Chapter 8: The First Competition
The afternoon sun hung heavy in the sky, beating mercilessly upon the grand coliseum that had been built generations ago for occasions such as these. The heat was unbearable, thick and suffocating, making the air shimmer above the sand-covered battlefield. Regina sat atop the stone dais overlooking the spectacle, her position elevated above the noble families that filled the stands below. The roaring crowd, the relentless heat, the clang of metal on metal—it all throbbed in her skull, pressing like a vice against her temples.
Her fingers curled slightly against the armrest of her chair as she forced herself to remain composed. To move, to press her hand against her aching forehead, would be an admission of weakness. And a queen could afford no such thing.
Sir Graham sat at her side, a silent sentinel. Though he would never dare to speak of it publicly, she could feel his concern radiating toward her like an unspoken question. Was she well? Did she need rest? He was the only one among them who truly saw her—not just as a ruler but as a person. And yet, even he knew not to ask aloud.
Below, her advisors murmured amongst themselves, their excited exclamations and idle chatter rising above the din of the battle. The pre-competition show had begun, an indulgence meant to entertain the masses before the real test of the princes would begin.
Two men clashed beneath her perch. One was a brute of a man, his size alone an intimidation tactic. His frame was riddled with scars, his thick arms barely constrained by the thin leather armor that stretched across his torso. He swung his sword with the power of a battering ram, each strike meant to end the fight in a single blow. His opponent was a far younger man—thin, quick-footed, and clearly at a disadvantage. But speed was his weapon, and wit his only ally. If he was to win this fight, it would not be by brute force but by cunning.
Regina's gaze flicked downward to where the noble families sat. The five princes' parents and their entourages were all present, filling the seats beneath her dais. Snow White, her face drawn tight with worry, shielded her eyes when the younger fighter barely dodged a devastating strike. Regina watched as Charming, on the other hand, remained unbothered, still deep in conversation with King Jones.
Regina's stomach twisted. Why was he speaking to him so much?
She had worried about this from the start. Bringing all of these families together, allowing them to spend days under the same roof, was a risk. Did they sit together merely as political courtesy, or was something more insidious at play? Were they forming alliances in the shadows, negotiating their own futures beyond her control? Had she not only brought potential suitors for her hand but also unknowingly invited a rebellion into her own home?
She shuddered at the thought, but before she could spiral further, a loud clang from below startled her. The larger fighter had nearly severed his opponent's sword from his grip. The young man barely managed to recover, dancing backward to put space between them.
The crowd roared in delight.
Regina let her gaze sweep over them—the nobles, the commoners, the warriors and merchants, all gathered for the same reason. She wondered, briefly, if any of them had ever truly seen a battlefield. Had they seen what war actually looked like? The blood that soaked into the earth, the cries of men dying in the dirt? Would they be so entertained by this spectacle if they knew the truth of it?
Probably not. But it didn't matter. This was a game to them. This was sport. And unlike Regina, they weren't playing for their lives.
A piercing scream tore through the crowd, shaking the stadium to its core. The revelry halted in an instant, the once-cheering spectators frozen as all eyes locked onto the fight below.
Regina's breath caught as she took in the scene: the larger man had the younger competitor lifted clean off the ground, his massive hand wrapped around his opponent's throat like a vice. The young man clawed desperately at the brute's grip, his fingers scrambling for purchase, for leverage, for air. But it was no use. His legs kicked violently, his movements growing weaker with each passing second.
Regina's nails dug into the arms of her throne, her headache momentarily forgotten.
Then, with a grunt of exertion, the brute threw the younger man down with sickening force. The impact sent a bone-rattling crack echoing through the coliseum. Regina flinched. She didn't know if it was the shattering of the man's armor—or his body.
Gasps rippled through the stands, whispers of shock threading through the nobles and commoners alike. The crowd, which had moments ago been filled with nothing but lust for spectacle, now teetered between horror and exhilaration. Regina's stomach turned at how quickly their thirst for violence had shifted from amusement to something real.
Graham was already moving. With a sharp motion of his hand, he signaled for the soldiers to intervene.
