Page 30 of The Coven of Ruin

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The sudden urge to scream, rage, and release all of her magic at him ascended in a rush. She didn’t know where that witch was, or if she had ever truly been her in the first place. The question hurt. It voiced something she had wondered a thousand times since The Arena. She had lost more than her ability to heal, more than her childhood friend. She was adrift even within herself.

Unable to answer that question, she asked her own instead. “Why are you here, Ares?” Exhaustion settled in her bones as her magic fizzled out with her resolve.

She thought it was surprise that rippled across his features as he stiffened.

“It’s Reas,” he corrected and took a step back, taking all the heat in the room with him.

She could suddenly breathe deeper and think clearer, as he did. “You couldn’t have come up with anything better than just rearranging the letters of your name, at least?”

He snorted and bent over to grab her dagger off the floor. “I’m here on business.” He flipped it from hilt to blade in his hand. “Why areyouhere?”

“You sent for me—“

“No,” he interrupted, “why are you in Spellspire and not where I left you?”

Trista opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. He wasn’t forthcoming with his reasoning, so she wouldn’t be either. “Business,” she retorted through her best defiant smile.

Huffing out just a breath of a laugh, he handed her dagger back, hilt first. “You’ll tell no one about this,” he gestured to his chest.

“Or what, you’ll kill me?”

He shrugged. “Good night, witch.” A dismissal.

She moved numbly toward the door, but then, remembering why she was there in the first place, she stopped. Ares was still watching her when she looked back at him. “But why did you send for me?”

“You’ve already answered the question I had.”

Chapter XIV

Therainshadcomeand gone, leaving the capital’s landscape verdant and bursting with life. When the rains subsided, they were followed by a stifling humidity, the temperature heating beyond anything she had ever felt at the Akeso. All of which made Trista ill-tempered. Her hair reflected her mood—frizzy and uncontrollable even with magic.

And then there was the fact that Ares was dying. It had taken the better part of a day for that information to filter through her emotional blockade. It bothered her in a way she couldn’t name. Was he going to require her to act on the life debt to try and heal him? Her life for his? But something about that nagged at her. He couldn’t possibly want that.

The battling emotions imprisoned her in her own body. Unlike before, she couldn’t just numb it out. Options she might have considered at the Akeso weren’t possible in Spellspire. Something burned just underneath the surface, forcing her blood, her magic, her essence to follow through. As if it were herdestiny.

To make things worse, since her visit to Ares’ tower, Prince Nero and his troupe of godly generalswere nowhere to be seen. They hadn’t even been in attendance at the tournament’s opening yesterday.

As they walked to the fields for the tournament’s second day, Demurielle chatted about her potential suitors. “I cut five more ribbons. I’m keeping my options open and definitely not settling.” She displayed the ribbons winding from her wrist all the way up her forearm. “I feel like this is a good way for me to decide who is mage enough for me to pursue,” Demurielle explained. “But only if they ask me properly.”

Zyana frowned but refrained from speaking her thoughts.

The mages and witches in attendance for the Circes season had the honor of having seats near the royal family in large stands that expanded over half the field. Majums and advisors had their own booths, but all except for the foreign covens chose to sit in the main stands. On the other side of the stadium were the sweeping seats of the general public.

Just as she planted her foot on the first step leading to yesterday’s seats, Trista felt a hand rest on her shoulder. Turning, she followed a muscled forearm up to look into molten golden eyes. “You’ll sit with me,” Ares said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t giving her a choice.

Trista pulled her arm away. “I want to sit with the other ladies of the covens,” she said, her tone stern, but quiet.

“You’ll sit with me,” Ares repeated evenly. An almost friendly smile curled one side of his lips, but his eyes conveyed his pointed meaning.

Balling her hands into fists, she looked skyward, trying to find patience. “I will not be sitting—“

He took her hand in his, his grasp firm, and tucked it into the crook of his arm. She made an annoyed noise in her throat and looked back at Dem and Zy, who had just noticed she wasn’t with them. Demurielle looked between them questioningly and then smiled. Elbowing Zyana, they both waved goodbye, the latter far less eagerly than the other.

Trista looked up at Ares, who paid her no mind as they walked to the stands set aside for The Coven of Iron. “I would have liked to sit with my friends.”

“Unfortunate.” He offered her a tight smile.

“You donotown me or my time,“ she hissed as he let her arm go so she could step up the stairs. Holding her skirts, she stomped up them inelegantly. Their seats were cushioned, and a canvas shade protected them from the sun. Since the stands were reserved for foreign dignitaries and visiting royalty, they sat separate from the royal seats but close enough to be considered an honored position.