Book 3 - Page 58 (2/2)

A particularly fearsome bolt spanned the sky. “I could almost swear the Tower called this down upon us,” Aric mused. “In past games, he was this powerful.”

“I can barely imagine that.”

Aric’s n.o.ble face was relaxed. A hint of blond stubble had regrown over the day. Bolts reflected in his amber eyes until his irises appeared on the verge of starlit.

As I gazed up at him, I realized my feelings for him continued to deepen. I might be . . . falling for him.

Really falling.

“The Tower could throw javelins from both hands, with lightning combusting between them,” Aric continued. “The first time I encountered him, I was awestruck by the spectacle. To my detriment. I was new to the game, just sixteen.”

Right after he’d left his home. After his parents . . . I s.h.i.+vered.

He straightened at once. “You’re freezing. Come back to the fire.” He led me inside.

The church’s roof had a couple of burnout holes; Jack and Aric had made our fire beneath one. At times today the two had almost appeared to get along.

Without a word between them, they’d dismantled a pew for firewood and secured the horses in an adjoining alcove. Sword and bow raised, they’d cased the immediate area for Bagmen. As if by unspoken agreement, they’d disguised their animosity, presenting a unified front to Milo.

Their dynamic was changing. It had started when they’d stormed the slaver boss’s house together. It’d continued evolving with our victory at Azey North. Their mutual scorn of Milo had seemed to blunt their hatred of one another.

Were they still enemies who would murder each other?

Absolutely.

But they might not savor the kill as much as they would’ve before.

“I didn’t mean to take you from the show,” I told Aric.

“I’m keen to get to my translating.” He ushered me to the fire across from Jack.

I sat cross-legged, raising my waterlogged hands to the flames. I could feel Milo’s hateful gaze—two pale eyes surrounded by bruises. He twisted his bound hands, as if he longed to strangle me. Good luck with all those broken fingers.

“Obviously, you don’t know this, Empress”—his swollen lips and missing teeth distorted his speech—“but you ride with the very one who killed you in the last game! He’s played you false!”

“Nope, I knew. He decapitated me. Blah.” I sounded blasé. I was anything but about our history.

“Then you’re even stupider than I thought.”

Like a blur, Aric was in front of him. “Now, Milo, we talked about this. Remember? You do not speak to her unless you’d like to be castrated by horse hoof.”

“She’s about to know agony as never . . .”

Death slowly shook his head with such menace that the man swallowed. That got Milo to shut up—at least to me. The moment Aric left him, the man turned to Jack. “It doesn’t matter how many explosives you stole from me, you’ll never breach the Shrine.”

“Non? You sure sound confident for a man who spent the day hog-tied over a saddle.”

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