Page 35 of The Phoenix Inheritance

Dane

Today is the last round of the tournament, and Warwick and I are at a tie. Though it’s only been four days since the competition started, it feels like a lifetime has gone by.

A lifetime since I saw Isobel. I need her more than ever now that my ambitions have been overturned. A part of me still cringes at the mere thought of defeat, as I’ve spent too much time yearning for respect to lose face in front of the whole Kingdom.

But another new, more lucid part of me realizes deep down that ruling a country isn’t my calling. I’ve never bothered to imagine what will happen once I step up the throne, most likely because nothing ever interested me but the view from above.

I can’t spend the rest of my existence speaking in the Royal ‘we’ like my father, ignoring the profoundly intimate feelings Isobel has kindled within me. To never again speak of my turmoil, my whirl of emotions every time I see her, my doubts and fears as she taught me to express.

No, I’d rather dedicate myself to my mate, and find a way to make Isobel mine for eternity.

It’s also been a lifetime since I talked to Warwick. When a match is over, we’re both brought to separate parts of the fort to recover from our battles. I miss his teasing, his unexpected moments of warmth. I don’t enjoy battling against him half as much as I thought.

“Prince Dane, it’s time.”

I nod, striding through the entrance of the arena for the last time. Today both my destiny and my brother’s will be sealed, and I’m not even sure which outcome I stand for.

The crowd has somehow multiplied since the two other rounds. Beasts are raising hell from the rows, shoving each other around and chanting our names – well, mostly my brother’s.

“Your enthusiasm is great, and no wonder… This battle will be the fiercest of the three!”

I screw my lids shut in dread as my father’s amplified voice travels through the stadium. The previous matches were savage enough for me. I’m not sure I can stomach anything more brutal when it’s my own brother I’m being pitted against.

“We have decided to reward your loyalty with a special gift, citizens of Sowilo,” he announces buoyantly. “Yesterday morning the valiant guards of Østrom seized vile humans who call themselves Hunters. They shall serve as props in this spectacle, so to speak.”

I frown in confusion. A dozen people are dragged onto the field, mortal males roughly in their twenties and thirties. What are they doing here?

But my heart drops to the ground when I recognize a thirteenth figure, slighter than the rest, that’s certainly not a man.

Isobel.

The world around me becomes a dizzying blur. Isobel? Isobel is a Hunter?

I’m not certain if it’s because her fair skin blends much more easily into the Solenz landscape than Østrom’s richer hues, but she somehow seems even paler than usual. Her hair, usually plaited into an elaborate weave with whatever she can find, is a dull, frizzy mess. I’d never noticed hollows in her cheeks until now, neither dark shadows around her eyes.

She’s struggling with a guard when she notices me. She freezes, and the guard flings her none too gently to the floor.

Confusion flits over her face as she spots the wings splayed on my back. Then understanding, as well as something else – horror, sadness? – makes her gaze widen and her entire frame quake. She sees that I stand behind the starting line, and the bitter truth dawns upon her the same time it hits me.

She knows I’m the son of the King who killed her parents, I realize in stunned panic.

Of course I was planning to reveal my nature and my lineage to her as soon as possible. To beg for her forgiveness and repeat until she knows the words by heart that I’d never, ever harm her. I couldn’t have hidden the facts from her very long anyway.

But not like this. Not when we stand on either side of the line on the battlegrounds, without even knowing whatever ghastly scheme my father has come up with to oppose us.

“Each Hunter carries a magical firestone, which as you know is incredibly rare” that familiar voice drones on as my eyes drop to the stone Isobel clutches so hard, her knuckles turn white. “The Princes must seize the firestone away from them, and whoever collects the most by the seventh cry of the horn wins. But there’s a catch.”

I glance at Warwick, hoping I’ll find a glimpse of the friendliness he displayed in the last two rounds. But no, my brother is focused on the thirteen Hunters with all the intensity of an eagle fixating its prey. Bile rises in my throat.

“If a single firestone remains in human hands by the last call, neither Prince will be crowned King. No ruler of this country should ever leave mortals so much as a crumb.”

The audience cries louder than ever before, and I wildly wish this was only a terrible nightmare. Because as I look at the way each Hunter grips their firestone with desperation, I understand the cruelty of the extra rule my father concocted.

The Hunters are firmly opposed to our sovereignty. They will fight to the death to keep the crown away from any Phoenix, even if they know their chances are slim. Because given the power of our talons and the sturdiness of our muscles, the struggle will be a bloody one, should our targets fight back.

I can’t step out of the arena. The sentence for any contestant who gives up the tournament is to be exiled from the country. There’s no way I can leave Isobel behind in Sowilo knowing she’s been made prisoner.

I can’t pull her out of the field either. If I were to commit such an act of mercy towards a human in public, Isobel would most likely be executed – and I can only guess how terrible my own fate would be.

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