Soldiers stormed the arena, their spears drawn as they moved to subdue the brute. Three of them closed in, forcing him back with pointed weapons, their stances rigid with the threat of retaliation. Another soldier knelt beside the fallen fighter, checking for signs of life.
Regina watched as the soldier's hand hovered near the young man's chest for a long, breathless moment. And then, with a slow shake of his head, he turned back toward Graham.
Regina exhaled, her lips parting in a barely audible gasp.
The young man was dead.
A mixture of reactions pulsed through the crowd. Some murmured in dismay. Others cheered—actually cheered. It sickened her.
The brute lifted his hands in victory as the soldiers began escorting him off the field. He showed no remorse, no hesitation, only pride in his gruesome triumph. Meanwhile, the young man's lifeless body was lifted onto a stretcher, his limbs limp, his fate already sealed.
Regina clenched her jaw, her anger and unease settling deep within her bones.
"A beast," she murmured under her breath, shaking her head. "That man is nothing but a beast."
Graham, who had not once taken his eyes off the field, finally spoke. "Aye," he agreed, his tone low and unreadable. Then, after a beat, he added, "But at least he is our beast."
Regina wasn't sure if that should comfort her—or terrify her.
Emma watched as the stretcher carrying the lifeless body scurried past her tent, the limp form shifting grotesquely with every hurried step of the soldiers. Her stomach twisted violently, and for a moment, she feared she might lose what little breakfast she had managed to eat.
This wasn't some staged spectacle. This was real.
The sounds of the rowdy crowd still echoed through the air, their energy undeterred by the horror that had just unfolded before them. The princes had been mid-preparations when the shouts had drawn them out of their tents, each one pausing to witness the body hit the ground with a finality that sent a chill down Emma's spine.
Leroy, the ever-blunt brute of the group, was the first to break the silence. "A fight to the death?" he screeched, his voice thick with disbelief and disappointment. "Does this Queen even know the bloody rules of these things?"
From beside him, Killian scoffed, adjusting the leather strap on his hip before leaning against one of the tent poles. His smirk was ever-present, even in the face of death. "Do you know the rules, Leroy?" he mused, his voice slick with amusement. "If you're going to be King, mate, please, enlighten us."
Emma stood slightly back from them, observing as the small but scrappy man's cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red. I guess men do blush, she thought absently.
"Listen, you little drunk, one-handed, pirate!" Leroy fumed, his finger wagging aggressively at Killian, who barely looked fazed. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying riling him up.
Before Leroy could escalate his threats into something truly regrettable, a tall, thin man, dressed in the Queen's colors, appeared near them. His sharp eyes swept across the group before he spoke in a crisp, practiced tone. "Finish your preparations. You are to present yourselves at the gate in five minutes."
Leroy muttered something under his breath—something undoubtedly unflattering—but obeyed, stomping off toward his tent. Killian smirked as he took one last, long swig from the tin at his hip. As he turned to leave, he caught Emma's gaze, his expression unreadable yet somehow still teasing. He tipped his tin slightly in her direction before disappearing behind his curtain.
Emma exhaled sharply, feeling her pulse quicken. She turned back to her tent, stepping inside to gather herself. Her hands were trembling, a telltale sign of the nerves that churned in her stomach. Get it together, she told herself, shaking them out before reaching for her bow. She ran her fingers over the smooth, worn wood, the familiar touch grounding her, steadying her.
She sheathed her arrows, took a deep breath, and stepped back into the relentless heat of the afternoon sun.
The announcer stepped into the center of the arena, his voice carrying easily over the eager crowd. His presence alone commanded attention, his deep, practiced tone booming over the stadium as he raised his arms in welcome.
"Lords and Ladies, noble guests, and esteemed Queen Regina," he bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Today marks the first of many challenges that will determine the strongest, the sharpest, and the most worthy among our competitors. Over the coming days, these brave men will prove themselves through skill, wit, and endurance, but today—today we begin with a test of precision and focus."
The crowd cheered, though the earlier events had sobered some of their excitement. Perhaps relieved there would be no more bloodshed today, Emma thought as she wiped the sweat from her palms onto the folds of her cloak.
