The High Lord's Champion

Trial III

For a girl a few pounds from skin and bones, dressed in reeking rags, she carried an unusually confident air. Straight to the throne she marched. "Two trials stand behind you," Amarantha claimed, looking all too bored as she picked at her scarlet gown. "And only one more awaits. I wonder if it will be worse to fail now—when you are so close."

A handful of her entourage snickered but it was by no means the reaction she would have received at another time. These were our final moments with a hope of freedom. There were no prayers to save us. There was a human girl. One in this moment we would all show our respect until that hope was a flame fully extinguished. We would not mock Feyre Archeron until she had truly failed us.

Amarantha's glare was deadly, but we were unyielding. She turned back to Feyre. "Any words to say before you die."

She turned to Tamlin, spouting the same words she had walked into this place with. "I love you. No matter what she says about it, no matter if it's only with my insignificant human heart." I pray Tamlin won't finish Amarantha. I need some hand in it. "Even when they burn my body," Feyre went on, "I'll love you."

That cruel smile made it's way back to Amarantha's lips. "You'll be lucky, my darling, if we even have enough left of you to burn." Feyre only stood taller at that and her darting eyes told me not all of that strength came from within herself. Her confidence came from Prythian's citizens, self-serving as she may rightfully believe us to be. "You never figured out my riddle, did you? Pity. The answer is so lovely."

"Get it over with," Feyre growled, her distain dripping from each syllable.

Amarantha turned towards the High Lord at her side. "No final words to her?" The silence remained and I didn't miss the flicker in Feyre's hard eyes—or the determination that followed. "Very well, then."

The door opened and the atmosphere of the room shifted in an instant. Three faeries entered the room, their faces shielded with cloth sacks so not even their hair could be seen. No hint to Feyre or anyone else who was playing the victim this time. Then the servants appeared. Three High Fae. Three servants. Three black pillows. I nearly cursed as I spotted the ash daggers cradled in each perfect velvet pillow. Feyre should get to kill her.

Amarantha gave a theatrical sweep towards the kneeling trio. "Your final task, Feyre. Stab each of these unfortunate souls in the heart." I watched with my mask securely in place as the fury and confidence drained from my champion's eyes. Fuck. I would not lose her here.

"They're innocent—not that it should matter to you," Amarantha continued, "since it wasn't a concern the day you killed Tamlin's poor sentinel. And it wasn't a concern for dear Jurian when he butchered my sister. But, if it's a problem... well, you can always refuse. Of course, I'll take your life in exchange, but a bargain's a bargain, is it not? If you ask me though, given your history with murdering our kind, I do believe I'm offering you a gift."

Facing her trial I would have already made my choice. I had enough blood on my hands this would be three little drops to save thousands more. But what had she done but hunt to keep from starving. Feyre Archeron's hands and heart were still clean. For now. "Well?" Amarantha prompted, raising her hand to angle her ring, turning Jurian's eye down on the torn human holding our freedom. "I wouldn't want you to miss this, old friend."

Feyre stepped forward, her eyes slightly unfocused as she grabbed the first blade. "Not so fast." Her game wasn't through. The first male's face was revealed. "That's better. Proceed, Feyre, darling. Enjoy it."

It had been a very long time since I had fought side by side with humans. Since that war I'd stuck firmly to my own lands. That didn't mean I'd forgotten how differently they reacted—what influence their heart had in their actions when they made their kills. Even now she hesitated, looking to me as the faerie at her feet begged for his life. This trial I couldn't help in.

"Please!" But her blade struck true.

Amarantha guided her on, confident her tears would keep her from taking another life. They didn't. The female kneeling in the center was just coming into her full Fae body. Not old enough to be a pawn in this game. The male hadn't been either. I doubt the third would deserve this any more than the others.

"Cauldron save me, Mother hold me. Guide me to you." Feyre's tears flowed heavy, rattling her stick-thin frame. "Let me pass through the gates; let me smell that immortal land of milk and honey."

Even faerie prayers could shake a human.

"Let me fear no evil." The Fae girl's words ended in a whisper. "Let me feel no pain." That closure even as quiet as it was seemed to ripple over the crowd gathered.

"I'm sorry." Feyre seemed dazed enough I doubted she herself could hear her own pleas for forgiveness. Two words carrying such weight I knew she felt that damnation wrapping around her heart already. I now live and breath it, no matter who I'm protecting. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Let me enter eternity." A nod from the girl and her last words, uttered so quietly only Feyre could hear, must have numbed Feyre's shattering soul, because for a second time she drove the ash blade deep into her trial victim.

Whispers and weeping filled the room as the girl slumped to the floor. I dared to let me gaze drift to the smirking female so casually draped over her throne. She should be panicking. Breaking or no, only one knife—one Fae heart—kept the continent under Amarantha's thumb from freedom.

An unguarded thought shot down the bridge, snapping my attention back to Feyre and the male before her.

I will kill this last faerie and then turn this dagger on my own heart.

Damnation indeed.

Then the sack was yanked off, showing the faerie world just who Feyre's last kill would be. "Something wrong?" Amarantha taunted her—us—Prythian. Shock chilled my blood before turning to pure dread. This would be her end. Our end. "Not... not fair." Because she didn't know. She didn't know every tiny detail of Amarantha's curse on Tamlin. Dread turned to rage I could barely channel.

"Fair." The red-haired female tilted her head slightly, fingering Jurian's bone as if contemplating Feyre's accusations. "I wasn't aware you humans knew of the concept. You kill Tamlin, and he's free. And then you can have him all to yourself." Amarantha was wearing the champion's crown now. She had won and she knew it. So she prattled on and on about human hearts and betrayals, giving Feyre the mockery of time.

But thought after thought was rippling down that channel between Feyre and me.

Alis. She said something.

The Attor in the garden.

Tamlin and Lucian in the dining room.

Amarantha knows I can't kill him. Or this is a dangerous game for her.

She was so close to seeing the truth. So close to our freedom while our enemy did her previctory dance.

Amarantha would never risk me killing him—because she knew I couldn't kill him. Not if his heart couldn't be pierced by a blade. Not if his heart had been turned to stone.

At last she took a step forward. Another, her eyes never leaving Tamlin's. I wanted to look. I knew Amarantha's expression would be priceless. How had the pathetic, illiterate, human trash discovered the truth behind her final trial? But just as Feyre wouldn't stray from the High Lord of Spring, I could not stray from her. No one could, considering what significance this held for us.

Again she said those words. "I love you." And then her blade drove straight through flesh. Flesh that would heal after his stone heart was struck.