Alien Prince's Bride: Scifi Alien Romantic Triangle Romance Novel (20 page)

“He’s faking it,” Marelle said.

“How do you know?” Violet asked, suspicious.

“He’s the Raider Prince,” her sister said.

It still sounded weird, even if it was a fact now. Violet struggled to let her mind combine the images. It took deep concentration to realize that while Areon would have been in trouble, the Prince was not.

He wouldn’t allow himself to get hurt.

That was proven correct in the next second when one of the four moved close enough to Areon. In a heartbeat, the Prince was on the move. They hadn’t pushed him against a wall – they’d given him leverage. The wall was smooth but apparently it wasn’t slippery. Violet barely saw the blur Areon became when he seemed to propel from the wall.

As soon as the enemy got close enough, he ran
two steps up the wall and dropped on the attacker. It happened so fast – the man couldn’t bring his long sword up quickly enough and had his head split open. Although she was a
calaya
and used to seeing brutal fights, Violet winced at the sight. Once again she was reminded of the Prince’s promise. Anyone foolish enough to attack him would not like the manner of their death.

She snuck a look at the dais where the Overlord was talking to Rumeon. Neither seemed mad, although it was known they weren’t overly fond of each other. Violet took it as a bad sign, but at that moment, her attention belonged entirely to Areon. She let them be, hoping Rumeon could convince the Overlord to stop the trial. Or, at the very least, make it fairer.

Three left. Although the amount of threats hanging over Areon’s head kept growing, Violet felt elevated. With every minute, the moment when she would become his kept coming closer. Despite everything, the Overlord hadn’t succeeded in killing him yet.

And not only him – Ronay and Reim seemed quite fine too. The situation was looking pretty good for them. So good she barely dared to breathe out of fear of ruining something.

Only, the closer she looked, the more it seemed that Areon really was injured. The limp she’d seen was gone, but there was a sort of stiffness in his movements. After his wall jump had rendered one of the four attackers dead, the other three – all of them
calaya
-marked – closed in.

In the three following minutes, Violet didn’t blink once.

The first attacker carried a long sword. Unlike some of the others who had clearly chosen weapons beyond their skill level, this warrior knew his worth. Violet saw Areon measuring him up as the man came closer. The sword in Areon’s hand was shorter, giving his enemy better range. All the while, the other two moved slowly behind him. One of them flaunted a weapon Violet had rarely seen before – a flail that boasted a spiky ball at the end of a chain. It concerned her, but not as much as the giant scimitar in the grip of the third.

It turned out she should have been more worried about the flail. While the first delivered a strike Areon had to parry, the chain wrapped around his legs. The ground, still slippery from the water, didn’t help. Violet couldn’t even scream as Areon fell, already rolling out of the way of the scimitar. The giant sword slammed to the ground inches from his head. Before the warrior could yank it free, Areon had cut a gash across the length of his leg.

The amount of blood was dizzying and the man roared in pain. The second warrior tried to pull Areon away from his companion, but the Prince snarled and struck his sword into the bleeding leg of the third. The pull dragged the howling scimitar-wielder off his feet. His grip on the sword faltered and that was all the time Areon needed. In a flash, he pushed himself up and, just before he was dragged away, pulled the scimitar free.

The death strike of the first warrior went by so close that Violet whimpered, but Areon was quicker. Coming out of the roll, the scimitar was already flying and found its mark in the second warrior’s stomach. The man dropped, trying to hold his insides from spilling out, but the scimitar’s large blade had cut a terrible wound.

Free from the chain, Areon was by no means out of danger. Violet couldn’t believe her eyes, but he somehow predicted
a whirring blade appearing from the ground. She didn’t know if he somehow heard it or if he was that good at reading the Overlord’s schemes, but he knew. Right at the moment when the first warrior sprung to cleave him in two, Areon rolled away and the blade appeared. It cut straight through the foot of the warrior, who toppled over, screaming in pain. Areon stumbled away, both from the blade in the ground and out of the range of the warriors. He was breathing heavily – something that he hadn’t done during the entire tournament. Picking his steps carefully, he rounded back to the warriors. The second attacker was dead on the ground, the others unable to move. He finished them off quickly – a mercy in its own way.

