Page 62 of A Bargain with the Fae King

It has the same effect today, pushing my worries and confusion from the night before to the recesses of my mind. The company doesn’t hurt either.

“Slowpokes,” Sylvie taunts as she zips past Galen and me.

He grins and shakes his head, keeping pace at my side.

They’re much faster despite my penchant for running. Most fae are—seems they’re better at just about everything, actually. However, at least one of them has slowed their pace to run beside me all morning, the other often running ahead to push themselves and then doubling back to trade places with the other.

It’s a race I’ll never win, but I try anyway.

“Watch this,” Galen taunts when Sylvie laps back to us. He takes off at a sprint as she slows up near me.

Their relationship could be more. I see the spark of it, the occasional tension of something more than friendship. Galen’s oblivious to it, or tries very hard to ignore it, but it’s clear as day in Sylvie’s actions. At least to me.

Sweat runs down my back, my chest, my legs, basically everywhere, by the time we stop. I laugh—maybe the first true one I’ve uttered since May was kidnapped—between heavy gasps as Galen suggests we head to the sparring ring, as if our run was just the warm-up and not the workout itself.

“Give me… just a few… minutes.” I nearly collapse on the bottom row of a set of benches outside the sparring ring where several fae are training. “So…” I say once I’ve finally caught my breath. “How did you two meet?”

I shove sweat-slicked hair behind my ear as I glance between them. Honestly, I’ve been dying to know, but the last two days were too…everything. Bringing up such lighthearted topics felt wrong. The ache in my chest is proof it still does, but I need the distraction, anything not to slip into the dark pit of my worries for May.

Sylvie stretches out on the bench. “We met while training after we became members of Riven’s guard.”

The whole story spills out in gushes as she rambles about their early days of training. Galen nods along politely, adding a detail here and there.

I steadfastly refuse to ask their ages—not going there again—but I gather they’re younger than Riven.

A hint springs up when Sylvie says, “Galen’s older and has been with the guard longer, but I’m more talented, so we were promoted to elite around the same time.”

Galen shrugs, unbothered by the statement. “It’s true.”

They’d been bitter rivals at first, but that rivalry drove them to exceed and earn their promotion. Then it softened into strong friendship and comradery. The hint of a smile creeps to my lips as I spy Galen’s stolen glances at Sylvie as she wraps up her tale.

No sooner has she kicked up her feet, signaling the end of her tale, than Galen starts pointing out the moves performed by the sparring fae. Their strengths, their weaknesses, and how I can apply them to my own fighting. He’s taking this instructor bit seriously, and I sure as heck am determined to be a good student.

“Entrancing, isn’t it?” someone says behind me.

I jump in my seat at the unexpected question, my attention snapping toward the voice and away from the action in the ring. Ambrose strides toward us, extra stubble shading his jaw.

I leap to my feet. “Oh, please tell me you found her.”

My hope crashes and burns at the look on his face, falling further with the somber shake of his head. He taps a thick piece of paper on one palm.

My legs give out. I collapse back onto the bench.

No.

“That letter. It feels wrong.” Sylvie’s voice holds a note of something I’ve never heard from her. Fear.

“It’s from the Unseelie,” Ambrose says.

A deathly chill strips the heat from my body.

“One of them delivered it to us, via an arrow through Argus’s thigh. A poisoned arrow.”

Galen swears. Sylvie goes pale and looks like she might be sick.

“Is there an antidote?” My voice shakes.

Ambrose looks away, his jaw hard. “Took him too fast. His magic couldn’t hold off the poison.”

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