55. Paris

Iwas cursed. There was no other explanation for why everything had gone to utter shit.

The whole ride through the Hawk lands had come with a sense of foreboding as smaller villages were empty and still. An entire people couldn't be wiped out in the time we'd been gone—it'd been a little over two weeks, but we'd scarcely stayed in Urial a handful of days.

And the lands hadn't been razed, hadn't been destroyed, so even if someone had seen that their chief was missing, they hadn't attacked. Something else was going on.

The only person impervious to the growing tension was Hector, who'd been so full of doubt and anguish already that any more was like trying to measure the effect of a single drop of water in an overflowing rain barrel. He simply stayed in the carriage, huddled in on himself, staring ghoulishly out at the countryside without comment.

Brett had urged us homeward at a fast pace, as soon as he realized something was wrong, and there, standing stunned as Memnon accused us of something we couldn't possibly have done while his clan and the whole Nemedan council looked on, relief that the Hawks were safe warred with the impossibility of another clan being razed to the ground.

Though I'd only met Minerva twice, she struck me as a capable leader, prepared for anything. It didn't make sense that she could be taken unaware by anyone, particularly after a warning.

Surely, if it were to happen, it'd require a betrayal of the highest order. That was the only reason I could come up with that anyone might believe that Brett was involved. We could hardly write to Urial to ask Albany to affirm that we had, indeed, been there only days before.

Memnon, certainly, was too impatient to allow such a delay.

Past the gathered council and accusing Eagle chief, I caught eyes with Orestes. He looked between me and his father, raising a brow. And—and yes, he was the same man who'd pressed a knife into my hands my first night in Nemeda, who'd asked me to kill Brett.

Perhaps Orestes hadn't meant him any real harm, but the same couldn't be said of his father.

At my discreet nod, Orestes's mouth pressed into a tight line.

Memnon would try and kill Brett again, and I stared on, slack jawed, as Brett rolled his shoulders back, preparing to fight him.

The gathered Nemedans edged back, a circle opening for the display. I—I didn't know what to say, what to do. This wasn't my fight, and it wasn't—it hadn't been my culture.

Helena's feet crunched into the gravel beside me. "What's happening?" she whispered.

Gods, that she was looking to me for answers truly meant we were screwed.

Killian took pity on us both. "A challenge has been issued. The winds must decide the truth."

And that was what this was—another struggle.

Not over Clio, which might've been understandable, given the circumstances. But Orestes had seen that matter already resolved.

No, this was for control of the Hawk Clan, and anyone who thought that they might do a better job overseeing the clan than Brett did was a damned fool.

"This is ridiculous," I hissed, "We just got home. Surely we can put this off until we've slept in a proper bed. Until?—"

What? Until the truth could be shown to all and Memnon was forced to concede? Such a thing wasn't possible, not with the fury sparked in Memnon's eyes.

He wanted a fight, and Brett was too stubborn to draw this out—particularly when his friends in the Raven Clan had been attacked.

They started with fists, moving too fast for me to keep easy track of. At first, they were just getting the measure of each other. Brett would make a jab, but pull back, as if he only wanted to see how Memnon reacted. Or, well, as if he was willing to abandon a course that didn't work.

And Memnon, snarling, did the same. I chanced another look across the space, and Orestes's face was hard. Rosaline beside him had gone pale.

Gods, but it was only a few hours ago that I'd fantasized about fresh bread and good sleep. Now, we had to see this ended first.

The strange thump of a fist shoving into flesh startled me, and I looked back to see Brett had jabbed his punch into Memnon's belly. Though the Eagle bent over with a hiss, Memnon staggered forward and grabbed Brett's hair, dragging his head down as he raised his knee and?—

I winced, looking away. Beside me, Helena flinched. She kept her eyes on the fight.

Brett was exhausted. Yes, he'd gotten in a hit, but he'd let the satisfaction of it get the better of him, let his guard down, and now, was rubbing the side of his face when Memnon let him go.

They stepped away from each other, circling, their eyes narrowed.

"Enough of these games," Memnon hissed. When he pulled a dagger from his belt, a gasp went up from the gathered crowd. Across the way, Orestes swore.

And a moment later, he'd pulled out a knife of his own—the one I'd given him. He tossed it in the middle of the circle, near Brett.

"An even match," Orestes intoned, voice deep and steady, "or the result is faulty."

Brett snatched up the knife, but that glint of silver in is hand, even meant to be used in his defense, had me clenching my jaw. It upped the stakes, made it clear that Memnon, at least, intended for someone to die that day.

A twisted little coil in my chest hoped that Brett managed it first, because I was tired and overwhelmed and so very done with this whole show. I wanted to go inside, see the people I cared about safe, crawl into bed beside Brett and dream about what came next.

I didn't want to stand idly by while Memnon tried to take my future from me.

As Memnon lunged at him, vicious swings of his blade cutting through the air, Brett moved back. He was aware of Memnon's every move, leaving no real openings to take advantage of, but he was fighting defensively.

Brett was, despite all this, not a killer, and death was what Memnon had in his heart.

The Eagle snarled, and with a stamp of his heel, drove his foot into the toe of Brett's boot to pin him. When he leaned away, he couldn't get far enough, fast enough, and the tip of Memnon's dagger scored through his jacket and shirt, red swelling up to stain the fabric.

As Brett gasped at the pain, struggled to right himself, Memnon surged forward like a frenzied hound who'd scented blood. He sensed weakness and meant to press upon it until Brett crumbled.

I made a trapped sound, scarcely managing to keep it in my throat. Brett didn't need the distraction, but I—I couldn't just stand there!

I must've lurched forward, because a moment later, Killian's hand closed on my shoulder. "Memnon will try and use your interference to claim an unfair trial. Brett has to do this on his own."

I jerked, pulling away from his tight grip. "I don't care if he loses, just?—"

Frantically, my eyes rolled toward the fight. Brett was slumped now, bleeding from his nose, panting hard.

I didn't care if Memnon took the whole clan if it meant that I lost Brett.

It hit me then, like a castle dropped straight down from the sky—I wouldn't have involved myself in a fight for anyone else. Perhaps my siblings, but they were family.

Brett was... Brett was my family. I wasn't going to lose him here.

But before I could escape Killian's iron fist, there was an avian cry overhead, and a swarm of black ravens dove to surround Memnon, leading with their claws.

He bellowed, throwing his arms over his head, and Brett staggered back a step or two, a half-feral smile crossing his face. The Raven were fine.

They'd come to save him.