Just when Violet’s heart leaped, thinking it was over, her father came to ruin her joy.

“Well done,” the Overlord said, with no hint of approval. The Prince didn’t deem it worthy of a response. “It has been brought to my attention that I may not have been entirely fair.”

Now?
Violet thought furiously, watching Areon catch his breath. Her body was reacting to the sight of him in all sorts of pleasant ways, but her heart still worried and she shook with rage.
You’re saying this now, not a moment sooner?!

“I have agreed to the request of taking the maze out of play,” the Overlord went on with the warmth of death itself. “But we still need a grand champion. I think everyone agrees a duel between you and Grom is suitable for such an occasion.”

A part of the maze descended, revealing a pathway. Although Violet knew what was coming, she still flinched seeing Grom come forward – well-rested, furious and ready.

Violet didn’t know which was worse, the sight of the most feared champion approaching Areon, or the dais above her. One look at the Overlord and Rumeon standing there told her that all her fears had become a reality.

There was no way the Prince would be allowed to leave the tournament alive.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Fair?

Well, the Overlord had a funny idea of fair, but he’d take it. At least the bothersome blades and suddenly appearing walls would be out of the picture.

But that still left Grom coming towards him with a look on his face that told him Grom thought he’d already won. Areon considered baiting him, but for a change, he actually didn’t feel like joking. It was a pleasant sensation in a way. It had been a while since he’d been in a fight without knowing if he’d walk away from it.

The great champion was practically bristling with rage, only, apparently, not at him.

“This tournament is a sham,” he said, stopping a few feet from Areon.

Ah
, the Prince thought, smiling inwardly,
Grom will still be Grom.

“It is,” he said. “Don’t take this personally, though. I seem to bring that out in people.”

Grom growled in response. He really did make the sound very expressive to convey a lot of feelings.

The champion looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll have you know I was expecting a fair fight,” he said.

“I know,” Areon allowed.

It was the truth. Whatever and whoever else the Overlord might have enlisted into his plans, Grom would not let himself be manipulated like that. He was coarse and brutal and, like the conversation in private had proven, a total dick. But he had honor of his own kind and he held it dear. The Overlord had denied him that.

“It won’t stop me from killing you,” Grom went on, a hungry smirk on his lips. “But I would have preferred to have you face me evenly.”

A smirk tugged the Prince’s lips upwards. It felt nice. It felt like being himself again after his near-death experience.

Oh you’re setting me up for this.

“That’s nice,” he said, bringing his sword at the ready. “I’d say the Overlord has managed to even us out just fine.”

Grom roared at the insult. It might have been a bad idea to provoke a man like him even further, but, in truth, Areon thought he could use a little extra leverage. If Grom was mad, he might get careless. That was a definite plus in his book. The champion’s mood was no concern of his, just its impact on him.

And it would have worked on anyone else. But Reim, curse his soul, had been right again. Areon realized that very quickly.

Who knew
, he thought, watching as Grom took a calming breath. The champion’s broad chest still heaved and his teeth were bared in a snarl. It made him look vicious, but the Prince didn’t let that fool him. Underneath the surface was control.
It’s too late for regrets now. Perhaps I should have said nicer things to Reim, and to Violet.

He’d underestimated the champion. In hindsight, it seemed fair that one didn’t get to be an Atreen champion without being a good warrior and without knowing how to control oneself and channel one’s emotions.

That’s what I get for having fought idiots for such a long time. I forget what real warriors are like.

Instead of charging him mindlessly, Grom worked with painful precision and in absolute silence. One of them was going to be the grand champion of the tournament – the other would die. The audience was holding their breaths.

