12. Twelve

Flickering shadows dominated the shooting range, the light of the audience near blinding as they gathered to watch, forming a sea of encased fires. The canopy high above appeared denser still, trunks so wide and tall they resembled towers. What would happen should the Candescent lose their heads? Everything would surely light up like a witch burning gone afoul.

Ryurikov adjusted the straps to his new quiver, gaze fixed on the wide array of targets several yards down the range and, more importantly, the prize. It stood atop a tree-shaped pedestal off to the left, a pouch of coin resting below a floating lantern, its design intricate even from such a distance.

Six other contestants stood in line with him, each keeping to their own hay bales—why was everything highly flammable here? It did not escape Ryurikov’s notice that the two men he’d seen at the tavern were taking part. Nice Theo stood to his left, and he gave them a courteous nod.

“That’s a lovely bow,” said Theo, flexing the string to theirs. “Yew?”

“Of course.” He fidgeted with his bracers and tried not to let Awimak’s heavy breathing behind him perturb. He was no longer accustomed to being around this many people, and this was not a good time to feel flits of nervousness. “We’ve been friends for many years, this bow and I.”

Theo’s own appeared to be made of silver, its shine elegant in the washes of orange and yellow. An interesting choice for a competition, to be certain. He wouldn’t have thought it to offer much flexibility.

The overseeing Candescent’s flame flickered indigo nearby, and the first contestant on the far right steadied themselves. Ryurikov couldn’t recognise the wood of their bow, but it was dark, beautiful.

“One chance, one arrow!” buzzed the overseer loudly.

The archer hit the sack target without hitting gold.

The other three were better. In particular, one of the men, whose face remained hidden beneath a black cowl. Taking his turn, Ryurikov aimed up to a shrouded sky and flexed his bowstring thrice, then took his stance. A quick inhale, and he let his arrow fly.

Dead-centre, and delight jolted his heart.

IMPRESSIVE,said Awimak in the brief pause it took for the audience to start a racket of clanking metal.

Theo’s turn, and they were on target too, dead-on. At least there was some competition. It would have been painfully dull, otherwise. The audience settled down, and the overseer’s flame changed to purple.

“One chance!”

The furthest contestant to the right took aim again and the sack target hopped back several paces on its own accord. The man’s arrow grazed the edges of the target face, hitting the wall beyond. Ryurikov refrained from laughing, barely.

The targets became unpredictable. One sack sidestepped, the other back flipped. Ryurikov’s mind raced as he watched the mysterious man’s target pivot on the spot. His arrow hit the face, but only just.

Slowly, Ryurikov drew two arrows, held one in reserve, and fired the first. The moment his target lunged forward, he let the second arrow fly, and hit gold. He tried, and failed, not to let smugness blanket him. They’d said only one chance and one arrow the first time, but omitted the mention of arrows this time.

CLEVER,rasped Awimak behind him.

“Yes,” Ryurikov murmured, sparing little thought to the blossoming sense of satisfaction Awimak’s approval brought. He didn’t disagree, of course, knowing damned well he was clever. It had been such a long time since he partook in anything of this sort, however, and it was a relief to find he hadn’t gotten rusty.

Unfortunately, he’d now given Theo an advantage, and they took it. His heart lurched in a beat when Theo missed gold by a coin’s width as their target flailed about.

The targets dismissed themselves, hurtling backward and over the short wood wall into the audience. In their stead, small flames erupted from the canopy overhead. They lowered to float, disembodied, some feet above the range, closely pursued by moths. Ryurikov squinted to better see.

The flames had eyes. They danced about in the air, and he was certain he could hear squeals of delight.

“Are those Candescent babes?” he asked no one in particular.

“They are.” Theo waved at them with their three-fingered hand.

“Never thought I’d use children as target practice.”

Theo’s chuckle was reminiscent of someone rapping a knuckle on glass. “Assuming you’ll be able to hit them.”

Ryurikov couldn’t resist casting a glance over his shoulder at Awimak, a goliath among everything else. The demon inclined his head. Ryurikov cocked his in turn, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth confident.

“Two chances, three arrows!”

The overseer’s flame had turned violet, and the first contestant made an attempt, then another—the flamelets spun in mad whirls of unpredictability with cheery squeaks, both arrows missing entirely. They were fast, flitting from one spot to the next. None of the other contestants had much success, either.

