I glare at him and his chin tips down, his intensity waning ever so slightly. But not enough. Not completely. He’s doing this.
And Theron is too. His men are begging him to. Crying out for him, for Cordell. “Prove our strength, my prince! Prove our power and might!”
No man can refuse to answer that call. And watching Mather across the ring, feeling just how alone and weak and small we are surrounded by people who have a kingdom and an identity—
I’d answer that call. However stupid or selfish or wrong, I’d answer it. I wheeze in that realization, one hand going to my chest as I suck down gulps of sweat-heavy air. I’d answer the call of my kingdom, of the Winterians, crying out for me to prove myself to them.
To prove that they really do come first, always, no matter what.
When Theron releases my hand and pulls out of my grip, I don’t say anything. I should. I should beg him to turn away from this and walk back inside the barn and ignore the cries of his people, but my own voice screams in my head, warping the Cordellans’ words back at me.
Prove yourself, Meira! Prove yourself to Winter. You want to matter to your kingdom, and you want your kingdom to matter to you?
Then prove it.
Do what you must. Not what you WANT. What you must.
Prove it!
One of Theron’s men hands him a practice sword. My eyes latch onto the movement as Theron hesitates, fingers twitching, and takes it.
The moment Theron touches the hilt, Mather dives. Silent and deadly, he flings his body in a graceful albeit slightly too aggressive flourish, swinging the sword wide at Theron’s head. Theron ducks, rolls to the opposite side of the ring, dust swirling as he rights himself and uses the momentum to swipe at Mather’s legs. Mather’s left knee buckles just long enough for Theron to get traction to stand—and then it’s madness.
It’s the kind of sword fight Sir has told stories about, with two opponents bent on chopping each other to pieces but both so equal that neither can get an upper hand. Theron beats Mather to one side of the ring—Mather kicks out Theron’s legs and drops him to the ground—Theron flips backward and slaps Mather’s blow aside—Mather uses that blow to catch Theron’s knee—
The soldiers’ cheers grow with each strike. I don’t even know who they’re cheering for anymore, just that they’re thrown into a frenzy by two royals beating the pulp out of each other. The higher their screams rise, the more my heart throbs, caught up in the fever of the sword fight and how I’m teetering on the edge of those two words still jabbing into me.
Prove it.
Mather wraps his sword around Theron’s and yanks it free, hurling it over the tightly crowded heads. Panic flows into me, panic at it going too far, at the blinding insanity of the crowd, at the way the soldiers scream with anticipation and Mather slams his foot into Theron’s chest. Theron drops to the ground, the wind knocked out of him and Mather closes in, his sword in both hands over his head, moments away from cracking down on Theron’s skull.
I’m under the rope and in the ring before I can breathe. “Surrender!” I scream as I tear toward them. “Theron, surrender!”
Neither of them hears me. Neither of them flinches or breathes or sees anything beyond this fight.
I stumble between them, my arms flailing out toward Mather as my legs brace over Theron. Mather’s sword shoots up through the air, rising and rising, cutting the breeze ahead of his final screaming threat as I reach for his arms, his sword, something to prevent this.
It stops. The entire area freezes as if Noam stiffened every Cordellan with his conduit.
I exhale, body still thrown out in one last feeble attempt to keep Mather from making a really, really big mistake, and the noise that silenced everyone comes again.
“MATHER!”
Sir. His white head bobs in and out of the tightly packed Cordellan soldiers, weaving his way to us through the throng.
“Golden leaves,” Theron hisses from the ground.
I don’t see Mather’s face. I don’t see much of anything when I turn and Theron looks up at me, blood speckling his chest, a few red-black splotches in the shape of Mather’s spiked boot.
“Medic!”
It’s Dominick. He drags a tiny man with an overflowing pouch of bandages, and they duck under the rope, instantly yanking Theron’s hand off his chest.
Dominick turns to the men still gaping at their prince and the foreign Season king. “Fun’s over. Back to training now!”
The men hurry away. It’s such a violent switch in priorities that my brain can’t catch up, stuck on Theron’s blood and Mather’s anger and the echo of the Cordellans’ shouts, of my own voice in my head, screaming at me to choose.