POV: Ravenna
The feast hall blazed with light and music and too many people.
I'd been avoiding Theron for two hours. Successfully, I might add. Every time those amber eyes found me across the room, I found somewhere else to be. Someone else to talk to. Another glass of wine to drink.
"You're being obvious," Morgana said, appearing at my elbow with a plate of food I didn't want.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I grabbed a piece of bread. Tore it into pieces without eating it.
"You've circled the room six times. Every time he moves, you move. It's like watching a very complicated dance where one partner doesn't know they're dancing."
"I'm NOT—" I lowered my voice at her look. "I'm not dancing. I'm just... strategically positioned."
"To avoid him."
"To avoid EVERYONE. This whole thing is ridiculous. A celebration? For WHAT? For men beating each other bloody while I sit there like some—some PRIZE?"
Morgana's expression softened. "Rav—"
"Don't. Don't do the sympathetic voice. I'm FINE."
I wasn't fine. Hadn't been fine since the arena. Since watching Havoc move like death and beauty had a child. Since Theron had looked at me with those eyes that said things his mouth never would.
Ours, Solace hummed inside me. Constant. Insistent. Go to him.
"Absolutely not," I muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing. I said nothing. Is it hot in here? It's very hot."
The music shifted. A waltz. Father stood, offered his hand to some duchess whose name I couldn't remember. Around the hall, couples paired off.
I tried to melt into the wall.
"Princess."
That voice—smoke and gravel and gods help me. I turned; Theron stood three feet away, hand extended.
"I don't dance," I blurted.
"Liar."
My mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
"You dance. Every princesses do. "
"That is—that is different." Think, Ravenna, THINK. "I don't dance with candidates. It's not appropriate."
"Your father told all candidates to dance with you tonight." His hand didn't waver. "Part of the tradition."
Damn tradition. Damn Father. Damn this entire thing.
"Fine." I put my hand in his. "One dance. Then you leave me alone."
His fingers closed around mine and the hum exploded.
Every nerve ending lit up. Heat raced up my arm, down my spine, pooling low in my belly. His eyes widened slightly—the most expression I'd seen from him—and I knew. He felt it too.
"Gods," I whispered.
He pulled me onto the dance floor. One hand at my waist. The other holding mine. Proper distance between us except it didn't feel proper. It felt like—like—
"Breathe," he said softly.
I sucked in air. Realized I'd been holding my breath.
We moved. He led. I followed. And for someone who claimed to be a warrior, not a courtier, he danced like he'd been born doing it.
"Where did you learn this?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
"My mentor. Said a warrior should know all forms of combat." The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Court included."
A laugh bubbled up. I tried to swallow it and failed. His almost-smile became a real one. Small and devastating.
"You should laugh more," he said.
"You should talk more."
"Talking's overrated."
The music swelled. He spun me—smooth, effortless—and for one moment I forgot. Forgot I was supposed to be sabotaging this. Forgot I was supposed to hate him. Forgot everything except the hum and the heat and the way his eyes looked in the candlelight.
Then I saw it. Movement in the gallery above. Shadow against shadow. Something wrong about the shape.
My mind screamed danger before I understood why.
"Theron—"
His eyes followed my gaze. Snapped to the gallery. To the shadow. To the—
Arrow! Time slowed. Stretched. Became liquid.
The arrow flew in a perfect arc aimed for my heart. Theron moved. He spun me—hard, fast—putting himself between me and the arrow.
His body jerked. Stumbled forward into me.
Time snapped back to normal speed.
"GUARDS!" Someone screaming. Maybe me. "GUARDS!"
Theron's hand was still on my waist. His other still holding mine. But his eyes—gods, his eyes—
"You almost died," I heard myself say. Distant. Shocked.
"Yes." His voice rough. Wet.
The arrow. Gods. The arrow jutting from his shoulder. Blood spreading across his tunic. Black in the candlelight. Too much blood. Too much—
"You're bleeding." Stupid thing to say. Obvious. "You're—you're—"
His knees buckled.
