“I shall face the beast,” declared a strong, confident voice.
Oh no. Of all fae…it had to be him.
Eogan, the captain of Maeve’s war band, cut through the crowd. Amidst the gathered courtiers, he loomed like a raven surrounded by songbirds. The thick plates of his ebony plate mail clanked together as he swept a deep bow in Maeve’s direction.
“And when I have punished him for his impudence,” Eogan continued, straightening and shooting Cuan a poisonous glare, “I shall make you a gift of the human woman, my lady, as a small token of my undying loyalty and respect. As any true sidhe would.”
General murmurs of appreciation followed this statement. Maeve favored the knight with an approving smile. “Courteous as always, my dear Sir Eogan. You may have the honor of the first match, then.”
The crowd drew back, leaving them alone in a ring of space. Cuan reached for his blades, summoning the silver scimitars from thin air with a practiced gesture. He started to sweep them up in the traditional salute to signal his readiness to begin the duel—and then paused, eying his opponent.
Normally a duel would be to first blood, but given that Eogan was dressed head-to-foot in the finest plate while he himself wore only studded leather, this seemed like a poor idea. He had small hope of winning, but he would prefer not to lose within the first five seconds.
He turned to Maeve. It was unorthodox, but… “Permission to duel until one of us submits, my lady?”
As he’d hoped, Maeve’s bloodthirsty nature worked in his favor on this occasion. Her faemarks glimmered with flashes of gold, betraying her delight at the prospect of a serious fight. “What a splendid idea. Until one warrior concedes, then.”
“It shall not be I.” Eogan also summoned his weapon—a massive two-handed sword twice the length of Cuan’s own curved blades. He clanged the visor of his helm down, hiding his face. “Make sure you cry mercy loudly, hound. I fear I may not hear you the first time.”
Well, this is off to a wonderful start.
“Wait!” The human woman intercepted him as he started toward his opponent. “You can’t face him like that. He’s a walking steel tank! This isn’t a fair fight.”
Marvelous. Even a mundane human who had been in the fae realms for all of five minutes had managed to deduce the odds at a glance. That certainly boosted his confidence.
If I am about to die, I may as well make best use of my last few moments…
He held out one hand to the woman, palm up. She stared at it, then up at him. From her expression, he might as well have offered her an armadillo.
“My lady,” he murmured. “I cannot touch you without your permission.”
Slowly, like a mouse edging toward a baited trap, she lifted a hand. Her palm hesitated above his for a moment, so close that he could feel the warmth of her skin.
Then her fingers curled around his. Heat shot through his body at the contact, so shockingly swift that it felt like she’d enchanted him.
It was likely to be the only time he ever touched her.
It was worth it.
“I wish that I was a champion worthy of you, my lady.” He tightened his fingers on hers, wishing he could hold on to her forever. “I can only swear to you that I will fight for you to my last breath. I will not yield.”
Her worried eyes cut from him to Eogan and back again. “Look, I’m still not thrilled about being a prize in some macho pissing contest, but between you and the other guy, I know who’s got my support. So far you’re the nicest elf I’ve met, not that that’s a high bar to clear. I don’t want you to get yourself killed over me.”
“I will not yield,” he said again, and let her go.