Page 111 of Blood Beneath the Snow

Were there any who believed in me? Any who wanted me to win, like Jac and Frode did?

I resisted the urge to cower beneath their stares, holding my head high.

Let them see me. Let them whisper. Let them tell their stories and spread their rumors. What did it matter? By the end of the day, I would be queen or I would be dead. Either way, their opinions wouldn’t matter.

I left my horse at the stables east of the arena and made my way toward the entrance. As I approached, I kept a steady grip on the hilt of my sword, my other hand hanging freely at my side. I didn’t bother to meet anyone’s stare.

The king and queen, both dressed in finery, waited at the edge of the arena, greeting people as they entered. Father’s crown was perched on his head, a golden circlet with elegant twisting knots etched on every side. The peaks along the front of the metal were adorned with bloodred rubies. Next to my parents stood a priest. I made sure to glare at him as I passed.

This would all be over soon enough.

Father’s lips curled into a snarl when he saw the paint on my face. Mother didn’t spare me a glance. Her white gown and pale skin stood out against her black hair.

My father moved to the side so the entrance was blocked. I glowered at him. Murmurs flew through the crowd behind me.

“You dishonor our family by competing today,” he said, his voice rough.

“Good,” I said, meeting his gaze with my own. I hoped he could see the fire there, the hatred for his cowardice. “I compete for myself, not for this family.” My smile was deadly as I leaned in to whisper, “No matter how today ends, I will never have to see you again.”

I pushed past him, walking between him and my mother into the arena. The crowd parted for me, but I heard my name hissed over and over.

A few turns later, I arrived in a waiting area. My brothers and I would stay there until the Trials began. Erik and Björn were already there, sitting on benches haphazardly propped up in the dirt. At the sight of me, Björn sneered, and I shot him a glare that I hoped would silence him for the time being.

I stepped up to the wrought iron gate preventing us from entering the fighting pit before the competition was to begin. The bars were cold against my palms. While I looked at the arena before me, I kept half an eye on Björn. The last thing I needed was to be knifed before the Trials even began.

Above us, the sound of footsteps clanging against the metal stairsechoed along with the murmurings of the crowd. The seats ascending around the battleground filled steadily, mostly with citizens. Some visitors observed as well.

I shuddered, then turned my gaze to the more important part of the scene before me: the arena itself.

It had been changed for the Trials. What was usually an empty pit—a stone floor covered in a layer of sand to make blood from executions easier to clean up—was now a study in obstacles. There were large boulders scattered around to offer cover. There were also a few tall wooden poles erected in strategic places. They had no hand- or footholds, but were available for us to climb and perch on.

I’d gained a lot of muscle in my time with the Hellbringer, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to climb the poles. I pushed the thought from my head for now, deciding to come back to that option later.

Most concerning was the large trench carved into the ground around the arena. One good push and any of us could be sent tumbling ten feet down, unable to scramble back to level ground. I’d be a sitting duck if I fell, especially as I was the shortest of the three of us.

I moved away from the gate and sat across from my brothers, leaning back against the wall. The vibrations of footfalls through the metal echoed in my head. In a few hours this would all be over and we could move on with our lives. One of us, at least.

For the first time, the thought of dying didn’t scare me. Maybe I would lose to Björn or Erik. But I wouldn’t be shackled to someone else’s will. Perhaps dying would prove to be peaceful in the end.

The footsteps continued to reverberate, pounding like a drum. How many Nilurae were here? Halvar and I had discussed our options the day before, locked in the cellar by candlelight before visiting Freja. He didn’t know Jac had run, but the moment we entered the fighting ring, it would become clear. If I won—by some miracle—then our plan would move forward. Nilurae would rush for thepriests, and we would do what we could to win control of our kingdom.

If I lost…well, they would try anyway. And probably be annihilated in the process.

I imagined my body lying on the ground, half of the crowd rushing to the king’s seat, armed only with steel weapons and the element of surprise. No magic to be found.

It would be easier if I could win it all.

“Where is Jac?” Erik asked, peering out toward the arena’s entrance, craning his neck to search for him. The flood of people entering had slowed, only a few stragglers still arriving. Two acolytes manned the entrance. It was the lowest of jobs; they wouldn’t even get to watch us kill each other.

I shrugged, feigning ignorance. “I haven’t seen him all morning. I thought he came down with you two.”

Erik’s frown was deep. “No, I haven’t seen him either.”

Björn huffed a laugh. “I didn’t take Jac for a deserter. I suppose, now that Frode is gone, someone had to be the coward between us.”

I clenched my hands and raised an eyebrow. It took all my fortitude to ignore the jab, but I managed. “Jac, a deserter? Not likely.”

“I don’t think so either,” Erik said, shaking his head. The creases in his brow were pronounced. For the first time I noticed dark circles under his eyes. Had he been sleeping poorly despite the gods’ reassurances that even his death would be holy? “I hope he’s all right.”

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