Page 41 of Cursed Shadows 1

So many light fae sign up to this. About six times as many as the dark fae contenders. Our population is greater. And it’s encouraged, but more than that, it’s an unofficial expectation for any litalf who can fight to enter the Sacrament. It takes that many of us to keep the dark ones at bay, to keep them away from Mother’s slumber.

We lose so many of our kind in the Sacrament—most of all, the second passage.

Will the dark fae get their wish this time?

And who will die for the cause?

My mind flitters to thoughts of Daxeel. And just as I think of him, I scan the battle blocks for any signs of him.

Takes a bit, almost a minute to scour every inch of the expansive area, but I spot him across the way, on a fighting mat with Rune.

I let myself wonder if he’ll survive the Sacrament. But then, the way he moves, the way they both step around in circles, assessing each other, like wild beasts preparing to fight forterritory, and I watch every muscle beneath his combat trousers ripple with each step he takes, and I see nothing but pure and unfiltered killing power.

Can’t stop the heat from flooding my cheeks at the sight of him.

It’s now I realize I’ve never before seen him like this. Not just older, stronger, bigger—deadlier. But without his leathers… without atop.

Each time we came together in Licht, he was in his armour. Always in his leathers.

Not this time.

Without a shirt, without leathers, without boots or daggers, he and Rune keep that careful circle of each other in only black trousers. Their gazes are hooked.

I let my eyes wander over his smooth, caramel complexion. Under the light of fire torches, his tattoo gleams like freshly spilled ink on his skin. A marking he didn’t have ten years ago. I get a better look at it now, how it coats his arm in sharp, thick lines with pointed edges, like the branches of a dark tree. Those inky lines crawl over his strong shoulder, some lick down to his pecs, others flick upwards to the side of his neck.

My teeth bite down on my bottom lip.

The familiar heat stirs in my belly and my toes flex in my boots, as though I can fight off the sudden surges of desire spearing through me.

Rune isn’t unattractive—in fact, I can see how females would throw themselves at his feet. But my eyes are only for Daxeel. That fire burns for him, and him alone.

They run at each other, like their minds both snapped into the decision to fight at the exact some moment. They use their fists only, and it’s enough.

I flinch, a sharp wince through my teeth, as they collide. I almost feel the thunder of their bodies crashing together pulse through the air.

I force my attention to stay on them, to not cringe away from the violence of it all. Not even with each pounding fist against ribcages, or when Rune cracks his head into Daxeel’s nose do I look way. The blood that drips from his nose is black like tar, but he doesn’t flinch before he’s got Rune by the middle and flips him onto his back.

I watch as Dax moves to straddle Rune, but the movement is like pure power slinking beneath hard flesh.

I blink. A frown pinches my brow and… I stare for a long moment.

At first, I think the torchlight plays tricks on my sight, but no, the longer and harder I stare at Daxeel, how he’s carved from muscle and bronze-marble, the better I see them.

Scars. So many scars.

I never saw him without his leathers on… without a shirt on… armour to cover him… to cover those white and twisted scars that run down the sheer power of his back. From shoulder blade to shoulder blade, down his spine, to the dimples at the small of his back—

Littered in lashes. Old, healed scars I’ve seen on a few folk in Licht, scars I recognize from others, ones I’d recognize anywhere they’re so distinct.

The healed flesh is pale, raised and jagged. And I know now, he had them back when we loved each other… He just hid them from me.

Lashes from a whip. Hundreds of them.

Daxeel… who are you?

Cold nausea stirs in my gut like a pit of icy snakes. It’s a horrible sensation, strong enough to twist my hardened face with a grimace as I stalk across the courtyard.

Hands fisted at my sides, I try to shake the image of those ghastly scars and fight against all thoughts that spring to mind.

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