The announcer lifted a hand, signaling for silence before continuing. "Our competitors will be tested in their archery skills. Each round, our challengers will have three chances to land the best shot upon their targets. At the end of each round, the competitor with the weakest accuracy will be eliminated. This will continue until only two remain, and then—" He paused for dramatic effect, a knowing grin curling his lips. "—our final contenders will face a speed round. Five targets, five arrows. One shot per target. The competitor who lands the most accurate final shots will earn their Kingdom the first points of these games."
Emma swallowed hard, adjusting the strap of her quiver, her fingers brushing over the fletching of her arrows for comfort. The crowd roared their approval, and the announcer waited for the excitement to settle before continuing.
"First place shall earn ten points for their kingdom," he declared. "Second place, five points. And third—" he smirked, "—shall receive one."
Another round of applause followed, the audience invigorated by the structured nature of the competition. Even with the tension lingering from the earlier violence, this game had clearer rules, a cleaner edge to it. No one would die from an arrow to a target.
The announcer then launched into a brief explanation of the tournament's schedule, detailing what was to come in the following days—the combat trials, the tests of endurance, the strategic challenges. The more he spoke, the more restless the crowd grew. They wanted the competition to begin.
Emma could feel it too—the anticipation. The weight of the moment pressing in on her from all sides.
Then the announcer lifted his arms, his next words ringing through the air. "And now, let us meet our competitors!"
Prince Leroy let out an exasperated growl, jabbing a finger at the servant fumbling with his gear. "Blast it, you ignorant fool! I told you, I need a bow that fits! Do I look like I can wield something made for an ox?" His frustration was justified—blacksmiths weren't exactly in the habit of crafting weapons for a man of his… stature.
The servant flinched but said nothing, hastily adjusting the straps on Leroy's quiver.
"Give it a rest, Leroy," Prince Killian Jones drawled, rolling his sleeves up before shrugging off his heavy coat. The heat of the afternoon was relentless, but if it bothered him, it didn't show. He stretched leisurely, as if they weren't about to compete, and caught the eye of a group of women watching from the sidelines. With a twirl and a flourish, he winked at them.
They swooned instantly, their giggles echoing through the warm air.
Prince Aladdin Ababwa, already stationed at his designated spot, groaned as he tightened his bowstring. "Perhaps if we focused more on the competition and less on… distractions," he muttered pointedly, "we'd all be in a more fitting mood for victory."
Killian scoffed, pulling a small tin from his belt and taking a generous swig. "Oh, Ababwa," he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Let me educate you on something far more important than victory." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before gesturing toward the women. "There is nothing—nothing—more festive than a well-placed smile, a well-poured drink, and a few… assets every now and then."
He winked again, and the women nearly collapsed on themselves, whispering to one another behind their hands.
Aladdin rolled his eyes but said nothing, returning his attention to his bow.
Emma, standing just on the edge of the group, let out a quiet breath as she strapped on her quiver. If the other princes were this distracted, maybe—just maybe—she had a chance at making it through the day.
One by one, the princes were announced, stepping forward to cheers and, in some cases, groans from those who had already chosen their favorites. Emma's heart pounded as she waited for her turn, her thoughts not just on the crowd—but on her.
Regina.
Would she be watching? Would she care? Would she be impressed—or would she see right through the illusion Emma was trying to keep alive?
The announcer's voice rang out again, pulling her from her thoughts.
"And now, representing the Northern Kingdom—Prince August Charming!"
Emma inhaled sharply, straightened her shoulders, and stepped forward.
Emma barely registered the announcer's words as he reached for the large knight's helmet beside him. The crowd had faded into a distant hum, the excitement around her no longer a reality but an afterthought. Because in that moment, her eyes had found her.
Queen Regina.
The woman sat poised and still, regal in every way, her expression unreadable. The deep crimson of her gown mirrored the color of her lips, the dark red stain applied with flawless precision. The way her mouth curved ever so slightly at the corners sent something sharp and unsettling through Emma's chest. Her hands clenched reflexively at her sides. How does someone look so effortlessly powerful?
