Wyrd: Book One of the Witch War Trilogy - WATTYS 2018 WINNER!

Chapter 34: When Rowan Fights a Fight She Cannot Win

Rowan was taking one hell of a beating. Though the thrashing had now stopped, she was utterly incapacitated.

The crowd of salivating Fae were eagerly anticipating the girl's surrender. They looked on, a group as silent as mute spectres tethered to their sandy graves in the arena, waiting for Rowan to speak. Not even a rustle disturbed the air around the eerily quiet Fae.

She'd never had a shot, not really.

Son of a Witch, but Rowan's throat and foot were hurting. Her windpipe had been crushed under Nythander's steely grip and she was staked to the ground by a knife that had cut straight between her metatarsals. Blood gushed from the wound, a crimson fountain flaring up like a mirage in a thirsty desert.

There is a space of time after flipping a coin when it spins, suspended and hovering in the air, where Fate twists and turns, playing with possibility and chance as the final face, the ultimate outcome, is yet to be revealed to the worlds. The audience, in these moments, is the Gods. If Rowan had looked out to the stands in that instant before finding her voice, she may have seen the One who favoured the Fae, hooded and hiding among them. Or she may not have. But he had cast a bet and he could now be swayed, for he too had a part to play in the story unfolding. His favor could be won.

But Rowan neither knew this, nor cared.

You don't get into a fight you can't win.

Unless, of course, the goal was never to win.

Okay, it wasn't as if Rowan couldn't win against Nythander. Under better conditions and with her powers Nyth would have gotten whupped. The minute Rowan had heard the terms she'd known either outcome was a loss. And she had known how slim her chances beating the tough Commander would be if she wasn't able to do so in the first thirty seconds.

If Rowan had learned anything from the stories of her father's prowess in battle, it was that the loyalty of one exceptional warrior can turn the tides of a battle. She had seen Nythander's worth the moment she'd met them – a bridge between worlds, not quite all Fae, a fighter stronger than herself – even if Finvarra took them for granted, even if Finvarra had no idea the value of the life of the Captain being overlooked. No, losing Nythander, a Fae who was already sympathetic to their cause, who was honourable and strong, killing Nyth, it was a price too steep to pay, even to gain what Rowan wanted more than anything. What she had been fighting for her entire life for. What she would willingly die for. It would be short-sighted to kill her closest ally in a sea of pointy-eared Fairies, even if Rowan Aary had been waiting a very long time for this.

Rowan wasn't going to win.

But that sure as hells didn't mean she was going to lose either.

This had all been a part of the plan Rowan had concocted as she'd garnered time to think while showing off and amping up the rabid Fae.

She needed an army, but she also needed a commander she could trust. What you learn, being a little blonde girl, tied to a pier surrounded by guards as you wait to burn, is that looks can be deceiving. So much power lies in the simple act of upending expectations, in breaking the game, in using the strengths inside of you to rewrite the rules. No choice is simply win or lose, heads or tails, yes or no.

Life or death.

As the show had begun, Rowan and Nythander had circled each other like peacocks, strutting and splaying their tail feathers. It had to look spectacular or the Fae would feel cheated. It had to look like they were willing to kill each other. Since Nyth wasn't yet in on the plan, they would be particularly convincing.