Will, panting heavily but otherwise unharmed, threw the shield—and the axe impaled in its curvature—to the ground. Then he returned his focus to Braidy, who'd honorably set his own shield aside to level the playing field.

It was a gesture I hadn't expected from the clansman, but one that completely transformed my opinion of him.

As the two resumed fighting, Rhean spectators roared with excitement and fervor, invested in Will's progression and another potential upset. Meanwhile, Mason's hand still gripped tight to my wrist, no longer an act of caution, but an anchor of emotional support. The contact helped soothe the anxious upheaval beneath my skin, and in this moment, there was honestly no one else I'd rather have by my side.

Mason knew exactly how much Will meant to me, and he'd seen it long before we ventured into Rhea. Oddly enough, he was the only living witness to my early interactions with the prince, and in the months that followed Will's departure, he'd observed my paranoid and despondent behavior with a scrutinizing gaze. Then, in the gutters of Rhea, he'd watched me crumble apart after losing Will to his brother's scheme, and he'd reprimanded the idiot for trying to run away again, fully aware of the trauma I'd endured.

Mason had been there for every stage of this rocky romance, and he alone could understand the terror in my bones right now—and the painful history behind it.

I focused again on Will and his nimble opponent. The royal seemed happy to have ditched his shield, but despite the fluidity of his movements, his struggle was evident. The last few fights had worn him down and chipped away at his stamina. Not to mention, his rival was older and more experienced, and he moved like a viper—attacking quickly, and with purpose.

There was a kind of beauty to their rally, though. A rhythm to the clanging metal and deliberate footfalls, a congruence to their fades and lunges.

It was obvious that Braidy valued the art of swordsmanship and the rules of the sport, and he seemed more intent on experiencing a good, proper fight than anything. In a way, he treated Will like a pupil of his own—like a specimen to be studied and appreciated and dutifully educated. A worthy opponent, if but a little young.

But Will's training was not exclusive to royal guards or Belgatian veterans. He'd also learned the craft from Victor. And Victor Álvarez didn't follow any rules.

Upon Braidy's next attack, Will dragged the intersecting blades to his far left, then elbowed the man square in the chest—twice. But upon his second attempt, Braidy grabbed hold of the boy's wrist and, to my utter horror, flipped him over.

It would have cost Will his victory if he hadn't landed in a bridge position. With his spine arched off the ground and his shoulders pressed to the wood, he wrestled with Braidy's fists, attempting to free himself from the precarious backbend.

Both men's swords dragged along the ground in their struggle, faces contorted as their feet slipped across pinewood. Then Will yanked his joined hands downward, straight to his left hip, and Braidy's upper body followed. Cursing, the older man pitched forward, reaching out to catch himself on the stage floor next to Will's shoulder.

The prince immediately tugged his hands free from the mess of flesh and metal, and before Braidy could untangle himself, Will plucked a hunting knife from his belt and pressed it to the man's nape—still keeping his back off the wood, per Reese's warning.

Braidy stilled against the blade on his neck, slowly coming to terms with the fact that Will had just bested him. And after a few seconds of an internal debate, he shifted all his weight onto one hand and raised his other in surrender.

A forfeit.

The crowd bellowed in approval, and my muscles unclenched as a cool wave of relief fell upon me, sweeping away the distress...for now.

The prince released his opponent, and the two rolled apart to grin at each other. I couldn't make out their dialogue over the cheers, but I could detect the admiration and respect in their gazes.

It seemed Will had achieved the deference he sought from his elders after all, save for a few notable exceptions. And now, only one obstacle remained.

One large, angry obstacle.

As Braidy made his exit, Laughlin slowly approached the royal with a six-foot glaive in his hand. He planted his feet a few yards away from Will, and his black eyes traveled over the boy's bloody leg and neck, then the endless scrapes, cuts, and bruises he'd acquired thus far.

"Get him some water," he told one of the refugees.

Will, shaking his head, took up a fighting stance once more. His forehead was drenched in sweat, and a few of his bangs had fallen loose from his ponytail, but he donned a mask of resilience. "I'm fine. Let's get this over with."

Laughlin pressed his lips together, his frown lines joining the deep scars on his face. "You're barely standing on two feet, kid."

Will merely raised his sword, requesting another round, and I wanted to clobber him over the head. He had to know this was insane, right? Facing the Chief of the Friedman Clan after expending all that energy? A man with biceps so large, he could probably flick my head straight off my shoulders? A man with stubble so sharp, he probably tore up his pillowcase every night?

