Rebecca slipped away as soon as she could.

She'd thought the first round was brutal. But she'd been wrong. So wrong it wasn't funny. It was tame compared to all the rest. After the third round she was so frazzled she felt ill.

The first round had been a drag—going from 1000 competitors to 500. The second had been shorter and more violent—from 500 to 250. And the third had just finished. Now there were only 125 hopefuls left, left to be limited down to a mere 100.

They were now having a break. At least that's what Ferro had told her. She knew it was for her though—the lie. There were no breaks, not even when it was nearly five in the afternoon. But he'd clearly seem how strung out she looked. Besides, she was Queen. If she wanted to take a break, they were taking a break. No questions asked.

Ferro walked behind her as she descended the stairs, paranoid she'd trip and fall. He seemed to realise she needed space. Not that she got it. Lining the stairs, occasionally stationed were guards. Weaving around them proved to be more effort than it was worse, but Rebecca didn't care.

She needed to be on her own. Ferro wasn't leaving her side, she knew that, but he wasn't completely unwelcoming either.

"Where can I go?" she asked, voice quiet. "Where no one will see me?"

"Just follow," he said, voice surprisingly gentle.

Rebecca let him take the lead, wishing she could avoid all the prying eyes, as they made it to the lower platform. She hated that they could see her vulnerable. It was what she tried to hide from others.

They breached the first set of stairs and Rebecca hurried to catch up with Ferro. He was walking fast for her benefit, and she was grateful for it. She was just unlucky to have short legs.

"Am I officially the queen now?" she whispered.

Ferro shook his head. "Not technically. Others will see it that way, but it's technically not true. Until your coronation it won't be official."

Rebecca was conscious of every step on the stairs—she couldn't wear a dress on flat ground, let alone a set of stairs. "Will they let me go to school?"

Considering she'd been ostracised on her first day, it wasn't a smart choice. But she needed something to do during the day—and she was used to school.

"No one can tell you not to go."

That was reassuring, she thought, as they got to the ground outside the arena. When Ferro turned left instead of right she went with him, trusting his judgement.

They ended up at a dead end, heading right the only way to go. It led to the area she'd seen before—full of makeshift tents. Fae were walking around, men and woman of various ages talking and walking around in groups.

Rebecca didn't blend in. At all. They were black fighting gear; she wore an obnoxiously sparkly dress. It was like a giant flashing here I am sign.

They openly stared at her. Then they all bowed their heads to her, murmuring what sounded like, "Your Grace." As though she deserved the deference they were giving so freely. Because she'd done nothing so far to earn it.

She wanted to ask why Ferro had chosen here, but she knew she just had to trust him.

Her question was answered when he stopped next to a white tent; sweeping the curtain that acted as the door aside. He stood, leaving it open and Rebecca walked forward into the tent.

It was empty, that's the first thing she noticed. And it was like someone had lifted a giant weight off her shoulders. Inside there wasn't much. Just a chaise style lounge on the left wall and a table in the middle. With various blades on top—which she chose to ignore.

Moving on autopilot, she walked to the lounge and all but collapsed onto it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered aloud. "I freaked out . . . and I don't know . . ."

The lounge dipped as he sat next to her. Rebecca didn't hesitate to lean into his side, tears stinging her eyes.

"Don't be sorry. You've been here just over a month. This is all new. And Fae are out there, ready to go to their deaths for you. You're allowed to be freaked out."

He was right—about all of it. But she felt like an idiot. "Should I start calling you dad now?"

Ferro laughed quietly. "Rebecca, before your mother died, I made a promise I'd protect you. And I'll fulfil that until I can no longer."

Rebecca rested her head on his shoulder. "What's with all the tents?" she whispered.

"This is where the competitors train before they go out."

That explained the blades on the table. "Oh."

Ferro pulled back and Rebecca let him. "I'll be outside. Stay in here as long as you have to."

As he left the room, Rebecca listened to his footsteps recede. As the curtain curled up and closed again, she could do nothing but sit.

Absently, her hand went to her stomach, over the knife shaped scar. The fear she'd felt back then was akin to how she felt now. Considering she was in no danger, it made no sense. Maybe it was sharp weapons. Maybe it was the violence. Regardless, it was something.

It made Rebecca feel weak. She'd built up layers to protect herself. They'd come down when Mikael had entered her life . . . before, he'd promptly stabbed her in the back leaving her vulnerable. She'd thought they were back again, but it clearly wasn't the case.