She didn't hear the first name called. She didn't hear the announcer pull the slip of parchment from the helmet, nor the way the crowd hushed in anticipation. She was too lost in the flicker of the Queen's gaze, in the effortless command she seemed to have over the entire arena.
A sudden nudge on her shoulder jolted her back to reality.
"Aye, lad," Killian murmured at her side, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "You're up."
Emma's stomach dropped.
Panic spread through her like wildfire. What? She hadn't heard her name. Hadn't realized she'd been chosen to go first. And now—now she was standing there like a fool while the entire arena watched.
The announcer, clearly struggling to maintain his patience, cleared his throat and repeated, "Sir August Charming, please take your shots." His voice held a professional politeness, but there was an undeniable edge to it now.
Emma swallowed hard. She grabbed her bow, her hands suddenly unsteady. Get it together. She'd been trained in archery for years. This was nothing new. She knew exactly how to hold the bow, how to stand, how to breathe—but the weight of the eyes upon her made her feel like an untrained child.
She reached for the first arrow, the burgundy and white feathers familiar in her grasp, but her fingers fumbled. The arrow slipped from her grasp and hit the dirt with a soft thud.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Heat rose to Emma's face, burning hot against the back of her neck. Her heart pounded as she quickly bent down, snatching the arrow from the ground and clipping it onto the bowstring with forced precision. Get it together. You know how to do this.
She inhaled sharply, forcing her stance into something solid. Her feet planted firmly, she raised her bow, staring down the target as a light breeze teased it, shifting it slightly. Remember your father's rules, she told herself. Breathe. Trust your aim. Let go.
With a smooth pull, she drew the bowstring back, holding her breath. The moment stretched endlessly.
Then, she released.
The arrow cut through the air in what felt like slow motion, sailing toward the target with certainty. Emma's breath caught as it struck the upper right corner, barely within the scoring ring.
A collective groan swept through the crowd.
Emma's grip on the bow slackened, her shoulders sinking in disappointment. That was awful.
Behind her, the other princes chuckled at her lackluster shot. Killian shook his head with a smirk, and Leroy outright cackled. "Guess all those books up in the Northern Kingdom don't teach you how to shoot, eh, lad?"
Emma clenched her jaw as she picked up her second arrow, willing her hands to steady. She was better than this—she knew she was better than this. With a deep breath, she nocked the arrow, pulled back, and released.
Thud.
The arrow lodged closer to the center than her first, but still not where it needed to be to secure her place. It wasn't good enough.
A muscle twitched in her jaw as frustration flared in her chest. This is not how I'm going out.
From her left, a chuckle. "It's alright, lad," Killian drawled, stepping just close enough for only her to hear. "Maybe in a few more years, you'll be ready to compete with the men."
Before Emma could react, he landed a hearty slap on her shoulder, nearly knocking her forward.
Her body stiffened at the contact, heat rising beneath her skin as she shrugged him off forcefully. Smug bastard.
Fine. If that's how it was going to be, then she would show him.
She reached for her third arrow, fingers tightening around it. The noise of the crowd faded, the heat of the sun disappeared, and the laughter of the other princes became nothing more than a distant murmur. All that existed was her, the bow, and the target.
She took her stance. Feet grounded. Shoulders square. Deep breath in.
Exhale.
She let the arrow fly.
The moment stretched as it soared, cutting through the warm air. Then—thwack!
Dead center.
A smirk tugged at Emma's lips. She turned her head slightly, locking eyes with Killian as she slung her bow back over her shoulder. "I'm just warming up," she shot back, her tone cool and confident.
The crowd erupted into polite applause, murmurs of approval rippling through the stands. A few spectators even whistled.
Killian huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he took another swig from his tin. "Well, well," he mused. "Perhaps there's hope for you yet, mate."
Emma exhaled slowly, her heart still hammering in her chest. The round wasn't over, and she had barely secured her place. But at least now, she had momentum.
One after another, the other competitors sent their arrows flying down range, each landing far closer to the center than Emma's best shot. She forced herself to watch, her fingers idly picking at the worn leather wrap at the top of her bow. With every precise shot, her stomach knotted tighter.
They were all better than her.
And now, it all came down to Leroy.
