With the varnished, waxy shell of his exterior melted away, I finally see him. This isn’t a charming, polite boy. This is a boy of simmering ire, moments away from boiling over. Infinitely more dangerous. Infinitely more alluring.
My heartbeat picks up speed and volume the longer we stare. My throat is parched, and my hands clench the sides of the table, steadying myself.
I have no idea how long we stare and no idea what expression I’m making, or whether Kaidren sees a glimpse of himself lurking in my eyes, as I do his.
He’s the first to look away. He inhales and rises, blinking rapidly, looking dazed.
There are several beats of silence, and then that refined, straight-toothed smile is back, perfect and lifeless as ever. “Can I trust you to deliver my message to your brother?”
My hands unclench as I catch my breath and fix my lips into a fake smile of my own. “Of course,” I say. “What are friends for?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THESE DEADLY GAMES
There isn’t a single empty seat in the arena. So many people. So many opportunities for this to fail spectacularly.
The domed roof is open for the first trial. Light from the beacons illuminates the wide field. Flynn Sixmen stands on a raised platform, flanked by Luc and Kaidren. Before them is a sea of soldiers filling the field. There are far more decurio here than there were for the opening ceremony. I can’t see their wrists, but I know—these aren’t just the Opheran soldiers.
It makes my insides riot with fury, but rather than freeze it, I lean into that feeling. I have a Tournament to fix.
Luc stands with his feet apart, head high. He looks as bold and regal as I reminded him to be, over and over. His only flaw is his left boot. It taps nervously against the stage in a quick, irregular beat. I doubt anyone else notices, but I can’t look away from the crack in his facade.
Kaidren is on Flynn’s left. Like Luc, Kaidren’s head is high. Unlike Luc, I can’t find any indicator that he’s anything less than wholly calm. It bothers me that I can’t tell if it’s real. Is his self-assurance as manufactured as his smile? It must be. He came to me devastated just last night, but there’s no hint of that now.
The cheering crowd quiets as Flynn announces the rules of the first trial. On the stage before him is a large marble bowl full of slips of parchment, each with a name of an aikkari soldier.
When Flynn’s introduction ends, it’s Luc’s turn to select his team. His boot finally stops tapping as he reaches into the bowl.
Luc unfurls the first slip of parchment. “Dhavik Chambliss.” His voice is smooth and steady.
Dhavik shoves his way through the decurio. The audience twist in their seats and crane their heads, trying to get a better look at the first competitor. He’s tall and thick shouldered, with close-cropped hair, same as all the men in the decurio.
The first of ten. My fingers drum restlessly against my thigh. Luc draws more names. I examine each soldier called and their build, searching . . .
Luc calls the name of his seventh soldier, “Esi Dreylock,” and a girl approaches.
Her appearance is unremarkable and, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t draw the eye. Except for her build. Out of everyone Luc’s called, hers most closely resembles my own. She’s taller than me by a few hairs, and her arms have more muscle, but from a distance, covered in armor, I doubt anyone would notice.
I nudge Sef, but she’s already looking at me. “Her?”
“Unless you disagree?”
“No, she’s perfect,” Sef says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.” I give her hand a firm squeeze and slip out of the arena benches. In a few minutes, Sef will inconspicuously follow. In the meantime, no one notices me duck into one of the rooms built into the base of the stands. The wooden walls are bare, the only furniture is a small table, and there’s no floor—just grass.
Sef and I prepared this room ahead of time. My aikkari armor (a gift from Flynn during training) waits for me, neatly folded on the table.
Virdeian armor is a combination of leather, wool, and fur. White wool shirts with flexible tan leather stitched along the sides and elbows for padding, leather caps covered in fur to protect the head, tan wool pants with leather at the kneecaps, and fur-lined boots. They’re heavy enough to be protective and warm and are breathable enough to move in. Over the face, soldiers wear cloth masks with mesh eyeholes to protect their vision from snowfall and keep them warm.
Practical, but a pain to put on. There’s no insulation in this room, so I’m freezing as I strip off my regular clothes. I’ve just finished putting on my uniform (leaving off the fur-lined gloves) when the door opens and Sef enters with Esi.
Esi is already wearing her armor, with her mask tucked under her arm. She frowns when she sees me. “What’s going on?”
I touch the tshira trinket at my bracelet and soak up the comforting warmth of the magic stored within. “Sorry about this,” I say. Before Esi can question my meaning, I press a hand to her forehead.
Heated magic releases, and I channel it into her mind, specifically her memories of the past fifteen minutes.