Ryurikov aimed his bow up, pulled at the bowstring thrice. Within a split second he drew and fired one arrow, instantly followed with two at once. The first arrow missed. The others hit the wispy tail ends of two speeding flamelets. There came an uproar, deafening in its intensity, and Ryurikov didn’t know whether it was anger or amazement.

Theo regarded him, bright flame flickering. “You’ve made yourself unpopular.”

He extended his arms on either side in confusion, but couldn’t utter a rebuttal when Theo took their turn, and hit one by miming his technique. Ryurikov smirked as another uproar followed, sounding equally unhappy. When he turned to look at Awimak again, the demon simply shrugged. A big, one-shouldered shrug. He still had the stolen tunics tucked into the cloth around his hips. Hopefully, Awimak wouldn’t keep them.

“One arrow!”

The overseer’s flame turned blue, as did the many flamelets. They picked up speed, moved as one, swivelling in a large circle until it became a ring of fire, singeing moths now struggling to stay afloat, turning to embers. Ryurikov side-eyed the furthest contestant, curious to see what the meaning of it was, and froze.

All contestants—including Theo, he was sure—had their aim on him. The man in the black cowl sneered, visible beyond the shadow cast across his bearded face.

Ryurikov’s heart gave a great thud with recognition of his long-time Keeper.

“Well, fuck,” he breathed, raising both hands as the reeve drew near. “What an unfortunate delight to see you again, Vasili.”

Vasili yanked Ryurikov’s bow out of his grasp.

“What, not even a ‘good afternoon’?”

“Shut,”—Vasili snatched his wrists in a tense grip—“the fuck,”—twisted Ryurikov’s arms behind him, wrenching free a pained grunt—“up.”

As suspected, Theo too had their bow and arrow trained on him. Ryurikov’s gaze momentarily snapped to Awimak, who only watched in stolid silence. He was unlikely to bail him out of this unless he traded for something else, and Ryurikov was all out of things to trade.

Fuck.

Vasili tied his wrists in swift movements. Ryurikov grunted again, the rope digging into his skin, his folded arms fastened painfully against his back.

“You were supposed to be the nice one,” he slung at Theo as Vasili shoved him forward, away from the range and down a darkened alleyway.

Fuck, fuck.

They entered a tree, its round blue door shutting behind them with a bang. Ryurikov glowered at his murky surroundings, fully aware he and Vasili were the only two inside. An office of sorts, with only one narrow lantern suspended from the ceiling and no windows. In the back, the cold steel bars of a jail cell glinted with the threat of immurement.

A hand came down hard between his shoulder blades, pushing him further inside. His boots scuffed across growth-rings, and soon he was spun back ’round to face Vasili and the full brunt of his bitter anger.

The man slung Ryurikov’s bow across the room onto the desk nearby, before rough fingers jerked the hood off and shoved the scarf down to reveal his face. Instinctively, Ryurikov moved to get his head out of the grasp trapping his chin, but it was firm and tilted his head from side to side.

Vasili scoffed in disdain. “Look at you. Scarred. Soulless eyes. Can’t even grow a proper beard.” Words that dripped with a venom cultivated by years of jealousy. “Dead King and Queen. Princess lost to the dragon. You’ve turned to theft and murder. How the majestic have crumpled. Pitiful.”

Those same rough fingers clamped around his face, squeezing hard enough to pucker Ryurikov’s lips, and shoved him away. He stumbled back, ass colliding with the corner of a desk. Ouch.

“Says the guy who’s still not over being denied,” Ryurikov ground out. “Wait—lost to the dragon? What the fuck are you on about?”

He whirled on Vasili, now rounding the desk and lowering the hood of his cowl. A once lean face had squared out, as had the shoulders, his tawny hair dusted with grey. Vasili was the image of strength, the sword he pointedly sheathed at his side suggesting years of practice with it had helped turn his frame into the robust shape it now presented. Ryurikov was toned himself, but he was lean. While his shoulders too were broad, Vasili held a certain power in his that was… Well. Had things not ended so poorly between them, he might have considered taking him up on his proposal made so long ago.

“Get over yourself, Ruri,” Vasili spat.

“I would, but it occurs to me that you’ve been chasing me for months.” Ryurikov laughed, loud and mockingly, even threw his head back for effect. “It took some elaborate ruse of a contest to get anywhere near me.”

