DEMITRA SPENT HOURS of the night yelling about demons and something about envy in her sleep. None of it made anyfucking sense, and we didn’t discuss it this morning when I left for the tournament.
Checking my scores the moment I got to the lists was a terrible idea. I’m dead last. The match against Dolan ended in a forfeit, which is a shame, because I really fucking needed those points.
Thankfully, today is my off day. Each of us is given one full day to recover, and I was fortunate to draw the day just before the final event.
Dolan landed some lucky hits, but the damage could have been so much worse if the big rebel hadn’t stepped in. I was lucky to walk away with a few bruises on both arms and a swollen eye. Demitra almost ruined everything with her drunken foolishness. He could have killed me.
Horns blare in the arena, our signal to line up to be presented before Queen Daphne and the crowd.
Queen Daphne stands on the decorative platform meant for the royal family. She’s surrounded by servants and soldiers as she stoically observes the lines of contestants still standing after days of brutal competition.
She’s as gorgeous as she is intimidating, but her unblinking brown eyes are filled with sorrow. Her gown is gold and red, and a gorgeous golden tiara sits atop her braided blonde hair. It’s not attire anyone outside of the inner city is used to seeing, and I’m not the only one gawking.
There is one last round of jousting today for those who have not yet competed, and tomorrow will be the final test of our skills. They haven’t told us what exactly it will be, but I do feel rather confident.
When the queen’s gaze lands on me, I have an urge to fix my hair or wipe the dirt I’m certain mars my face. It might be my imagination, but I swear she’s staring at me a little longer than she did the rest.
I wish she could read my mind, or that I could scream across the field to warn her that the rebels are coming for her. Maybe she can sense I have information she needs. I have to find a way to get close to her.
When she finally moves on to inspect the rest of the contestants, I look over my shoulder to where Dolan stands, face still swollen and bruised from the failed murder attempt, as if he refused to see the healers.
He catches me looking and shoots me a murderous scowl.
The queen finishes her inspection and takes her seat on the dais. Meanwhile, the master of ceremonies drones on about the day’s festivities.
Maybe I’m losing my mind a little bit, but I think I can get to her without anyone knowing. It will be a delicate balance between keeping Phillipa safe and ensuring my queen isn’t assassinated.
A plan begins to form in the recesses of my mind. If I can just find a way onto the dais …
“You have all fought gallantly, and our queen wishes to bestow her gratitude upon each of you for your efforts. You should take pride in having made it this far. Good luck.”
With that, the ceremony ends, and we are dismissed to our events. I am grateful once more for the good fortune of it being my off day.
Though, now today may turn into a trial of a different sort.
I weave through the crowd outside the arena, narrowly avoiding accidentally plowing over a young boy selling fat bugs on a stick.
I’m certain I’ve reached the spot behind the dais when I happen upon two soldiers who are clearly guarding the area. Now, to come up with a way to get in.
For what feels like hours, I watch and wait for an idea that will get me near enough to Queen Daphne to warn her. I’m pacingfrom the pent-up energy, and working hard not to talk myself out of this.
Every once in a while, a servant appears with a tray of refreshments I can only assume the queen and her companions are consuming.
It’s starting to get dark when the next round of servants comes through. I wait for them under the stands, and when they leave, I follow them to a tent full of royal attendees.
From my spot outside, I listen in anticipation for my next move.
“Come on, then. Haven’t got all day. Don’t want her starvin’, do ya, Angelina?” an older woman calls out.
“No, ma’am,” the servant I assume is Angelina mumbles.
The servants all wear black cotton uniforms, and the women wear matching scarves that cover their hair and veils over their noses and mouths to filter the thick air.
An easily replicable outfit if only I had the time. My only choice is one I don’t love, but I’m desperate. I pull my dagger from its sheath and wait outside the opening of the tent.
Angelina’s shadow moves closer, and I lift my blade above my head, prepared to bring the hilt down only hard enough to knock her out for a little while.
The breath I heave fills me with resolve, and I’m about to strike when a hand wraps hard around my wrist from behind. I’m spun so violently away from the tent, I think a hole tears into the sole of my shoes from the friction.
