The ground is slick with mud. You try not to focus on the carnage left behind by Feyre’s task, the deep grooves in the earth where the Middengard Wyrm carved its path. Try not to let the scent of death distract you from what’s about to happen. Feyre stands across the arena behind Rhysand, panting, covered in filth and blood, alive. Relief surges through you. But it’s short-lived. Amarantha’s cruel smile stretches wider as she turns to you. “Now for our second little human. Let’s see if she can prove as entertaining as her cousin.” The crowd erupts in jeers and laughter. You force your expression into something neutral, refusing to let them see the trembling in your hands as two guards drag your opponent into the arena. A High Fae male. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his face twisted in a permanent sneer. A seasoned soldier, judging by the way he moves, the confidence in his posture. He’ll toy with you first, make you suffer before dealing the final blow. You’ve been given a sword. A flimsy thing, its edge dulled from years of neglect. You grip it anyway, feeling its weight. Pretend you don’t hear the whispers of your own doom. Amarantha raises a hand. “The rules are simple. Kill him and you win. You may begin.”