It’s not long before my eyes land on the red-faced man from the banquet. I don’t know his name, and I’d almost rather keep it that way.
He’s a few targets down, standing with a dastardly looking group of fae. They all wear dark cloaks, and their skin is an ashen sort of gray. Monsters. Murderers, and nobody even knows they’re walking among us.
Or maybe they look that way to me because I know they must be members of The Rhiza if they’re associating with him. I make a mental note of each of their faces.
I have to find a way to get rid of him, and it has to look like an accident if I want to make it through this tournament with my head firmly connected to my shoulders.
When a target is free, I step up to the small table with practice knives laid upon it. I pull three from the basket, and familiarize myself with their weight. Stepping up to the throwing line, I take one deep breath and aim for the target.
I throw my first blade and miss by half an arm’s length.
Soft chuckles sound from behind me, but I don’t look to see who it is. Let them think I’m weak and unskilled. That will be their mistake. I just need a little practice, is all.
“Are you ready?” Eryk steps into my peripheral.
I throw another blade, this time hitting the outer edge of the target.
“I will be.”
Raiden
IRRITATION CRAWLS THROUGH my muscles, tightening them until I’m certain they’ll snap. Baltas’ horse pins his ears back, sensing the shift in my mood.
Captain Loverboy is showing her how to throw her blades. She was doing fine on her own, and his technique is lacking.
“Grip those reins any tighter and they may disintegrate.” Baltas laughs down at me.
The muscles in my jaw pulse when the captain’s hand touches hers to adjust her already flawless stance.
She looks up at him and smiles, and my blood boils in response.
“I don’t like how close she is with the captain.” I’m not sure why I say it out loud. I tell myself it’s because she might think she can win his favor by turning us over to him. She’d only be securing his death sentence.
Baltas attempts to hide his amusement. “Worried she prefers him over the likes of you?”
I’m about to scold him, tell him I’m more worried I’ve just created double the work for us, because what if the girl tells the captain before we get a chance to get fully situated?
But the herald calls for the opening ceremonies to begin, a tradition that I wish had been left behind with the coming of the Smog. Nobody cares who you are or where you come from anymore. All that matters is skill and survival.
Before the Smog, beforeher. We thrived, and events like this didn’t bother me as much. I looked forward to them, if I’m honest. It was the only time my parents allowed me to visit. I’d run freely, unnoticed in the bustling crowds, and watch the soldiers. The memory is bright and crisp in my mind.
Now it all seems frivolous. Wasteful. A mockery of what the world once was.
I lead Baltas’ horse onto the field, in line with the other contestants who will joust for their first event.
Arina and those selected for blade throwing stand across the way, facing us in a line, and a third group—those selected forhand-to-hand combat—connects the two lines, facing the crowd in the stands.
I don’t hear a word the herald says as he lays out the rules and schedule for the next few days. Originally, I had come here to scout.
Instead, I found myself a distraction.
The girl stands with her shoulders back, arms at her side. Rigid and alert. To a lesser trained eye, she may appear confident, unshakeable.
It’s all an act. Armor she’s put on to survive, and I want to peel it from her. To uncover her true nature. Strip her bare so she can’t hide anymore.
We lock eyes, and I’m certain beneath that stoic shell, she’s shaking.
Fucking hells.
