His father, High Prince Hevio, has his attention on his eldest son, Cullen, and the two of them are engaged in conversation. Even when the applause for Cyrus cascades through the crowd, his father and brother remain indifferent.
It’s tough to watch, made even worse when Kara and Savannah are called out next, only to have the High Prince fix his attention on them.
Naturally, they’re amazing. Savannah’s talents as a Psam allow her to weave sand into any weapon she fancies – a bow and arrow in this instance. Kara effortlessly crafts a light spear to match Cyrus’s, and their performance bursts forth like a firework. No sooner do the stable boys replace the mannequin than they’ve already destroyed it, sending tattered shreds of potato sack and strands of hay flying through the air.
Basking in the cheers from the onlookers, with yellow cards whipping about like leaves in a storm, the two keep their fingers entwined, eyes locked in a moment of bliss.
It’s ridiculous. As if they’ve just clinched the tournament. All three rulers, including the High Prince Hevio, rise to their feet, yellow cards clasped, ready for collection.
Cyrus is seething. His lips form a tight line. I half-expect him to spit on the girls’ shoes when they slot back into place beside him, but he manages some semblance of composure.
“Don’t get too cocky,” I hear him sneer through the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be coming for you the first chance I get.”
Savannah smirks. “Not if we get to you first.”
They can’t stand each other –perfect. My attention lingers on the trio, and I’m not fully focusing as Gigi and Gunther take their turn. Other teams follow, each with varying levels of popularity.
At last, in the fading applause, Harry’s voice wafts across the gardens, “Finally, we have Maeve Speck and Wren Hull.”
For a split second, I don’t respond. Then I realize. That’s us. “Hey,” Kara whispers, “he’s calling you.”
I hesitate. If I had known there would be a showcase tonight, maybe I’d have discussed it with Taron beforehand and concocted some sort of plan. The other teams all have a rhythm, an understanding born from actually knowing one another.
Taron catches my eye and gives me the faintest nod.
“Both hailing from Moondance Haven,” Fritz announces as we step forward, waiting for the stable boys to replace the demolished mannequin, “Maeve and Wrenaren’t enrolled in any Principal Academies, making them our only privately trained team this year.”
A disapproving murmur rustles through the crowd, and I can’t muster the courage to meet their self-righteous, judgemental stares.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, channelling a bit of Kara and Cyrus in my performance.
I conjure a long, ethereal spear crafted from my own negative emotions. It’s mostly a concoction of apprehension, woven with anxiety and a sprinkle of self-loathing for my lack of confidence. I’ve seen what Taron is capable of, so there’s no reason to doubt our ability to do some real damage to the mannequin.
I turn to my left to see what Taron has done. He’s just standing there, hands behind his back and chin raised with indifference.
No, this is not what I need right now.
“Wren,” I whisper, “what are you doing?”
“I’m not some fool to be put on display,” he says, loudly enough to draw scoffs from the crowd. If anything, their disdain only fuels him. He readjusts his stance, legs parted slightly, shoulders rolled back.
“You’re going to let me do this on my own?” I hiss.
Silence.
I can’t believe him. Is he serious? After everything he’s done to get here, after enduring being Madame Vera’s little dogsbody, doing all her dirty work –thisis where he chooses to take a stand? I’m not just angry … I’m furious.
He can’t do this to me. I didn’t abandon my entire life, leaving behind everything Elara and I built, only to be humiliated in front of a garden full of pompous big shots.
My fingers clench around the spear, feeling it solidify against my skin, fuelled by the burning fury inside me. I don’t know what overcomes me but I lunge forward, arm pulling back and hurling the spear with a loud scream.
A voice in the depths of my mind urges me on, chanting my goal, the prize at the end of all this misery. A sister’s freedom, traded for victory at any cost.
The moment stretches as the spear punctures the mannequin’s head. It tears it right off and continues flying all the way back towards a distant tree. When the energy dissipates and the spear vanishes, what’s left is a hole the size of a fist, dug into the bark from the impact.
I close my eyes and breathe, suppressing the urge to laugh. My voice is a whisper in the evening breeze, a wish spoken only to myself.I wish… to win this thing.
Seconds pass, and everyone is silent. Somewhere, someone coughs. Then whispers spread like fire through the competitors, followed by suppressed laughter.