She stretched out on the chaise, resting her head on the cushioned arm rest.

Her heart was racing. Her palms were clammy. Her breathing was uneven. Her mind was clouded with panic.

She was a mess . . . and the glue to hold herself together was gone.

Tears started to fall. She didn't know why—couldn't explain the reaction. But they wet her cheeks, dripping onto the arm rest.

Right now she'd kill to have her dad's arms around her. Smell his cologne that clung to him like a blanket. Just know he was there.

But she didn't have it.

She should have been overjoyed. Fae were fighting over her. Fae she didn't know loved her blindly. She lived in a palace.

But in spite of the splendour, she felt . . . empty. Aside from Adam and Ferro she had no one—no one to trust or look to for advice. She'd been expecting to make friends—but that plan had clearly failed.

Rebecca was tempted to rip the dress off, curl up in a ball and hide. She didn't want to leave the tent—the silence and privacy was the best thing she'd been around all day. Going back out to the arena and the leering gazes? Yeah, she liked where she was just fine.

Rebecca didn't care if they were waiting for her.

Given the choice, she'd never had volunteered to be Queen. But she was stuck here now and she couldn't change it. It didn't mean she felt better about any of this—just resignation.

She stared around the tent interior, wishing there was more to see. The table was out considering the blades lying around. That left the soft material of the walls.

Rebecca shut her eyes. Seeing nothing was better than blades and walls—

"Rebecca."

Ferro's voice was a quiet whisper but Rebecca jumped nonetheless. Opening her eyes, she blinked rapidly to clear her vision through the haze of tears, turning to the front entrance. Ferro stood just inside door flap, looking tense.

"If it's bad news, don't tell me," she muttered, sitting up.

"Rebecca—"

"I'm so sorry! I had to find the right tent!"

The frantic, high pitched voice made Rebecca wince. Slowly, she looked next to Ferro, catching sight of someone else crowding into the tent. She didn't look any older than Rebecca, but she was much larger and muscular. The grey shirt and pants still looked too large on her frame. Blonde hair was woven into a bun at the top of her head—so light it had to be because of peroxide.

"Tact," Ferro said, the word a quiet warning. "You're in front of your Queen."

The girl blinked rapidly. Then, as she bowed at the waist, the tray in her hand almost toppling to the ground. "I'm sorry— I . . . I didn't mean— uh . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

As the girl continued to ramble Rebecca sent a helpless glance to Ferro. He wasn't looking at her though, instead at the girl with a disapproving frown. Clearly he was offering no help.

Acting on autopilot—and forced politeness—she stood. Then she walked over to the girl, unsure of what to do. Did she talk to her? Yell? Help her stand? In the end instinct made the choice for her. Rebecca was grabbing for the precariously balanced metal tray before she knew it.

As she gripped both sides with her hands, she was surprised at how heavy it was.

The girl seemed to freeze as if she was a statue.

When she didn't move for a few more minutes, Rebecca frowned. Walking to the table she quickly deposited the tray before returning. "Uh, hey, are you okay?"

When there was only silence Ferro cleared his throat loudly.

The girl's head lifted. The girl seemed make up for the prolonged silence—the words coming out in a rush. "I'm so sorry My Queen . . . I meant no disrespect. I swear it. I just couldn't find the tent . . ."

Rebecca didn't hear a word that was heard. No, she was too busy staring at the girl's eyes. The rings around the irises were golden. Golden.

"Are your eyes contacts?" Rebecca whispered.

The girl stopped talking, eyes widening to the point where it would've been comical in any other situation. "My Queen?"

When Rebecca realised her hand had crept up to her own face—her eyes—she dropped it. "Your eyes . . . they're golden."

The girl stared at Rebecca as if she was something out of the ordinary. "Of course they're golden My Queen."

"Do the contacts hurt?"

She shook her head. "My Queen . . . they're not contacts."

Rebecca's mouth fell open—her previous sadness and nervous energy forgotten. "They're not? They're real?"

"I'm am Lupus, Your Grace."

"Lupus?" Rebecca echoed stupidly.

"Lupus. Werewolf."

Werewolf.

At that point, Rebecca knew she was going through sensory overload. "I'm going to pass out," she whispered, vision spinning dangerous. "Ferro—"

The word was cut short as everything went black.

Rebecca came to, hearing voices whisper in the background—the noise sounding like static electricity.

Judging by the soft material underneath her, she was back on the chaise, lying across it.