Will had to see the futility there.

Then again, I supposed beating Laughlin wasn't the victory Will needed today—not really. This whole spectacle was about proving himself to his people. Showing them his bravery, his strength, his persistence. And most importantly, his willingness to bleed for his country.

He didn't have to win for him to accomplish that.

...But he also didn't need to die.

With an irritated huff, Laughlin raised his hooked polearm, and the two Rheans clashed in a storm of steel, leather, and sweat.

I almost bit through my tongue as Laughlin jerked his staff at Will's upper body, his reach too long and heavy for Will to deflect with his battle sword. The prince had no choice but to scurry backward, and when the chief unleashed another powerful swing, Will wasn't able to dodge the blow in time. He took a hard hit to his cuirass and stumbled back from the force, wetting his lips as he carefully studied his stronger adversary.

He looks so tired, I thought, my heart coiling at the sight of his bloodied form. Tired, shaky, and unstable.

After eliciting a series of sloppy parries from the prince, Laughlin delivered another harsh jab to Will's upper back, and the royal collapsed with a wince, landing on one knee.

He locked eyes with me for the first time since the Rite began, and the pure fatigue and uncertainty in his gaze robbed me of oxygen.

I wanted to say something to him while I claimed his attention, somehow convey to him that he was doing great—that he could still win this if he wanted to—but my lips just quivered in fear. All I could do was gaze back at him, terrified of this predicament and the situation he faced. Horrified by the prospect of losing him.

Whatever it was he'd seen in my expression made him clamber back to his feet, ready to try again.

"You've got this!" Valerie cried, and others joined in, tossing him encouraging words and praise. Or, from his male peers, exclamations telling him to toughen up and take a hit.

Will, diving into the fight once more, finally decided to take the offensive. With his hunting knife in his left hand and his sword in his right, he tried his best to circumvent the glaive and land a hit on the chief.

First, he began twirling his sword around the staff to lead it astray. Then he teased the glaive, leaping away and pouncing back in again with appalling agility. But with a staff that long, it was almost impossible to close the distance and immobilize the blade. Especially without a shield.

When Laughlin attempted to ward him off with a sweep to his shin, however, Will found the smallest of openings. Using his sword to keep the polearm at bay, he slashed at Laughlin's exposed triceps with his knife, leaving a shallow but calculated cut to the chief's dominant arm.

Unfortunately, the hit backfired almost immediately.

Laughlin pulled a feint with the butt of his weapon, convincing an exhausted, weary Will to duck out of the way. Then he swung the metal end of his glaive up and around to Will's head, and just as the prince raised his arm to protect himself, the side of the polearm struck his steel bracer. Hard.

The weight of the blow launched him backward, and he crashed to his hands and knees, his sword skidding across the wooden stage, abandoning him.

Gritz...

The crowd oohed at his fallen form, the young ones buzzing with frightened murmurs, and I felt my chest cave inward as Laughlin walked toward him like a Reaper preparing to whisk his soul away.

Get up, Will.

Please...please get up.

Will stared at the ground, and I hadn't seen that much anger and frustration on his face since the Court tried to force my hand at the walls of Havenbrooke. Only this time, his anger seemed to be directed at himself and his trembling, aching muscles.

"Give it up, kid," Laughlin said, circling him to look him in the eye. "You've lost this fight."

Will glared up at him through sweaty bangs, his pupils pulsing, his nostrils flaring with every labored breath.

I wanted nothing more than to run across the stage and pull him into my arms, but he wasn't finished yet.

Riding out the last of his adrenaline, he sprang back to his feet and lunged at Laughlin with his knife, releasing a vicious growl as he did so.

The chief retreated a few steps, startled by the boy's perseverance. Then, scowling at Will's feral knife wielding, he dropped his polearm altogether and snatched Will's wrist in mid-air, halting him in place.

With a minimal degree of effort, he twisted the prince around and forced him back to his knees, the boy's dominant arm still extended above him, trapped in Laughlin's grip.

"It's over," the chief hissed. "Drop your weapon, Sterling."

Will met my gaze from the other end of the stage, and I stared back at him with tears in my eyes, my heart throbbing in my head, my fingertips. Because I knew raw determination when I saw it, and everything on Will's face told me he'd rather die than forfeit.

But his masochistic resolve, as much as it stung, didn't surprise me. It was one of the many reasons I loved him.

