All I have in this moment is defiance—it’s on clearance. Lots of supply, zero demand. “No.”

He halts and glances up at the sky. “My amusement is diminishing. I had hoped to relearn the taste of wine tonight. Though I recall Baroun's preferences are deplorably plebeian.”

“Pity we kept you from your red.” I doubt he's a white kind of guy.

What does he want? He has power, if our subjugation is the goal. This battle is for us, not him—and he’s spent most of it toying with me.

He lowers his head. “It is not an apology I desire from you.”

“We are in accord. I wasn’t going to give you one.” I lift my blades.

Renaud’s mouth thins as he lets me attack, his eyes now a flat gray. I refuse to return to Faronne without every bone in my body broken from trying. I won't kneel at my mother's grave and confess weakness.

Return victorious or on your shield.

-An apt sentiment,- Darkan says, emotionless, -if one understands the nature of victory. You only think you know why you fight. In truth, you fight only because you must. You fight to contain your own nature. It will tell in the end.-

A line of fire grazes my sword arm. I ignore the pain and my Dark angel, sheathing my long dagger and shifting the sabre to my left hand so the dripping blood doesn't threaten my grip.

Panting, my harsh breaths acidic with the nausea of forcing myself to remain on my feet. The moon peeks over the horizon. Dimly, I realize Numair won the bet. If he is alive.

“Enough, Aerinne,” the Prince says, expression now concealed by the encroaching night. His eyes still glow.

“Stop. . .saying my name like that.” I sway, feeling cheated because I’m not even drunk. Whose shit idea was it to do all of this sober?

“Like what, Aerinne?”

“Like you know me.”

If the consensus was we were all going to die anyway, we at least could've sent ourselves off with a keg or two.

“You cannot fathom the depths of what I know. Now, sheathe your sword.” A bite in his voice. A hint of a leviathan in his depths.

“No.”

The back of his hand crashes against my face.

My knees buckle. He'd pulled the blow at the last second, enough not to break me. But definitely sufficient to enforce the command.

Dazed, I stare up at the sky, unable to force my limbs to work. This is his second blow across my face and I wonder if it’s a kink, or efficiency. 

“Prince, I’m tired, and this scenario isn’t going to end in my favor, so I wish we could skip the kicking my ass part and get to the swift dea—”

A strong hand wraps around my sword arm and yanks me to my feet. “Tell me what you see.” He shakes me, incongruously gentle after the thorough walloping that has every inch of my body feeling like tenderized meat.

“I don't need to look around.”

The white stone is awash with red, dark because of the night. The Prince surveys it coolly. The small win in this situation is that I’m still on my feet—even if it’s ‘cause he’s dangling me—and I’m breathing.

The fight must go on? Maybe after a time out?

-Stubborn.-

“What else, Aerinne?”

“The result of several generations worth of blood feuds.” I match his chill, pointed tone, and fling in his face the hauteur my murdered mother could don at the drop of a hat—the effect marred because my head aches, and my words slur. I may not look like her, but I can sound like her. I can force him to face what he did. I can remind him why we’re here.

I can also face without flinching that I'm a hypocrite. But I never said he shouldn't want like vengeance upon me—I only wanted to get mine in first.

He shifts his grip, arm sliding around my back to hold me up as if shouldering my weight is the most natural thing in the world. “The result of our inability to change. Inertia met by chaos.”

Renaud grabs the sabre still clutched in my hand and tosses it aside, like snatching a wooden spoon from a child when tired of them banging it against a pot.

“Our enduring obstinacy and adherence to norms that almost caused our destruction once. I did not cross the Realms and seize this city only for it to bite my hand.”

The dizziness in my head mimics the effect of two good bottles of wine, plus the hangover the next morning. “There's a whole lot to unpack in that statement but do go on.”

“Let me tell you what you see. You see me, having stayed my hand—”

My face is throbbing and my chuckle is raspy. He’s got jokes—oh. Wait. He’s serious.

“—do you really believe I could not have ended this fight in the first five minutes? I was sorely tempted.”

It takes me two tries to speak with a jaw that really needs to stay shut. “Did you want an adult response or my natural one? Right. Nevermind—that was a rhetorical question.” The words I want to say are so much more offensive.

His voice drops into a withering register. “I ask you what you want, but I'm aware your bloodline is almost genetically incapable of rational thinking.”

He sounds so much like someone I know. Maybe that's why I keep dropping my guard.

“You don't know us.” My head twinges.

