I raised my bow, drawing the string back to my cheek in one fluid motion. The familiar tension grounded me, the focus required pushing other thoughts momentarily aside. I sighted down the arrow’s shaft, finding the center of the distant target.
Something made me look up, a prickling awareness that raised the hair on the back of my neck. There, in a high tower window, a flash of amber and gold. Isabeau. Watching from her prison, her hands pale against the stone sill. Even at this distance, I could feel the weight of her gaze.
“Loose!”
Arrows hissed through the air, mine among them. I didn’t need to watch to know it had struck true, embedding itself in the innermost ring of the target. Around me, other competitors cursed or celebrated according to their results.
Gaspard’s arrow, of course, had split the center.
He turned, catching me watching him, and inclined his head in the slightest of bows. “Well shot, Your Highness,” he called, voice pitched to carry. “Thou art a worthy adversary.”
The false praise scraped against my nerves like rusty metal. I returned the nod with cool formality, unwilling to exchangepleasantries with the man who had destroyed Isabeau’s innocence. “And thou as well, Lord Coventry.”
The first round eliminated nearly half the competitors, those whose arrows had strayed too far from center. As the targets were moved back for the second round, I found my gaze drawn again to that high window. Isabeau remained there, a golden figure framed by stone, her presence pulling at me like a lodestone to true north.
I’d told her she was mine, had claimed her as possession rather than person. The memory burned with shame, yet beneath that shame lurked something darker. A possessiveness I couldn’t entirely disown, a desire to keep her safe that blurred into keeping her.
“Prince Alain,” Father’s voice cut through my thoughts. He’d descended from the dais to stand near my position, his expression unreadable beneath his formal crown. “Thy form is excellent, but thy focus seems elsewhere.”
“Forgive me, Father,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “I shall endeavor to bring my full attention to the competition.”
His sharp eyes followed my earlier gaze to the tower window. “Ah,” he said, understanding dawning. “The girl watches. Perhaps that explains thy determination to best Coventry.”
I stiffened. “I don’t take thy meaning.”
Father’s laugh held no warmth. “Come now, son. I’ve seen how thou look at her. Like a starving man eyes a feast he cannot touch. You want to impress her.” He clapped my shoulder with heavy familiarity. “Best Coventry if thou must, but remember what we discussed. The girl is a diversion, nothing more.”
He returned to the dais before I could respond, leaving me with clenched jaw and white knuckles around my bow. If he only knew the truth about his respected friend. If he knew what Gaspard had done to Isabeau...
But I had no proof beyond her word, and even that had been reluctantly given. My word against Gaspard’s would carry weight, but without evidence, accusations against the kingdom’s most celebrated huntsman would cause more problems than they solved. And bringing Isabeau into it would expose her to exactly what she feared most—facing her tormentor with the king’s favor already on his side.
The second round commenced. Targets moved back, the challenge increasing. I forced myself to focus, to place each shot with precision born of years of training. My arrows flew true, always within the innermost rings. Yet so did Gaspard’s, his form perfect, his confidence unshakable.
Competitors fell away with each round until only five remained. Then three. Then, as I’d known it would come to pass, just Gaspard and myself, facing targets placed at the field’s farthest edge.
“The final round of this event,” announced the master of ceremonies, “between His Royal Highness, Prince Alain Legrand, and Lord Gaspard Coventry, Champion of the Northern Marches!”
The crowd’s roar washed over us, enthusiasm divided between royal title and proven champion. I felt rather than saw Isabeau’s attention intensify from her window, her presence a tangible weight against my skin.
“A worthy contest,” Gaspard said as we waited for the master’s signal. His voice pitched low, meant for my ears alone. “I have watched thee grow from boy to man, Highness, and am most impressed by thy skill.”
“Thy reputation precedes thee as well,” I replied, choosing each word with care. “In all matters.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Wariness, perhaps, or calculation. “I am honored the crown recognizes my humble talents.”
“The crown recognizes many things,” I said, letting the implication hover between us.
Before he could respond, the master called for silence. “Three arrows each, gentlemen. Highest score to determine the victor.”
Gaspard gestured graciously. “Age before beauty, Highness. I insist thou shoot first.”
I stepped to the line, focusing on the distant target. All else fell away—the crowd’s murmurs, Father’s calculating gaze, even Gaspard’s false bonhomie. There was only the bow, the arrow, the target, and the space between.
My first shot struck just left of center. Not perfect, but within the second ring. Good enough to remain competitive.
Gaspard’s first arrow hit dead center.
The crowd roared its approval as he turned to acknowledge them with a raised hand. Everything about him was performance from the modest smile, the respectful bow toward the royal dais, to the humble dip of his head that somehow managed to convey supreme confidence. He was a man accustomed to adoration, to domination, to getting precisely what he wanted by whatever means necessary.