A mischievous grin spread across Will's face then, but Laughlin, standing behind the prince with his weapon isolated, was blind to the impish expression and the actions that followed.

In the span of several seconds, Will's left hand dropped to his boot, where he extracted a small carving knife—the same one Tom's men had failed to find upon his arrest—and he proceeded to yank his right arm down so hard, it forced Laughlin to bend at the waist. And then, without a seed of indecision, Will brought the hidden blade up to the chief's right eyeball, shocking him into paralysis.

Everything in the valley was suddenly very still, and the crowd fell silent as they struggled to process the turn of events.

The frozen pair looked like a painting from the Ancients: Will on his knees, bloodied and bruised; Laughlin hunched over him with a curved blade digging into his crow's feet; their hands interlocked and outstretched before them, clinging to an old hunting knife. Stubborn and unbudging and unwilling to concede.

"Okay! That's enough!" Reese cried, marching onto the stage as if she intended to physically peel them apart. "Yield. Both of you."

Will slowly removed his knife from Laughlin's face, and the larger man released him, stepping back to glare at the young prince. "Cheating, are we?"

"Just being resourceful," Will rasped, and the quip sounded so much like something I would say, it pulled a tired, incredulous laugh from my throat.

Will slowly rose to his feet, wiping the blood and sweat from his brow. He looked battered as hell, but his stern expression told me he was still willing to fight it out, even with a carpenter's blade.

Laughlin shook his head at him. "You won't stop until you're dead, will you?" When the prince said nothing, the chief gave a long, exasperated sigh. His gaze flicked to Jeremy and back, and then he asked, "Is a vote all you want from us? Nothing more?"

Patrons...

Was that the tone of surrender?

"Nothing more," Will assured him, sensing an official end to the competition and finally lowering his knives.

"If I forfeit today, you'll allow us to come to our own conclusions about this war, and you'll respect our choice? Whatever that may be?"

Will nodded, and behind the exhaustion in his eyes, I detected thankfulness and profound relief. "I told you, I'm not asking for dominion. All I ask is that you think this over, and that you vote—all of you. Clan chiefs and citizens alike." He tore his gaze from his opponent to address the stirring crowd. "What you choose today will define Rhea for the rest of human history. Please...don't take this decision lightly."

Laughlin dipped his chin and retrieved his polearm from the ground. "Very well. We'll vote on it. Tonight."

Will managed to walk off stage seemingly uninjured, but as soon as we made it behind the amphitheater wall and out of sight, his legs buckled, and he dropped like a stone.

I raced forward to catch him, easing him to the ground and gathering him in my arms as I sank to the gravel. He rested his head against my chest, wincing upon every exhale, and I did my best to hold the tears in.

"Is anything broken?" I whispered.

"No. Just bruised, I think."

I rested my chin on top of his head and snickered—the remnants of my anxiety fading away at last. "That's good."

Cinder, Mason, Tori, Beckett, and Valerie found us a minute later, their expressions forming a gradient of concern. But when I smiled up at them, confirming Will's good health, they released loaded breaths and continued forward.

Will cut me a fond glance, and his hand curled around my gloved one, holding it to his breast. "...Sorry for scaring you."

The last thing I'd expected from him was an apology, and it reduced me to a muddy puddle of emotions.

"Don't be. You were incredible." He huffed like he didn't believe me, and I would have shoved him to the ground if he wasn't there already. "You just fought and defeated seven of your nation's best warriors, Will. By yourself."

"Six," he corrected. "Laughlin barely put up a fight. It doesn't count."

I rolled my eyes. "You just gave them the show of a lifetime. They'll be talking about this for generations." I leaned over to kiss his sweaty forehead and put an end to his humility. "Well done."

He squeezed my hand.

Once the others had a chance to offer their congratulations and praise, including a heap of constructive criticism from Mason, Reese appeared behind them with a deepening frown. 

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" she demanded, her hands on her hips, her brow raised and wrinkled.

Will blinked at her in confusion, his lips moving without sound as he tried to form a response.

Reese shook her head at the sky. Then she turned to me. "We can't have royalty bleeding out on the street, now can we? Let's get him inside and patched up before he passes out." Her gaze slid to Mason and Beckett's grimy bandages and bullet wounds, and she wagged her finger at the group. "That goes for all of you."

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As always, thanks for reading, voting, and commenting! We're getting very close to a confession scene ❤️