He stepped up to his mark, a smug confidence rolling off of him in waves. His first arrow sailed effortlessly through the air, striking just shy of dead center. A solid shot. Now, all he had to do was land one closer than Emma's—just one—and then he could fire his third arrow anywhere on the target he damn well pleased and still eliminate her from the competition.
Emma swallowed hard, her grip tightening around her bow. She felt her chance slipping away.
Leroy's thick fingers loaded his second arrow, but before he drew back the bowstring, he turned, his beady eyes locking onto Emma. A slow, ugly smile spread across his face.
"This," he announced loudly, his voice dripping with arrogance, "is how a man shoots an arrow."
With barely a glance back at his target, he yanked the bowstring and released.
Emma barely had time to process what happened next.
The arrow screeched through the air—but something was off.
It sliced past his target completely, whizzing beyond the marked range and burying itself deep in the grass with an anticlimactic thud.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then the crowd exploded.
Gasps, shouts, exclamations of disbelief echoed through the stadium.
Leroy's face contorted in fury. "WHAT?!" he roared, his voice practically shaking the field.
His family in the stands erupted in outrage, their fists shooting into the air as they bellowed colorful profanities that Emma was quite certain had never graced even the most lawless taverns. She winced, unsure if she was more horrified by their vocabulary or the sheer volume of their voices.
Leroy's face darkened to a deep shade of crimson, his entire body trembling with rage. In a sudden burst of aggression, he grabbed his bow and snapped it clean over his knee, the wooden limbs splintering with a sickening crack.
From the high stands, the announcer's voice rang out, steady and unmoved. "Prince Leroy has been eliminated from the competition."
Emma's jaw hit the ground.
No way.
She blinked, as if her mind needed to catch up with what had just happened. He missed. He actually missed.
Leroy continued his fit all the way out of the competition area, cursing under his breath, kicking up dirt like an angry child denied a sweet. If it hadn't been for his family corralling him, he might have stormed off entirely.
Instead, he sat, still fuming, arms crossed like iron across his chest, his face a shade of purple so deep Emma thought he might combust on the spot.
Emma barely held back a stunned laugh. She was still in. By sheer luck—by some stroke of fate—she was still in the game.
Emma stood taller as she approached the line for the next round, the weight of her bow settling more naturally in her grip. The rush of her previous lucky break had morphed into something steadier—determination.
She could do this.
With a deep breath, she nocked her first arrow and let it fly. Thwack! Dead center.
The crowd roared in approval.
Her second arrow followed with equal precision, landing just beside the first. More cheers.
By the time her third arrow buried itself cleanly just outside the bullseye, the applause was deafening. A few voices in the crowd even began to chant her name.
Emma smirked, heat rising to her cheeks—not just from the afternoon sun, but from the unexpected thrill of the moment. They liked the underdog.
Prince Ababwa, with calm precision, sent his first two arrows cleanly into the target. But his third shot landed just at the top edge, nearly missing. He didn't falter, instead offering a quiet wave to his family's section before stepping back.
Prince Jones, on the other hand, did not have such a strong round. His first arrow sailed high over the target, missing completely. Though he recovered with his remaining shots, it wasn't enough. Ever the showman, he accepted his loss with a sweeping bow, giving the crowd a dramatic, open-armed farewell as he exited the competition.
The remaining three competitors stood in the heat, waiting as their servants retrieved the arrows from the targets. The tension in the arena thickened.
The announcer stepped forward, his steady voice cutting through the excited murmurs of the crowd.
"We have three competitors remaining. Each one will have the opportunity to gain points for their kingdoms today…"
His words trailed off suddenly, and every head in the arena turned as the Queen herself stepped out from beneath the shaded tent.
A hush fell over the stadium.
Emma barely breathed as Regina moved with deliberate grace, her gown flowing like liquid silk against the sunlit backdrop. She approached the announcer's side and leaned in, whispering something only he could hear.
Emma's heart slammed against her ribs. What was she saying?
"The Queen has informed me that she would like to add a prize for the winner of this competition."
A murmur rippled through the stands, heads turning, whispers growing excited.
