The older guard stiffens. No reply.
“I’m no fool—you all survived a mad king’s fall. Whether by luck or cowardice, you’ve made it here, but I am not Farandir, and you are not ready to serve under me.”
Another guard opens his mouth, but one sharp look from Val is enough for him to wisely close it again
“But you will be,” I say, equal parts threat and promise.
I turn, heading for the door where fresh snow starts to blow in. “Ten minutes. Full armor. Blades sharp. Outside.”
I stop and look over my shoulder, letting every man in the barracks feel the weight of my gaze.
“Any who don’t show will be stripped of rank. Or skin. I don't care which.”
Silence hangs heavy for a long moment, the tension threatening to boil over. These men are loyal to no one, and for the right price, any one of them might turn on me. If I don’t play this right, that price will drop significantly.
“You heard the king,” Val says, turning to follow me.
“And someone put out that damn fire,” I add as we leave.
My breath fogs as we step into the ruined arena. What was once a great coliseum grown from Crownwood’s roots is now withered and frozen like the rest of the reach. Part of the fighting ground is impassable, fallen limbs and piles of crumbled stone blocking it off. Pale light filters through gray clouds and bare branches while the guards slowly gather around the edges of the fighting ring, none seeming to remember why they’re here.
“What’ll it be today?” Valenar asks from the weapons rack, drawing a pair of curved blades that bear only a trace of rust on the edges.
“Going for blood? I thought this was a friendly match,” I say, one brow raised. Seems like this is less a sparring match and more an exhibition fight.
Val shrugs, a smirk curving one corner of his mouth. “You want to show these sorry sacks what their king is made of, or what?”
My only answer to that is a low grunt as I reach past him for a heavy mace. His eyes widen a fraction, and I test the mace’s balance with a swing that narrowly misses him.
“Save it for the ring,” he mutters, sidestepping me before moving toward the center of the arena, flourishing his dual blades as he loosens up his wrists.
This feels right. Familiar. Weapon in hand, exchanging barbs with Val, facing an opponent whose every move I can predict, no frantic missives from the borders or crises to answer thismoment. I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders. Now isn’t the time to worry about how few of the guards obeyed my command to join us, nor their disinterest in watching this match. Most soldiers would salivate at the opportunity to watch their superiors get down in the dirt with them, but these men are not most soldiers.
“Not the audience we were hoping for, huh?” Val calls from thirty paces away.
He’s always been too good at seeing to the heart of matters, knowing what I’m thinking without me having to voice it. It makes him a great advisor and friend. It also makes him an enormous pain in the ass.
Without warning, I lower my shoulders and charge at him, the ground trembling with my heavy footfalls. I raise the mace over my head, preparing to strike, and at the last possible moment, he dodges, slashing out with one of his blades.
The mace slams into the ground, shattering ice and wood alike, and sparks trail from Val’s blade where it scrapes across my spikes.
“Good to see that armor of yours hasn’t gone soft,” he quips, baiting me into following him toward the side of the arena with more debris.
I swing the mace again, cutting off his retreat.
“Where you running to?” I taunt. I might be bigger and stronger than him, but he’s quick, agile. If I let him get to uneven ground, I’ll lose my advantage.
“What? Tired already?” he shoots back, dancing from one foot to the other, his tail flicking behind him.
I swing again, he dips below my swing, and then stumbles back into a fallen pillar, taller than him even on its side.
“No,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him while I lift my mace for the final blow, chest heaving and forming clouds of mist from my breath. “Just wondering if you’re taking it easy on me now that I’m king.”
The spark in Val’s eye tells me I’m wrong.
“Why would I do that?” he asks, one arm extended, his sword keeping me at a distance while a throwing dagger shines from his other hand. Quick as a whip, he flicks the dagger, and it sails past me whistling through the air to embed in an arch above.
“Your aim is off,” I say, but before I can bring my mace down, there’s a loud crack above.