“Uncouth? Rude? Reveling in your own banality to the point where your betters wonder if you are little more than barking dogs?” 

Realms, that’s the start of a rant. A familiar one. “. . .so maybe you know us a little. May I have diplomatic immunity before I utter my opinion of your House? All is fair in war and war after all.”

He lifts a shoulder. “You are clearly the stamp of your House. I will answer the question of what you want for you.”

Battlefield levity finally drains as I weather his offhand string of insults without expression, mostly because expression takes energy I spent on a sudden sense of humor. And Darkan always insists I have none. Where is he when he’s wrong.

“Why ask me a question you know the answer to?” I say.

“For you to admit the answer to yourself. What you want is peace. What you'll do with that peace, I don't quite know. But this—” his gaze travels over the battle “—this was never your ambition. It was never even your mother's.”

“Don't speak of her.” Another twist of pain in my head. I grit my teeth through the pulse.

His arm tightens around me. “I knew Muriel for far longer than you, girl. I'll speak of her if I wish, and you will listen.”

Anger gives me a jet stream of strength. “I may be hot-headed, but you're arrogant. You think you know our moves and will counter them all.” I push away from him one foot behind the other. “I won't listen to you.”

Eyes narrowed, “When have you ever, Rinne?”

If I had doubts before, I have none now. “You’ll pay for my mother, for a claim of kinship to which you forfeited the right. She is mine, grief is mine. Did you think I would share her with you?” My face twists. “You’re madder than they say.”

“Careful, my halfling. Your grief will excuse much, but not all.” His expression alters. “You’ve dead of your own to answer for.” He pauses a beat as I blot blood from my nose—a bleed, not from a strike.

“I have no wish to watch you break under the pain of her loss. There’s no purpose to suffering I can easily alleviate when you stop this foolishness. I care for her still—let me help you, Aerinne.”

“Stop saying my name like that.” Restraint breaks, tossed aside like trash. “If you cared for my mother, Danon would be free! Keep your help, all I want from you is your blood. I’ll leave this field when one of us is dead, Renaud.”

Watchful, he doesn't move, the sword in his hand pointed down. “So you Vowed.”

Wind whips my hair in my face, a sudden steep rise of the night breeze. “I will fulfill my Vow, and not only because I must.”

I take another step back, defiant, uncaring of his anger.

Pause.

And bare my teeth. For a fleeting moment, I accept what I am.

Fae.

A broken trident.

Worn down by anger, pieced together by vengeance.

“Rinne.”

I might fail, but I will fail chaotically, victoriously, taking his blood and kin with me as I succumb to the maelstrom even if this time the one buried will be me. 

“Aerinne.”

At least I won’t be the one lowering bodies into graves.

At least my death won’t be a betrayal from someone I trusted.

I hold his gaze and know—suddenly, know—that my death will punish him. Muriel’s only daughter, last of her line. Lost to him, forever, and by his own cursed hand.

And before I speak my last breath, I will whisper, the Mad Dog of Faronne killed your son, Prince. My death may be yours, but Embriel’s is mine.

Around us warriors battle in ragged remnants, but I watch only one out of the corner of my eye.

Manuelle, Lord of Flames, awaiting my signal.

My enemy steps forward. “Aerinne.”

I smile.

“Nira al wyvar’im!”1

He straightens to his full height, gaze snapping into focus. “Think carefully,” the Old One says, emotionless. The contrast to the previous several minutes jolts me. He'd come alive, relaxed, and I hadn't noticed.

“Are you afraid?” I say.

“Don't be a fool.”

Then the sound I’m waiting for, a distant roar covering the agonized groan of a single male as he drops to one knee, clutching his head, surrounded by his guards. Has the Prince forgotten what Manuelle can do? What House Wyvenne hatched and nursed in the mountains distant from Everenne?

A whoosh of wing and flame as our forces pull back.

Prince Renaud tilts his head toward the sky, then sighs. “Some children must always ride the hard road.” He lowers his head and gives me a mild look. “When I am done here, Aerinne, I will break you to my will.” His expression darkens. “Or perhaps just break you.”

Right. I'll be dead.

“Have fun.” I salute him and flicker out of sight, retreating as the wyverns descend from the clouds.

They’re small, the size of a semi, but possess deadly claws and scorching flame.

“Shields!” Baroun screams.

I shudder, lids fluttering closed as I lap up the sound.

The shape of the battle changes.

1. Release the wyverns