At Viv. At Rowan.
Shane's voice crackled in Charlie's earpiece. "King, you copy?"
Charlie touched the small comm unit. "Copy."
"I've got eyes on the north entrance. Faire security's doubled up at all access points. They turned away two people in Caidansworn costumes already. Stay alert."
"Roger that."
Down in the arena, handlers were preparing the horses. Rowan stood with his mount—a massive gray gelding with white socks that must have been at least sixteen hands high—running a hand down its neck. He'd traded out his chain mail for plate mail. Duke had changed into his squire costume—Caiden's colors, dark leather and forest green. He carried Rowan's lance with easy confidence, spinning it once like a showman before planting it upright in the sand.
The crowd noticed. A ripple of reaction—some cheers, some boos.
Charlie's jaw clenched. She hated that Viv had been exposed on her watch. But on a personal level, it pissed her off how he'd just blown up Rowan and Viv's privacy on a livestream.
Duke waved and blew kisses at the queen's ladies-in-waiting, all charm and swagger.
"That son of a bitch," Maddie muttered.
Viv said nothing, but her hands gripped the armrests of her chair.
Down below, Rowan and Duke exchanged words. Charlie couldn't hear them, but body language said enough. Rowan'sshoulders were stiff. Duke's gestures were expansive, apologetic. Playing the peacemaker for anyone watching.
Ben stayed close to Rowan, a solid presence. Charlie saw him say something to Duke—brief, sharp—and Duke stepped back with raised hands.Message received.
Good.
Before mounting, Rowan ran a hand along the horse's barrel and slid his fingers briefly under the girth strap—a quick, practiced check. Satisfied, he nodded to the handler and swung up onto the gray with the ease of someone who'd done it before.
Then Duke stepped in. Charlie couldn't hear what he said, but his body language was all performance—playing to the nearby crowd as he reached down and tugged the girth strap with a showman's flourish. Rowan looked down at him with an expression Charlie couldn't read from this distance. Duke stepped back and presented the lance with an elaborate bow.
Her eyes found Ben across the arena. He was watching Duke, not the crowd.
Focus,she told herself.You're on the job.
But she filed it away.
The herald—a barrel-chested man in crimson and gold—stepped to the center of the arena and raised a brass horn. Three short blasts silenced the crowd.
“Good people!” His voice boomed across the grounds. “Welcome to the Grand Tournament! Today, brave knights shall test their valor in the lists, for the honor of our gracious Queen Vivienne!”
The crowd roared. Viv stood and waved, every inch the regal monarch despite everything.
Charlie scanned faces in the front rows, looking for anyone who appeared too focused, too intense, too still. But everyone seemed caught up in the pageantry.
“Our first challenger,” the herald continued, “is Sir Aldric of The Embersworn, defender of the realm, champion of the people!”
Rowan mounted and rode his horse to the center of the arena. The gray gelding pranced slightly, showing off. Rowan sat tall in the saddle, his armor gleaming, one hand raised to acknowledge the cheers.
He looked every inch a king.
Charlie's professional assessment noted his posture, his control of the horse, the way the armor moved. Everything looked right.
So why did her instincts keep screaming that something was wrong?
“Attending Sir Aldric,” the herald called, “is his loyal squire, Caiden Bramble!”
Duke jogged into view, carrying the lance. He performed an elaborate bow that got laughs from the crowd, then presented the weapon to Rowan with a flourish.
