So he had noticed her outfit modification. It hadn’t been smart to go against his wishes but being dead seemed like a worse alternative. She swallowed hard and studied Madrid, who in turn nodded at a pair of soldiers guarding a set of heavy wooden doors.
“Bring out the lion.”
“The lion?” Tempest whispered; her words lost beneath the uproar of the fervent, delighted crowd.
Her mind scrambled to latch onto any knowledge she had of the beast. Never in the history of the Trials, had any would-be Hound faced a lion. The beasts were bloodthirsty creatures who knew how to rip through a battalion of soldiers with ease. Maxim’s scar on his face flashed through her mind. Her uncle rarely spoke about his old wound, but he’d warned her to run the other way if she discovered any sign of a lion.
She took a step toward Madrid and spoke in an undertone, panic rising in her throat like bile as she stuttered out, “Tell me this isn’t true—why am I facing—”
“Hush, Tempest,” he muttered back to her, careful to hide the fact that the two of them were talking. “This was not my decision. Just keep a level head, think on your feet, and you’ll be fine.”
Tempest felt anything but level-headed. A finger of dread ran down her spine as the wooden doors rattled and shook in front of her. She could hear the beginnings of a growl, low and rough and angry.
Wicked hell. They sentenced me to death.
Tempest steeled herself as Madrid lifted the table, along with its three bottles, out of the fighting ring. She slowly pulled her sword from its scabbard and braced herself for the demon that would soon be unleashed upon her.
Nobody would be around to help her. If Tempest failed, then it wouldn’t be the healer’s tent she would be visiting—it would be her grave. The solider retreated into the stands as the doors containing the lion finally swung open, leaving Tempest as the only person standing on the dirt-covered platform facing one of the realm’s deadliest creatures, besides the ever-elusive ice dragons.
Her gaze flickered to the king. For one moment, they locked eyes. Hers was accusing, his smug.
The bastard.
He didn’t want a woman to succeed. She clenched her jaw and concentrated on the task at hand. All thoughts fled her as Tempest caught sight of a jaw full of snapping teeth.
Bloody hell. The monster was more enormous and terrifying than she’d anticipated. The lion would bat her sword from her hand like a cat playing with string.
“A spear!” she cried, locking eyes with the soldiers. “Give me your spear!”
One of them acted as if he had not heard her, and Tempest hated him for it. But the other one—younger than his partner, handsome, blue-eyed and sandy-haired—tossed his double-ended spear into the arena, and Tempest skittered across the ring to retrieve it just as the lion prowled from its cage. Quickly, she sheathed her sword and clasped the spear in her shaking hands.
The beast was huge, with a thick mane the color of King Destin’s hair protecting its neck. A male, then, she concluded as he crept toward Tempest, each of his movements sinuous. His sharp, feline eyes flitted from her face to her spear, as if trying to decide which part of her was the biggest threat. Tempest kept her stance wide, holding herself low to the ground should she have to roll away to escape the lion’s snapping teeth.
She scrutinized the beast. He was clearly not a native lion since his coloring was too red. In fact, Tempest had seen these ones depicted only in books, and Aleks used to tell her stories of his travels in the exotic south when he was training as a healer. There were rust lions there, Tempest knew. Lots of them.
Tempest appraised the lion and tried not to let the majestic creature distract her. She’d only ever heard of the fable creatures in stories and lessons designed to teach children never to wander into the forests alone—but she doubted many people in Heimserya had seen one before. In the past, the kingdom was altogether too cold for the creatures. Too windy. Too snowy. But over time, the lions had adapted, their fur turning a snowy white to blend in with their surroundings.
Virtually impossible to detect until they set upon you.
A snap of its tail was all the warning she received before the lion lunged forward, swatting at Tempest with a paw that was larger than her head. She’d been right to stay low to the ground; with a simple shift in weight from one foot to the other, she rolled away with half a second to spare, aiming her spear at the lion’s paw in the process, to force him to withdraw. The creature retreated, clearly reassessing the risk Tempest posed to him.
Sweat beaded on her brow as she got a good look at the lion’s side. Her lips thinned at the sight of his ribs sticking out from beneath his fur. They’d starved him. Rage ignited in her gut. A simple spear wouldn’t keep him down. She’d have to fight dirty.
Or die trying.
It truly wasn’t fair. A starving lion was different from a man.
They really do mean to kill me.
Tempest shuffled a step to her left and spun the double-ended spear in front of her to keep the lion momentarily at bay. She risked a glance at the king, who despite his earlier disinterest was now watching Tempest—and the lion—like a hawk. Was the man really going to take his dislike of female Hounds so far that Tempest would have to die for it?
“I think not,” she muttered through gritted teeth, though her own words were swallowed by the roaring lion and deafening crowd.
But Tempest had never been quiet. She’d never been soft-spoken, meek, or demure. If the lion wanted to roar at her then she would roar at him.
“Come and get me!” she bellowed at the beast as she twirled her borrowed spear before flinging it toward him.
The lion just barely avoided the weapon, but Tempest had expected that. All she’d needed was his momentary distraction—a long enough pause for her to pull her mother’s bow from her back and nock an arrow. She sent it flying into the lion’s flank.
He yowled as she struck true, and Tempest darted forward to collect her spear once more. But just as she turned to deliver a second blow, the lion knocked her to the ground. Her bow skittered across the ground just out of reach.
She screamed as he raked his claws across her bare back. Searing pain caused her eyes to water, and Tempest barely had enough time to roll onto her abused back and brace the spear in front of her, keeping the lion’s teeth at bay. He gnashed and growled around the wooden shaft, intent on breaking it to pieces.
The wood groaned and her arms trembled as she fought to keep the beast from tearing her apart.
I don’t have the strength for this.
He snarled, his fetid breath washing over her face. She blanched when the lion swiped at her bicep, tearing through her skin with his razor-sharp claws. His eyes narrowed at the scent of her blood, truly lost to his instinct to hunt and kill.
Her arms strained and in the back of her mind, Tempest realized she should feel more fear and pain than she actually was. A dull buzzing filled her ears and drowned out all the sounds around her. All she could see was the poor, starving beast above her. She pitied the creature. He was as desperate as she was.
I’m going to die, but at least I’ll go out fighting.
She mustered her strength and roared into the creature’s face once more, then kicked at the arrow lodged into his back leg with enough force to cause the lion to yowl and lunge away in pain—but not before he yanked Tempest’s spear from her grasp and snapped it in two. She crawled away, across the dusty arena floor, pure panic and adrenaline urging her to stagger to her feet.