"The winner of today's game will be awarded their ten points…" he paused, letting the suspense build before finishing, "as well as be invited to dine with the Queen for dinner tomorrow night."
The stadium erupted.
Excitement flooded through the spectators, the news sending a wave of energy through the already lively crowd.
Emma went rigid.
Dinner. With Regina.
The air seemed thicker, the sun hotter, the stakes higher.
She risked a glance toward the Queen, catching just a glimpse of Regina's expression before she turned away—her face unreadable, her posture perfectly poised.
Emma swallowed hard. If she wasn't invested before, she was now.
Her name was drawn first for the next round, and her senses snapped into focus. The rest of the world dulled as she stepped forward.
She took her stance.
Pulled back the bowstring.
Released.
Thwack! Bullseye.
The crowd roared.
Again, she fired—thwack! Dead center.
The energy of the arena buzzed around her, but she was locked in. One more. Just one more.
With a sharp inhale, she pulled back her final arrow. Her fingers trembled just slightly, but she steadied them.
She let go.
Thwack!
The third arrow lodged cleanly beside the first two, and the noise from the crowd was near deafening.
Emma exhaled sharply, lowering her bow as she stepped back. Her name was still being chanted in pockets of the arena, the excitement of the underdog victory sending waves through the spectators.
She dared to glance toward Regina once more.
The Queen's expression was still unreadable, but her gaze lingered—just for a moment.
And that was enough.
Prince Scarlet stepped up to the line, his bow steady in his grip. Despite his thin frame and his sickly appearance, the man was proving himself to be the most skilled archer of the competition. Every shot up until now had landed dead center, save for one minor slip in the first round. Emma hated to admit it, but the man was good.
Then came Prince Ababwa.
His first shot was just shy of the center. His second, even further. By the time he lined up his third, it was clear that his heart was no longer in it. With a dramatic sigh, he lazily let the final arrow fly, watching it thud into the target without much care.
"Prince Ababwa has been eliminated from the competition, but has earned his Kingdom one point."
A smattering of applause followed as Ababwa gave an exaggerated bow, gracefully accepting his loss as he exited the field.
Emma flexed her fingers, trying to keep the nerves from creeping up her arms. It was down to her and Scarlet. Just one more round. One final test.
"For the final round of the competition, each archer will shoot one arrow at each of the five moving targets," they announced. "The archer with the best overall shots will be declared the winner. Good luck."
He reached into the helmet, swirling his hand around the last two slips before drawing one.
"Sir August Charming."
Emma inhaled sharply. Great.
Going second would have allowed her to scope out Scarlet's performance first—adjust her approach based on his shots. Instead, she was forced to set the bar herself. No pressure.
She exhaled slowly, rolling out her shoulders. Just perform.
With the crowd watching, with Regina watching, just make it count.
She stepped forward, bow in hand, and faced the five targets. The heat of the sun bore down on her, the breeze shifting just enough to make the flags atop the castle walls flutter.
One arrow. Five targets. One chance at each.
Emma squared her stance, lifted her bow, and took her first shot.
Regina leaned back in her throne, carefully masking the flicker of excitement that threatened to betray her composure. Prince Ababwa was out, leaving only Scarlet and August in the final round. The outcome was narrowing.
She had told herself that adding the dinner prize had been in the spirit of competition—to motivate, to encourage. But deep down, she knew the truth.
She wanted August to win.
And now, with Scarlet—no-personality, lifeless, all-skill-no-charm Scarlet—as the only other contender, her desire for August's victory had grown tenfold.
She had been impressed with him. He had started the competition unsteady, nerves fraying him at the edges, but as the rounds progressed, he had settled into himself. He wasn't just competent with a bow—he was comfortable with it in a way that felt instinctual.
Scarlet, on the other hand, was a different breed. He moved without flourish, without hesitation, a ghostly precision marking his every action. He lacked expression, lacked anything that made Regina care whether he won or lost. His skill was undeniable, but skill alone did not interest her.
Regina's gaze flicked to August as his name was called first for the final round.
"Sir August Charming."
Regina's fingers curled lightly against the armrest of her throne as he stepped up to the line, positioning himself before the first of five targets.