"I didn't mean . . . she just . . . I swear, sir . . ."

"It's not your fault . . ."

Rebecca moved her hand, glad when it didn't object to the movement. Then she tested her voice. "Ferro . . ." Her voice came out as little more than a croak.

"Rebecca. Are you okay?"

She forced her eyes open. The light was momentarily blinding, but she blinked rapidly to quell the stupor. "Ferro," she whispered again. "I didn't mean to pass out. But werewolf?"

He laughed quietly, and she knew he was next to her. "We didn't pace this well," he muttered.

She rolled her eyes. "Is it true?"

If it was, she could hardly act surprised.

"Yes, Your Grace. It's true." The voice belonged to the girl who'd dropped the bomb before.

Rebecca turned her head, seeing the girl standing by the table, shifting from foot-to-foot uncomfortably. She was looking at everywhere but Rebecca.

The shock of it all had chased away all her fear from before. Curiosity had taken control. "How? Do you turn into a wolf?"

"I shift, Your Grace. But only under moonlight."

"This is nuts," Rebecca muttered. "Werewolves. Fae fighting over me. What else is going to happen?"

No one laughed—which wasn't surprising.

"Your Grace, if I may?"

Rebecca just sighed, but it was taken as an affirmative.

"I did not mean to offend. I was only meaning to bring you something to eat."

That explained the tray. Rebecca felt a little guilty—because now it had to be cold. Speaking of . . .

"How long was I out for?" she asked.

"No more than ten minutes," Ferro said.

With a sigh, Rebecca sat up. "Do I have to go back now?" Her voice was resigned.

"Not if you don't want to."

Rebecca didn't want to. But she didn't have a choice, did she?

"You must eat first, Your Grace."

As if on cue, her stomach grumbled. No more than a second later the tray was placed in her lap. Rebecca stared down at the array of food—a sandwich, some peanuts, and something that looked like some sort of slice.

Rebecca reached for the cold sandwich; pausing as she looked at Ferro and the girl. She felt lost again—unsure of what to do.

"Eat, Rebecca. You need it."

Wordlessly, she took a bite. It was nothing compared to anything he dad cooked, but it was edible. "What's your name?" she whispered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ferro stand. "I'll wait outside."

When he was gone, Rebecca dropped the sandwich, frowning down at it. "I'm a terrible Queen. You've seen me for less than an hour and you can see that I'm hopeless."

The girl shook her head. "No, Your Grace. No one thinks that. And its Aryana—my name."

Rebecca laughed bitterly. "You're saying that because you're scared I'll curse you or something." Could she actually curse someone? Rebecca didn't know—but she'd blown up a whole realm so it was likely.

The girl leant back against the table, rubbing her palms on her pants. "If I may speak freely, Your Grace?"

People didn't ask her for permission to talk—but clearly it wasn't the same with Faeries. "Uh, sure," she muttered. "And my name's Rebecca."

The girl released a heavy breath. "Lupus have served Fae for hundreds of years. And that has been for royals inadvertently. No Queen is perfect—they all rule differently. And you're the youngest Queen in history. When I came here, I was expecting Countess Rivera."

Rebecca winced, picking at the sandwich. She also wasn't surprised her name had been ignored.

"You're a much better Queen than she could have ever been. That I can tell already."

Rebecca wanted to call out the lie but she couldn't—she sounded so sincere. "So," she said to distract herself. "Werewolves and Faeries—how do they mix?"

"During the war. Lupus were enslaved by Fae. Since then, it has gotten better. Our species still serve yours today."

And I'm complaining about being Queen, Rebecca thought loathingly. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Aryana looked taken aback. "You have no reason to be."

Rebecca shrugged. "Yeah, well, I am."

And, she realised, she was wrong to sit here and feel sorry for herself. She had nothing to complain about—nothing worth mentioning anyway.

Abruptly, she stood. "Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

For making her realise she was acting self-absorbed. This didn't just affect her. Those in the arena were relying on her. Without her they'd get nowhere. She could hide from all of this, but where would it leave all the Fae waiting for her to return.

"A lot," she said simply.

Then—ready or not—she turned and walked to the entry way of the tent.

At some point you had to grow up and realise it wasn't about you. Rebecca was realising that now. She had to become an adult now—she couldn't let the pressure of this all overwhelm her to the point where she just hid from it all.

She was a Queen—and she had to act like one.

Good or bad, she had to try.