First, Grom discarded the other weapons at the center of the arena. Areon might have made a run for them had he been closer to them when he arrived. The champion found his shield too – damn it. All the weapons went over the wall and he could hear them fall on the other side. The shield Grom kept. In his hands, it looked a bit small, but it was still something.

Only then, when he was certain he wasn’t going to give Areon any leverage to be used against him, did Grom begin to close in. It was startlingly different to all the other fights Areon had experienced on the arena. From fools who let him use their weapons against them to those who let him simply disarm them. Grom was not a fool.

And Areon had chosen the wrong weapon. It was too short to match the morning star, and the shield made the situation even worse. He’d counted on the shield’s protection to try to get closer to Grom and end it with a quick stab, but now he was practically defenseless.

It would have been fine for the honest match Grom had wanted but not so useful now that he was actually tired. He had no intention of getting intimately familiar with the spikes on Grom’s club.

Stepping back from the approaching champion, he whistled a low, calling tone. It echoed across the silent arena, making Grom grin. The expression twisted his blunt features, making him look insane. Areon had to remind himself that he was still facing a monster, no matter how in control he seemed.

“Pretty tune,” Grom said, crouched, edging closer.

Areon knew that if the champion decided to attack, there would be little he could do to protect himself, save for running away. The only question was whether Grom knew it too, and from the looks of it, it seemed he didn’t. It wasn’t surprising, but very welcome. The Raider Prince had a reputation for his tricks. Grom wouldn’t risk it until he’d figured him out.

“I’ve heard of birds singing before someone dies,” the champion went on. “But this is the first time I’ve heard someone sing their own death tune.”

He heard the response, silent as it was supposed to be. He would have almost mistaken it for a stray breeze of air if he hadn’t known better. Step by step, he began to edge further along the wall. Grom watched him with a confused look on his face. He probably wasn’t expecting the Raider Prince to sneak away from him. In all honesty, it grated on the Prince’s pride, but there was nothing to be done. He liked his jokes, but Grom wasn’t one.

“Not mine,” he said, still grinning.

He’d delayed long enough – the sudden spark of hunger in Grom’s eyes told him as much. The champion stomped in his direction, a vicious grin on his lips. Understanding Areon was hesitant to meet him made Grom all the more willing to bring the fight to him.

Damn, he wasn’t close enough, but there was nothing to be done. Having Grom come at him was not a situation Areon wanted to face with the sword he had. Reim’s would have suited better.

He gave a long, loud whistle.

He and Reim had developed the whistle system long ago, for situations quite like this – they’d set up a simple language of whistles for times when speaking was ill-advised. Naturally, it wasn’t a precise science and left much for interpretation, but they’d fought side by side for years. There was always the risk they’d misunderstand each other and it had
happened in the past with some funny and not so funny results. Catching Grom’s first blow with his sword and feeling the impact resonate down his arm, Areon hoped that that moment wouldn’t be one of those times.

It wasn’t. Thank his lucky stars!

He grinned. It seemed luck insisted on staying on his side that day.

Reim’s sword landed a foot away from them, a perfect throw if there ever was one. After all, Areon hadn’t chosen his second-in-command for his sharp tongue and sense of humor, although they helped. Before Grom realized there was suddenly another blade on the arena, Areon twisted himself free, sending Grom stumbling back for the slightest of moments, but that was all he needed. He took the short sword into his weaker left hand and Reim’s sword into his right.

It reminded him of the poor sod he’d killed in the maze before. The warrior hadn’t been weak, of course, but the two-handed great sword had been too much for him to properly balance.

The Raider Prince was
calaya
-marked. He could easily hold the blade in just one hand.

Better
, he thought, a sword in each hand.
Now let’s fight for real, on equal terms.

Grom seemed to realize as much and slowed down. They moved back to the center of the arena with a mutual understanding that sometimes occurs between two mortal enemies. The Overlord had tried hard to make the fight unfair, but they would do it their own way.

The Prince was a mercenary, Grom’s honor mattered little to him. But this tournament had been on his mind for three years. He had no intention of winning it with luck. No, he’d take Grom for his trophy.