He was young, no older than sixteen, with a wild mane of fiery red hair and eyes the color of a stormy sea.
He was lean but wiry, his body coiled with a latent, explosive power.
He wore simple, rustic clothing, and in his hand, he held a single, wickedly barbed spear.
He looked around the room, at the assembled monsters and warriors, at the crystal walls, at me on my throne.
A cocky, insolent grin spread across his face.
"So," he said, his voice laced with a thick, lyrical accent I couldn't quite place. "This is the place, then. A bit gaudy for my taste. Which one of you is the boss?"
He propped his spear on his shoulder, his posture a perfect picture of arrogant, youthful confidence.
"Name's Setanta," he announced. "And I'm lookin' for a good fight. I was told there'd be some here."
I stared.
Isabelle stared.
Chloe's hand tightened on the hilt of her dagger, her eyes narrowing at this new, swaggering potential rival for my favor.