Vasili slammed his fist down on the desk, sending ink bottles rattling. “You butchered thirteen of my men in the Unbroken Wilds!”

Ryurikov paused. He’d killed a few of them, sure, but not in the forest and ‘butcher’ was a strong word. Sliced their throats while asleep in a barn would have been more accurate.

“Oh. Yes, those. Wish I could take credit, but that wasn’t my handiwork.”

“Whose, then?”

“Those woods are full of demons, you know. As it happens,” Ryurikov continued, taking a step to the side, hoping, “I’m friends with one. Awimak ring a bell?”

The colour in Vasili’s face turned ghostly.

“That’s right. I excel at summoning demons, as you might recall,” said Ryurikov.

“That wasn’t you.”

He forced his smile into something more menacing. “Wasn’t it? What, you think they knew how to find their way into the castle all on their own?”

Vasili growled low in his throat, then lunged. Across the desk, knocking parchment and bottles to the floor. Gloved hands grappled for Ryurikov, who jerked to the side, and Vasili fell. A long leg swept across the ground, the boot-clad foot hooking around Ryurikov’s ankle and pulling his feet out from under him. He fell to his back with a cry, pain hurtling along his arms where they remained tied behind his back. He planted his feet on the ground, intent on swinging himself up. Vasili clambered atop him, straddling his stomach and pressing a hand down on his throat, clenching hard.

“I’m the one who saved you!” Vasili snarled, spittle flying from his mouth and face an ugly twist of hatred. Ryurikov stared into brown eyes, bright with rage, as he gagged against the clenching grip. “I’m the one who pulled you out of that consuming fire. You’re alive because of me! All I ever did was save you!”

He opened his mouth to retort, only to make an unattractive noise. The hold eased, slightly. Ryurikov rasped around a quivering inhale. He scraped his gaze over Vasili’s face, down his neck, where hints of scarring peered from above the silver embellished collar of his crimson overcoat.

They were burn scars.

He swallowed hard. “Should’ve left me to burn.”

“I should have,” Vasili agreed. “I should have left you to the demons instead of caring for you. You wept like an infant day in and day out, refusing to eat. You’ve been the bane of my existence since the day I was sworn to you!” Then his hold slackened entirely, becoming tender. A thumb stroked along Ryurikov’s scarred cheek, the rage in those eyes morphing into sorrow. “But I couldn’t leave you. I’ve loved you for so long.”

Ryurikov winced. His arms throbbed under him, he wanted to move. Unfortunately, Vasili had become enamoured with his mouth, that thumb pushing past his lips. He resisted the urge to bite down, even as Vasili leaned in, hot breath swiping his face.

“We’ve come full circle,” Ryurikov said, his tongue curling around the taste of leather. “Angry I never fucked you, even after you saved my hide. Well, part of it.”

The fist that connected with his cheekbone was expected, but it hurt all the same.

Ryurikov shook his head, clearing his vision of black dots as Vasili hoisted off him. Fucking hell, that brute packed a wallop. Said brute moved to the desk, straightened things out, and pulled a piece of long parchment up to his face, taking a moment to scan it. Ryurikov sat up with a groan, swaying slightly.

“Prince Leonid Ryurikov Maksim, I’m placing you under arrest for the crimes of theft, adultery, and murder.” Vasili’s tone had an icy bite, his expression equally chilly. “The latter two are punishable by death.”

Ryurikov’s lips flapped as he pushed a breath past them. “If you want to scare me, try threatening me with something I haven’t done twice already.”

“Then maybe the third time will stick.”

Vasili descended upon him and snatched him up by the cloak, hoisting him to his feet.

“Watch the cloak!” Ryurikov snarled. He’d just stolen it, damn it.

Vasili pushed him toward the holding cell and Ryurikov’s mind leapt to Awimak, wondering why the demon wasn’t here yet. Were his dreams no longer valuable?

Rather than force him into the cell however, Vasili spun him back around and thrust Ryurikov up against the bars. A hand clamped down on his throat again, thumb pressing hard against his pulse.

“Tell me you were lying.” A snarled hiss so close to his face, smoke stormed Ryurikov’s nostrils. “Tell me you didn’t summon those demons. Tell me I didn’t save the man responsible for what will be the very ruin of Vale!”