I caught him. Shouldn't have been able to—he was massive—but adrenaline and terror made me strong. Lowered him to the floor. His head in my lap. Blood on my dress. On my hands. Everywhere.
"SOMEONE GET A HEALER!" Morgana's voice. Close. When had she gotten close?
Theron's hand found my face. Trembling. Left a bloody smear on my cheek.
"You're safe," he breathed. Smiled. Actually smiled. "Good."
"Don't." My voice broke. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare be heroic and—and die on me!"
"Not planning to."
"Good." I pressed my hands to the wound around the arrow. He gasped. "Good because—because I need you alive for—for the competition and—"
Liar. My heart screamed it. Liar.
You need him alive because the thought of him dead makes your chest crack open.
Guards swarmed the gallery. Shouts. Chaos. Someone found something—a shadow, an empty perch, evidence of the archer but not the archer themselves.
Lysander, the king’s main healer, arrived. Pushed me aside—gentle but firm.
"Let me see. Princess, let me see."
I moved. Numb. Shaking. My hands wet with his blood.
Theron's eyes tracked me. Even as Lysander examined the wound, even as other healers rushed in with supplies and urgent voices, his eyes stayed on me.
"The arrow," Lysander said grimly. "I need to remove it. This will hurt."
"Do it," Theron gritted out.
They did. He made one sound. Low. Bitten off. His jaw locked. Tendons in his neck standing out.
I couldn't watch, and couldn't not watch.
"Poison," Lysander said sharply. "There's poison on the tip."
The world tilted.
"No!" My voice small. "No, no, no—"
"Antidote. NOW." Lysander's hands moved quickly. Efficiently. "He's strong. He'll survive. But we need to move him. Princess—"
"I'm coming with him."
"You should—"
"I'm. Coming. With. Him." Each word bitten off. Sharp. No room for argument.
Father appeared. Face pale. "Ravenna—"
"Someone tried to KILL me." I rounded on him. "Someone shot an arrow at my heart and he—" My voice cracked. "He took it. He took it."
Father's hands on my shoulders. "I know. I know. We'll find who did this."
"You'd better." The tears came then. Angry tears. Terrified tears. "You'd better because if he dies—"
I couldn't finish. Didn't need to.
They carried Theron out. I followed. Ignored Father's protests. Ignored Morgana's hands trying to pull me back. Ignored everything except the man on the stretcher with my blood on his hands and his blood on my dress.
The healing wing. Antiseptic and herbs and desperation.
They laid him on a bed and started working. Voices urgent and clinical.
I stood in the doorway. Frozen and useless.
Hadrian appeared beside me. That gruff captain, Theron’s second, who barely tolerated my existence. His face was stone but his eyes—his eyes were terrified. Older, built like a mountain, with a beard and cold eyes that assessed me like I was a threat.
"He'll survive," he said. Trying to convince himself. "He's survived worse. He can survive this."
Five rejections. Five times his soul had been torn apart. And I'd been planning to make it six.
"I was going to sabotage him," I whispered. Horror crawling up my throat.
Hadrian's jaw tightened. "I know."
"You—"
"If you try," he said, voice very soft, very dangerous, "I will make sure your father knows. Am I clear?"
I nodded. Couldn't speak.
"He's a good man. The best I've ever known. And if he survives this—" Hadrian looked at me. "—don't break him. Please. He's been broken enough."
He walked into the healing room. Took up position by Theron's side.
I slid down the doorframe, sat on the cold floor, and stared at my hands.
His blood was under my nails. In the creases of my palms.
He'd taken an arrow for me. Without hesitation, without thought. Just—moved.
Because you're his, Solace whispered. And he's ours. That's what bonds do.
"I don't want a bond," I told her. Told myself. Told the universe.
But watching Lysander work. Watching Hadrian's vigil. Seeing Theron's face—pale, unconscious, but alive—
I knew it was too late. The bond was there. Real. Undeniable.
And the man who'd saved my life—the scarred, rejected, impossible man—I needed him to survive.
Not for the competition, but for me.