Emmeline’s skin prickled at all the attention aimed at her, but she couldn’t look away from those grey eyes growing more silver by the second.