He jerked his head out of the firm grip and glared into umber eyes, mouth twisting around a riposte. Memories of an angry king’s face flickered like a flame in his mind. Ryurikov heard his own laughter, and jeering. He swallowed, unable to respond, and that hand around his throat slackened.

Lips crashed against his mouth, so hard it hurt. Vasili must have taken his silence as denial, and Ryurikov’s mind spun when a thigh wedged itself between both of his. He grunted in protest as the thigh snapped up against his groin, refusing to open his mouth to a tongue lashing his lips. Cold steel bars dug into his arms, Vasili’s broad frame pinning him against them. Fingers twisted into his hair and yanked hard.

“Fuck off,” Ryurikov ground out, wrenching his head free and wincing at the throb in his scalp. “I’m not into power imbalances.”

The man scoffed. “You’ve always been a liar.”

Ryurikov squared against him—as best he could, anyway, tied up with a thigh still rammed against his cock. “Think about it. Take a fucking moment and think about who I took to bed.” He left the ‘you brutish dumbass’ out of it, for now. Once realisation flitted across Vasili’s face, he had to refrain from smirking, in addition.

“My knighthood—”

“Would’ve been taken from you.” Ryurikov wished that thigh crushing his balls would move already. “More than anything, you were my friend, and I didn’t want to hurt you.”

That was a lie. He had never appreciated Vasili’s devotion to him, it had always bordered on too much.

The hold on him eased somewhat, and the thigh moved out from between his legs. For a moment, Vasili looked to be questioning everything he knew.

“For all those years,” he croaked. “I’ve wanted you. More than that though, I hated you.” Those umber eyes turned back to him, so bright Ryurikov feared the brute might weep.

“It’s fine, we all move on at our own pace—”

A fist slammed into his temple. He crashed to the floor, given no time to recover as hands unfastened his belt, yanked open his coat and grabbed the waistband of his breeches. Ryurikov kicked, a cry of outrage pelting dully against the tree’s interior. His knee connected with Vasili’s hips, but did little to stop the man from tugging at his clothes, tearing fabric.

“I’m not into it!” Ryurikov bellowed.

A loud bang, followed by crashes, and the looming silhouette of a demon descended upon them within the tight space. Awimak’s eyes were a firestorm, scorching red, his curled horns scraping the ceiling, leaving grooves. His great claw muffled Vasili’s scream, coming down around the whole of his face, yanking him up. Slinging him around like dirty laundry in the wind. Vasili’s body slammed into the ceiling, the floor, the sound of bones breaking unmistakable.

“Awimak, NO!” Ryurikov cried when the demon raised a giant hoof over Vasili’s head, readying to crush it. He forced himself to sit upright, chest heaving with breaths that didn’t reach his lungs. “Don’t kill him.”

Awimak’s eyes blazed still, turning to him. WHY?

“Because he saved my life, more than once. I owe him.”

HE WILL NOT STOP COMING FOR YOU.

Ryurikov faltered. “You could have…phrased that better.” Awimak had a point though. Vasili would not forget this, now he’d witnessed that he was in cahoots with demons. “I’ll kill him if he comes after me again. Right now though, it’s a life for a life.”

Awimak snorted out his displeasure, but lowered his leg and crouched low by Ryurikov. With one quick swipe of his claws, Ryurikov’s arms fell loose at his sides. He flexed the pain out of them and glanced at Vasili. Motionless, but the rise and fall of his chest was there.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He didn’t complain as Awimak helped him to his feet. He steadied himself with a hand on a smooth shoulder, adjusting his clothes to right himself. “That fucker ripped something.” He heaved a sigh. “What do I owe you for saving me?”

NOTHING.

Ryurikov cast the demon a look. His eyes were no longer conflagrations. He squeezed the firm shoulder, then stepped over the unconscious body to collect his bow.

THEY ARE OUTSIDE, WAITING.

“They?” Ryurikov checked the bow for damage and frowned at an ink spill slathered across its honey-coloured wood.

THE ONES WHO TRICKED YOU.

Wiping the ink on Vasili’s coat, he turned back to the crouching Awimak. “See, I don’t think I was tricked by them.”

NO?

“This was a set-up alright, and I bet you can guess who the conceiver of this plan was.”