Page 30 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Intrigue pulled Kora forward as a lone figure stepped into the pit. His hair was sandy blond, short and with a slight wave. His skin was bronzed by the sun. A plain sleeveless tunic stretched across a muscular frame, his arms marked by scars. He carried his sword as if it were an extension of himself, and when he lifted his iron-dark eyes, the look cut sharper than steel.

Her breath caught. “A human?”

A knowing smile lit Oorlon’s face. “That is your baron. Pietre of Netherfen Hallows.”

Feet struck stone in thunderous unison as the baron lifted his sword. He spun it once in a flourish so fluid it bordered on artistry. Cries of approval rolled through the stands.

Oorlon chuckled. “He’s a performer,” he said, amusement curling through his words. “Quite useful for a prisoner, in truth. My captains train beneath him for his mastery of the blade, and my people take pleasure in watching him best our own.” His attention slid to Drifah, his smile rich with meaning.

“Magnificent, is he not?” Drifah murmured, echoing Oorlon’s admiration. Then, leaning in so only Kora could hear, “And easy on the eyes.”

Kora lifted a hand to her cheek to hide her blush.

“Today, he belongs to the pit because it pleases me,” Oorlon added. “Tomorrow you may meet.”

Kora’s chest tightened at the cruelty of this realm. Questions and protests gathered at the edge of her tongue. She glanced toward the duke. Tension showed in the rigid line of his posture. A flicker of wariness passed through his eyes, though she could not discern its source.

Something in the duke’s restraint grounded her. These contests were not devotion, but domination. If the fae delighted in spectacle and suffering, showing trepidation would only feed it. In this kingdom, she understood, reticence was survival.

Drawing a slow breath, Kora turned back to the arena and folded her hands in her lap, for it was all she could do to keep them from shaking.

Three fae warriors stepped onto the sand.

In perfect unison, they surged forward, blades flashing.

Pietre met them not with brute force but with flow, relying on calculation and stealth to counter fae strength and speed. His body bent and shifted, slipping between strikes as though he were water poured against stone, each turn timed to instincts only he seemed to trust.

One of the fae feinted low while another struck high. Pietre pivoted, steel shrieking as he turned both blows aside, then answered with a sharp cut to the wrist. There was a hiss of pain, dark violet blood, and a sword dropped into the sand.

The disarmed fae lunged barehanded, and for a moment it looked as though the baron would be caught. But Pietre ducked beneath the swing, rolled, and rose behind his attacker. The flat of his sword landed cleanly against the fae’s throat.

The remaining two pressed in tandem, driving Pietre backward until he stood at the pit’s edge. Kora drew in a breath, her fingers tightening around the edge of her seat.

Pietre lunged toward the nearer fae and dropped into a sliding kneel, clearing the fae’s arm. He surged up behind him in one motion and turned to meet the final attack, his riposte so swift the crowd gasped. The fae staggered, his weapon spinning into the sand.

A turn, a clash, a blur of motion, and Pietre drove the last fae to his knees. The baron lifted his sword in salute, calm as though the outcome had never been in doubt.

The amphitheater erupted, and Kora released the breath she hadn’t meant to hold. She could not have said why, but some quiet part of her felt drawn to him. That pull mingled with the hum still coursing through her bones, heightening all sensation to near overwhelm.

When the day’s champions were crowned, nobles rose from their seats and began to drift back toward the castle, where the first feast of the Festival of Selvara awaited. Kora’s senses continued to reel as they were escorted to Oorlon’s table. Torches of violet fire burned without smoke, platters of roasted meat thickened the air, and music spilled from the gallery above, sending tremors through the stone beneath their feet. Laughter and conversation swelled over the commotion like a living tide.

“What did you think of today’s games?” Oorlon asked, turning toward Kora the instant she took her seat. Drifah and several favored nobles flanked him, though the queen was absent.

Kora smoothed her gown with clammy hands. “They were… fascinating.” She surprised herself with how true it felt as she spoke it. Undeniably, this place held her in its grasp, and she did not know what to make of it.

Drifah laughed and tipped her goblet, the wine casting wavering shadows across her flawless fae skin. “Fascinating, yes. Terrible, too. But that’s what makes them beautiful. Without danger, there is no thrill.” Her eyes lingered on Kora, as if daring her to disagree.

“I have always favored the duets of glima,” Oorlon declared. “No tricks, as in the veyrashi of Tsuchitsa. No misdirection, as in the zahiraat of Aurumierra. Glima is direct. Superior.”

“Father, you only say that because you were once the King’s Champion,” Drifah said.

“And I would still defeat anyone who dared challenge me,” Oorlon replied.

His boast drew murmurs of agreement from the courtiers around the table, though Kora suspected not all were sincere. The conversation slipped into speculation about tomorrow’s likely victors. Wagers followed, offered with the careless confidence of those who believed themselves beyond consequence.

A sudden movement beneath the table nearly sent Kora from her chair.

Two wolves lay at Oorlon’s feet, fur white as snow, eyes dark as a moonless night, so close she could scarcely believe she had not noticed them sooner. They were enormous. Standing, their shoulders would have reached nearly to the table’s edge.