The crowd rumbles as decurio spill into the arena. I squint, assessing them. There aren’t as many soldiers to choose from as I anticipated—just a few rows—and these soldiers are smaller and less physically impressive than those who just performed in the opening ceremony.
Luc chooses first. He points to the largest soldier. A good, safe choice named Erik. Kaidren’s pick is a spry-looking young man called Vellen.
Luc selects a sword for his soldier; Kaidren selects a long knife for his.
The two decurio stand in the center of the arena field, circling each other. I’m tense, clutching Sef’s sleeve for comfort.
Erik—Luc’s soldier—makes the first move. He brandishes his sword. Vellen lurches out of the way, but he’s a bit too slow. His thigh is caught by the blade. Red blooms on his uniform. A shallow cut, but it looks painful.
Watching them fight, I frown. They each lumber more than they lunge. Their reflexes are off, and they look more awkward with their weapons than they should. They’re slower than I thought decurio would be. Slower than the soldiers from the opening ceremony.
Vellen rushes forward, moves around Erik, and tries to stab him from behind.
Erik doesn’t turn quickly enough; the dagger lodges in his shoulder. He reaches to yank it out, and I see it—a flash of gold on his wrist.
He wrenches the knife from his back and throws it at Vellen. It misses, skidding over the ground behind them.
Vellen is now unarmed. This should be an easy win for Luc’s soldier. But he’s too slow, giving Vellen time to sprint for his knife.
Erik hacks at his opponent with his sword, trying to stop him. He misses. By a lot.
Why are they soslow?
As Vellen reaches for the knife in the ground, I see another glimpse of gold.
I frown. They’rebothOpheran?
What are the odds of that? The decurio recruit from Virdei and Ophera alike, but far more aikkari are born in the Republic. Opherans comprise a very small portion of our soldiers. The likelihood of two Opheran soldiers being selected at random for this challenge are slim. Practically impossible.
As I watch Vellen seize the knife and hurl it at Erik, I’m left with the horrifying realization that there’s a reason these two appear poorly trained compared to the other soldiers: because they are.
The knife sinks into Erik’s chest. He stumbles before falling over, dead.
There’s a reason the pool of soldiers for this so-called game was noticeably small: They drew competitors from a selection of Opheran soldiers.OnlyOpheran soldiers.
After all, Opherans are expendable. They’re poorly trained, underprepared, and who cares if they fight each other to the death?
Erik is still. He lies in the snow, blood seeping from the wound in his chest. All the while, the audience is cheering, and Flynn is congratulating Kaidren on his victory. As if he did anything more than watch two insignificant Opherans try and kill each other.
I can’t look away from Erik’s body.
I recall Kaidren’s words, that he still has nightmares of his first Tournament. Of the first person he watched die.
The sight of the unsung soldier lying in the snow, dead and ignored, is seared into my brain. I fear Kaidren was right: I’ll never get the image out of my mind, not even in sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ART OF GOSSIP
I don’t have to fake my shivers as I knock on the front door of the Vale manor. I’m dressed plainly in a gray dress and overdress made of thin, scratchy wool; patchy cloak with a frayed hem; tattered scarf; and a pair of worn leather gloves.
It’s too cold for so few layers, but I convincingly look the part of a servant girl who can’t afford anything warmer.
Kaidren is currently at Widow’s Hall, entertaining Petruvian guests with Luc. No idea how long it’ll take, but I don’t plan on staying for more than an hour.
A woman opens the door. Her face is pinched in irritation, but it softens when she sees my trembling figure. “Stars in hell, girl. Come in, come in.” She shuffles me inside without a second thought.
I stumble over the threshold with a nervous smile. “I’m so sorry to intrude, ma’am.”