He was tall, sturdy—his stance strong but not rigid. He took his position, clipped his arrow onto the bowstring, and pulled back without hesitation.
Then—he let it fly.
The arrow cut through the air in a perfect arc, thwack!—sinking dead center.
A small thrill passed through Regina's chest, though she kept her expression still.
The crowd roared, clearly favoring the underdog of the tournament. August didn't pause for their cheers. He reached for his second arrow, reloading fluidly.
Regina found herself leaning forward just slightly, her gaze locked on him.
August moved through the next two targets with unwavering precision, each arrow finding its mark in the dead center. His movements were smooth now, fluid, as if he had finally settled into himself.
Regina let out the smallest exhale, barely audible over the roaring crowd. His shaky start was long forgotten—this was a man who belonged in competition.
As he lined up for his final shot, his eyes flicked upward, searching for the target, for his footing. Instead, they found her.
Their gazes locked.
Regina felt the air shift, a subtle but undeniable current pulling between them. His blue-green eyes, sharp and focused just moments ago, widened slightly. Then, almost instantly, his cheeks flushed—not much, but enough that she noticed.
Interesting.
Did he feel it too? That strange pull when she looked at him?
Regina's lips curled at the edges, just barely, as she tilted her head. She wasn't sure if she meant it as encouragement or distraction, but either way, it worked.
August's fingers hesitated on the bowstring.
She could see it—the slight tremble, the break in his perfectly measured rhythm.
He recovered quickly, taking a breath and steadying his aim, but Regina already knew what would happen. He was thinking too much now.
He released the arrow.
The gasp from the crowd told her what she already suspected.
The arrow flew far left, missing the center entirely and landing well off its mark.
Regina's head tilted back slightly, her eyes slipping shut for just a moment. Damn. Not in disappointment for August, but at the realization that she very well may have just secured a dinner with Scarlet.
August had been by far the best shooter of the day—his skill undeniable, his presence compelling. But William Scarlet had been cold, calculated, and almost flawless in every round. This was his competition to lose.
Regina sighed, resisting the urge to rub at her temple. If Scarlet won, she would be stuck with a man who would likely spend the entire dinner reciting archery techniques and—gods help her—discussing strategy with no personality whatsoever.
Her eyes flicked back to August, who was staring at the missed shot, his jaw tight with frustration.
Had she distracted him?
The thought was absurd.
…Wasn't it?
Emma's heart sank along with her last arrow as Scarlet landed his first four shots with pinpoint precision.
Her fingers curled against the fabric of her tunic, her knuckles white as she fought the growing pit in her stomach. That should've been me.
She stole a glance over her shoulder at her parents. Charming met her gaze with a small, measured nod—his silent way of telling her he was proud. Despite her failure on the last shot, despite the competition likely slipping through her fingers, he was still proud of how far she'd come. And she had to admit, there was something comforting in that.
Snow, on the other hand, kept her eyes locked on Scarlet, her expression unreadable.
The crowd had gone hauntingly still.
Scarlet approached his final mark, his movements controlled as always. But something was different.
Emma narrowed her eyes, watching closely as he took longer than usual to ready himself. His stance was the same, his grip unwavering—but his eyes… they were distant. His mind was elsewhere.
What is he thinking?
Scarlet wasn't like the others. He didn't joke, didn't gloat, didn't lose focus. He was mechanical in his execution, his entire performance an exercise in control. And yet, here he stood, motionless at the line, bow in hand, staring at his target like it held some great secret.
Then, his gaze shifted.
Not to the target.
To her.
It was barely a glance. A flicker of movement so small, so subtle, that Emma almost thought she imagined it. But she didn't.
Her stomach twisted, heat crawling up her spine as her heart beat a fraction harder in her chest.
Why was he looking at her?
She stiffened, whipping her head around to scan the crowd, searching for any sign that someone else had caught the moment. Did anyone see that? Did Regina? But no—there was no change in the sea of eager anticipation. The nobles still leaned forward, waiting for the final shot. The crowd still held its collective breath.
Only she had noticed.
And then, as if snapping back to reality, Scarlet pulled his bowstring taut.
