“Armeda’s been making advances on Jax. Pretty bold ones, too. He’s turned her down repeatedly, but apparently, she thinks Ferrula’s the reason he won’t look her way.”
My jaw dropped. “Wait. She thinks Ferrula is her competition?”
Riven’s smirk was grim. “Looks like she’s decided to take a more... direct approach.”
“Is Armeda insane?” I hissed. “Does she even understand what a Dirian warrior does to someone who tries to interfere with a bonded couple?”
Riven nodded slowly, eyes still scanning the tension building in the arena. “She’s from Vrangoth. They’re almost as bloodthirsty as the Dirian clans. Honor duels, blood debts, grudge trials—if someone spills your drink in the wrong bar, it ends in steel. But as riders? They can’t challenge each other outside of sanctioned combat. Killing another rider is a death sentence unless it happens in the ring.”
I turned to follow Ferrula’s path, watching the way her jaw clenched and her fingers flexed as if she were still mid-fight.
“This is going to end badly,” I whispered.
Riven’s response was immediate. “Yeah. It’s just a matter of who bleeds first.”
My gaze slid toward the eastern ring, where Tae was circling a Warborn rider twice his size and half his charm. Sand kicked up beneath their boots as they moved in sync, blades flashing with precise, measured strikes, until the Warborn brute growled and shoved forward, nearly knocking Tae off balance with a shoulder slam.
“If you use that mind crap on me,” the rider snarled, spitting to the side, “I’ll rip your damn head off.”
Tae stumbled back a step, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and grinned like the devil himself. “Aw, andhere I thought we were finally getting along. Didn’t realize your ego was more fragile than your footwork.”
The rider lunged. Tae dodged, effortlessly, twirling out of reach with a theatrical flourish that made his opponent growl again.
“Careful,” Tae said lightly, tapping the flat of his blade against the rider’s shoulder as he danced past him. “One more step like that and I might mistake you for a drunken goat.”
There was laughter from the sidelines, but tension too. Warborn didn’t take kindly to being mocked, especially not by a flirty Thrall Squad smartass with influence in his veins and a wicked talent for pushing buttons.
This is going to explode, I thought, just as I caught sight of Zander stepping away from the far ring, his sparring partner crumpled in the sand and breathing heavily.
He brushed his hands off and turned as if to scan the crowd.This is ridiculous. The major is instigating a fight between guilds.
I agree,I sent through the bond.Let’s slip out to the village now. Everyone’s focused on the matches.
There was a heartbeat of silence before his reply slid into my thoughts, sharp and sure.
Let’s go.
Zander fell into step beside me, his cloak drawn up just enough to shield his face, though I doubted anyone watching the rings would care. The trial grounds pulsed with aggression and steel, attention locked on sparring pairs and petty rivalries flaring into bloodsport. No one noticed us slip through the throng of riders. No one wanted to.
Gerane stood near the gate as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. His eyes met mine, sharp and unreadable, and he gave a subtle flick of his fingers.Move now.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. I nodded once and pressed forward, Zander ghosting behind me like a shadow.
My father had to know by now.
Lady Belana’s death would’ve been announced before the second horn sounded, and if Cyran Rebec didn’t already have his defenses raised, he was slipping.
The village just outside Warriath’s western wall was quiet, the kind of quiet that made my skin crawl. No guards. No foot traffic. Just shuttered windows and the smell of damp stone and smoke curling from low chimneys.
Zander kept close, his hand brushing the dagger strapped beneath his cloak. I didn’t say anything. We both knew better than to talk out here.
The Rusty Tankard looked abandoned, its front door slightly ajar, as if it hadn’t seen a customer in days. We stepped inside, the familiar scent of burnt cloves and old wine hitting me instantly. No barkeep. No patrons.
Just silence.
We moved through the back hall, bypassing the dust-covered tables, and I brushed the heavy tapestry aside. The one no drunk ever dared touch.
Behind it, the wall gave way to a narrow stairwell.
