Page 31 of The Coven of Ruin

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Sitting between Ares and Grae, she longingly looked to where Demurielle chatted animatedly with Zyana.

“You do realize I am technically a member of the Circes, right? And I should be sitting with them?” Trista couldn’t keep the irritation from the words.

Ares crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall of the stands, casting his face into shadow. “I’m aware, witch.”

“And you realize that those participating can ask for someone to favor them? No one is going to approach me while I’m sitting between the King of Brooding and his henchman.”

Grae gasped loudly, placing a hand over his heart. “I’ve been reduced to a henchman? You wound me.”

Trista rolled her eyes at the god’s dramatics. Though she didn’t know him well, his troublemaking personality had been apparent from the moment they met. But she didn’t let the god’s tendency to joke distract her from the fact that he was still a god of war.

“Why can’t I have a title? Like…. Lord of Splendor and Grace?” He sat forward, stretching his hands out. “Or The Knight of Valor and Sex Appeal?”

Trista glared at him before turning her attention to Ares, though Grae continued to mutter about titles under his breath.

“You really want one of these mages to approach you for your favor?” The way Ares asked it showed only mild curiosity.

She studied him, but he was looking out at the field, unbothered. Did she want someone to approach her? Not particularly, but they didn’t have to know that. “I guess,” she said slowly, wetting her lips between the words, “I want to see them fight first.”

Grae grunted dubiously.

“And not just jousting,” she added for good measure.

“That’s good, seeing as how they stole this whole idea from mortals. And they can’t even kill each other here,” Grae scoffed. “Have any of them even seen combat before?”

Trista crossed her arms over herself. “And you’d prefer it be the bloodbath of The Arena, then? I amsosorry we don’t kill each other for sport.”

Grae snapped his head to her, his slate eyes widening, his mouth open as if he was just about to say something else. Then he looked to Ares, a silent conversation occurring. It made her uncomfortable, and she felt like she had just said something extremely wrong. Had Ares not told them that he knew her or from where?

“And what do you know about The Arena?” Grae challenged.

“Enough,” she retorted.

“And what does their skill with a lance, or how long they can hold a sword have to do with anything?” Ares asked, pulling her attention back to him. “None of them would survive three minutes in The Arena, let alone save someone else.” He said the last part quieter and then slowly turned his head to look at her, his face an expressionless mask.

None of them are him. Not even close.

Her lips parted, and she couldn’t help the tempest brewing beneath her ribs at the thought. A breeze upset her hair, giving her a moment to reflect as she busied herself with fixing it.

The memories of The Arena, of him that night and the following day, came to her unbidden. The way his body moved, muscles flexing, his calm and predaceous nature. The way he held his sword as if it were an extension of his very being. His blood-drenched tunic sticking to his abs and pecs. Him pulling her into his body, carrying her to the bath. It was hard for her to unbraid the trauma from the pure enchantment of knowing that he had chosen to save her, tokillfor her.

She reminded herself he had done it for some moral standard of his own, and as some form of irritation for another god. But sometimes, when she was twisted in her sheets, unable to sleep, slick with sweat from panic, she pretended he had jumped into The Arena solelybecauseit was her.

His eyes roamed over her features and traveled down her body before he briefly met her gaze to say, “That color suits you, witch.”

Looking down at the dress, she realized that in daylight, it was the color of blood. She swallowed hard, heat rising to her cheeks before she shifted to look out at the fields.

The different events were declared, and there were special mentions for the prolific tournament winners. She recognized some of the names as they stepped forward to cheering crowds. Demurielle undoubtedly had a running commentary about each mage and witch announced.

Jousting would continue from the previous day, and though Trista had never seen anything like it before, she quickly lost interest. The magically constructed lanceswerean impressive display of the wielder’s essence, though. The lances were intricately designed, and she wondered how much magic was poured into making them. However, their clashing and breaking against metal armor made her flinch. It had been helpful the previous day when the ladies all chatted throughout the event, so she hadn’t noticed it as much.

As it were, Ares was encompassed by a brooding silence. He was leaning back, so she couldn’t even see his face without fully turning to look at him. And Grae only made a comment here and there, mostly on how unimpressive the sport was.

The morning passed with endless rounds of jousting, the final one ending in a dishonorable fistfight which Grae found amusing.

But she had quite enough. “Why exactly did I need to sit with you?”

“Do we bore you? Is my charming self not satisfactory enough for you?” Grae asked, again appearing as if she had fatally wounded him.