He exhaled.
And released.
Emma barely had time to react before the arrow veered off course—missing entirely.
The stunned silence of the crowd shattered into a symphony of gasps and murmurs.
Emma's eyes widened.
What the hell just happened?
For a split second, the entire world seemed frozen.
The crowd, stunned.
Emma, stunned.
Even Regina had risen from her seat, her dark eyes locked on the field, as if needing to see for herself that Scarlet had truly missed.
Emma's breath caught in her throat. Did he just… give me the win?
Scarlet turned to her, his face void of any emotion—no frustration, no disappointment, not even surprise. If missing had rattled him, he didn't show it.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, extending his hand to her.
Emma stared at it, still trying to process what had just happened. Her mouth hung open slightly, but her body moved on instinct, her fingers closing around his in a firm but uncertain shake.
"Congratulations," he said smoothly, his voice even, unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward his family, who—judging by their faces—looked just as baffled as everyone else in the stadium.
Emma's fingers curled at her sides as she watched him go, her mind racing. He had that win in his pocket. He should have walked away the victor. And yet…
"Ladies and gentlemen, your winner for today's event—Sir August Charming!"
The crowd snapped from its stunned silence, exploding into cheers, applause, and shouts of triumph.
Emma barely heard any of it. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs.
"Prince Scarlet has been awarded five points to his family," the announcer continued, regaining his usual composure. "And Sir August has been awarded ten. He will also enjoy a private dinner with the Queen tomorrow night upon acceptance of his invitation."
Emma stiffened.
The words finally caught up to her.
Dinner. With Regina.
The world swayed for just a second before steadying, her mind desperately trying to keep up.
She had won.
In an instant, all eyes were on Emma.
The field, the crowd, the nobles—everyone waited for her response.
She swallowed hard, but forced herself to step forward, making her way to the edge of the competition field where Regina's tent loomed above her like a throne of its own.
Regina stood tall, her expression calm, composed—regal. But it was the way she watched Emma, the unwavering anticipation in those dark eyes, that sent a rush of heat all the way down to Emma's toes.
Gods help me.
Stopping just short of the Queen's platform, Emma bowed low, her posture steady despite the chaos brewing inside her.
"Your Majesty," she said, voice clear and sure.
She lifted her head just enough to meet Regina's gaze—really meet it.
"I humbly accept."
For a beat, silence.
Then, Regina gave a small nod, and a slow, deliberate applause followed. The crowd erupted once again, cheers and whistles filling the air.
Regina's own hands came together in polite applause, though her gaze never left Emma.
Emma exhaled, turning to face the stands, raising a hand in acknowledgment. She waved to the growing sea of people who were—against all odds—beginning to rally behind her.
Maybe this underdog tactic—if you could even call it a tactic—was working in her favor after all.
Head still spinning, Emma staggered toward her bedroom door, the echoes of the celebration still lingering in her mind. But just as she reached for the handle, she froze.
A chill ghosted along her ankles—not the kind born of a cool night breeze, but something deeper, more unnatural.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
She wasn't alone.
Emma spun on instinct, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The two torches flanking her door flickered wildly, their flames casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. She scanned the corridor, eyes sharp despite the haze of rum in her veins.
Nothing.
No lingering figures. No movement beyond the sway of firelight.
And yet, the feeling remained.
Fingers tightening around the door handle, she pushed it open, stumbling inside with a rush of air. The moment she was through, she slammed it shut behind her, the thud of the latch locking into place grounding her just enough to steady her breath.
She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply—calm down.
Then she saw it.
At her feet, a thin, folded parchment.
Emma's breath hitched.
No crest. No wax seal. No indication of who had left it.
Her fingers hovered over the paper, hesitant, as if it might burn her on contact. Carefully, she peeled it from the floor, unfolding it with deliberate slowness.
Her eyes traced the ink.
Four words.
Words so simple, so small—yet enough to send ice through her veins.
"I know your secret."
The night she thought she'd remember forever—for victory, for triumph—would now be branded in her mind for something else entirely.
Not for the applause.
Not for the glory.
But for the moment she realized—she wasn't safe