Kaidren’s grinning again. “You can look now, Reyna.”
She peeks open one eye, then the other, breathing a sigh of relief when she sees she’s still alive.
There are eight contenders left. Kaidren works down the line. He correctly identifies the next seven. Four are aikkari, three are not.
I slip out of my seat before the second to last participant. No one pays me any mind as I duck beneath the arena stands and make my way to the other side—to where the cord Flynn pulls to trigger the crossbow leads. I hear rather than see Kaidren’s deep, confident voice proclaim the final contender isn’t aikkari.
As the audience stomps their feet, I stop moving. I’m directly under a giant weapon. It looks like a crossbow, but larger than any I’ve ever seen, and the loading mechanism is piled high with additional bolts that slide into place when the previous one is released. The next spear is already loaded, just waiting for a trigger.
By this point, everyone is cheering, Flynn is all smiles, and Kaidren is soaking up the attention.
Flynn takes Kaidren by the wrist and holds it up. “Congratulations to Honorate Kaidren Vale . . .”
He keeps speaking, but I’m no longer listening. It’s too easy to reach for the cord connected to the massive crossbow and loop it loosely around the ankle of a man seated overhead. I send a tendril of heat to his seat. Not enough to burn, just enough to startle.
He leaps with a yelp. The motion pulls the cord. The device beneath him launches, and another tshira bolt sails toward the center of the arena, right at the final contender, Rilan.
It takes people a moment to notice it. After all, the event is supposed to be over. No one is expectinganotherattack.
Then someone screams.
The decurio in the arena react quickly, but not quickly enough. As they scramble for their sources to use magic to deflect the spear, Rilan is utterly terrified and completely defenseless.
Instinct takes over. His hands shoot up to guard his face, and he cries out.
The crossbow bolt is a whisper away from him when I shift it out of the way. I’m not as practiced as the decurio, so it’s not nearly as graceful as it jolts to the side. The jerky movements of the tshira only serve to better sell my lie: itlooksas if the man the tshira was about to spear just used magic to protect himself.
The same man Kaidren Vale very clearly announced to the worldisn’taikkari.
Rilan’s scream of terror fades.
The excitement of the arena softens into confused whispers.
Kaidren’s jaw slackens. He whirls to Rilan, expression flickering between shock and confusion. “What—how did you do that?”
Rilan lowers his hands. “That wasn’t me.” He wavers and stares at his hands in astonishment. “At least, I don’t think it was.”
Flynn’s frown is deep, and the furrow in his brow grows more pronounced. He raises his voice. “Will the aikkari responsible for blocking the misfired bolt please come forward?”
All around, aikkari glance at one another in question, waiting for someone to claim responsibility.
No one moves.
Clearly frustrated, Flynn moves down the line of soldiers. He stops in front of each aikkari participant and directly asks them: “Did you move that crossbow bolt?”
When they each deny it, he pushes further: “Are youcertain?”
Each aikkari confirms they are.
Confusion abounds, in the stands and the arena alike. Flynn fixes his gaze on the final participant, Rilan. “It must have been you.”
Rilan stares at his hands again. “But I’m not aikkari. That’s impossible.”
“Just because you didn’t know doesn’t mean you don’t have magic. It’s not uncommon for someone to be aikkari and not know their source.”
“I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“You were about to be killed—you acted on instinct. Did you feel a rush of heat before the spear moved?”
