Page 82 of The Faceless Queen

But something unusual began to happen. The crowds began to shout out the houses they fought on behalf of instead, rather than the name of the knight they supported.

House Lafir for Brennan. And House Bathiner for Jaron. The shouts seemed to overall favor Brennan, with more calls of support for House Lafir. Which made sense. He was the crown prince, and he was the one celebrating his betrothal—fighting to defend his princess, the tourney’s Lady of Beauty. And Jaron had been established as the villain, the challenger.

And yet, there was another stark shift in the energy of the tourney as the two continued to gain favor from the crowds.

House Bathiner’s pavilion, rather quiet through most of the games, began to shout in encouragement for Jaron, waving their flags, and calling out what seemed to be some kind of house words.

“Undefeated, unburied, we burn. Undefeated, unburied, we burn!”

King Tirian shifted in his throne and made a fist against his leg.

Had that always been their motto? Or was that a new one since they lost the throne? It certainly didn’t sound like the motto of a royal cadet house, not when one of their own was facing off against the crown prince. That was the motto of a rival, a rival whose heir possessed the black armor meant to pass through the line of succession.

Then from behind me, every noble in House Lafir began to chant in response, calling out their own house motto.

“From the ashes we rise, we fly. From the ashes, we rise, we fly.”

The chants from the crowd shifted from naming the houses to each one’s motto, creating a cacophony of noise, the words barely distinguishable. Until those of House Bathiner rose above the din, drowning out the calls of support for Brennan. For House Lafir, and thus, for King Tirian.

“Undefeated, unburied, we burn!”

Brennan and Jaron had rounded the field, visiting every section of seating and the standing areas where the poorest of commoners watched, and had made their way through the pavilions of noble houses, until they both arrived before the king. Jaron had collected so many garlands of flowers and ribbons, his lap was buried and so was his lance. But Brennan, I realized, had kept his lance clear—only my ribbons had been allowed to adorn it.

King Tirian stood. “The final battle,” he said jovially, “between Lord Jaron …”

The crowd cheered, though some booed as Jaron deposited his favors at my feet. He kept his eyes on me as he did so.

“And,” King Tirian continued, “your prince, your future king and Princess Olivay’s groom, Crown Prince Jaron.”

This time the crowd erupted with applause and shouts of encouragement. And more calls for us to kiss.

Brennan shook his head, looking nervous, but one look from the king, and we both knew it had to happen.

He dismounted from his stag. The crowd grew more wild as he strolled around Jaron and up the stairs to where I sat.

“Princess,” he said, and bowed. He took my hand and straightened, helping me to stand before him, and met my eyes.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

Something felt different. Something had changed between us since last night. We’d kissed, we’d held hands, and I’d hardly fed, even when things intensified—even when the Azete took over. But then he’d gone out of his way to come see me this morning, to warn me of the growing presence of guards and to assure me I was safe.

And to admit that his feelings were growing. I knew he was still conflicted. Samara was still in his mind. And yet, our lips had almost touched. He’d wanted them to. I’d wanted them to. The Azete had drawn him in, had him in its claws.

The cheers grew louder, followed by claps and stomps of encouragement. His tongue darted out across his bottom lip.

I reached for the nape of his neck, and buried my fingers in his curls, pulling his head down toward mine until I scented the mint on his breath. “It’s more than okay.”

“Good,” he whispered, and then his mouth was on mine, kissing me softly, slowly.

Until I moaned. And something was unleashed within him.

My lips parted, his tongue pushing against them, his hands wrapping around my back, pulling me into him, each movement demanding and brimming with passion, with desire and want, and yet, he remained in control, every kiss, lick, and brush of his lips still soft and sweet.

My stomach coiled, filling with heat, with want. The Azete rose up my spine, taking control, digging its fangs into Brennan, forging the connection between us.

He groaned in response, his chest heaving. A stream of fresh energy began to pour into me, to revive and strengthen me.

I knew every second I drank, I grew stronger, and he grew weaker, more tired.