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Henrik advances first, surprisingly quick for his age. Lightning crackles from his hands and strikes with precision that Agnar barely manages to dodge. He counters with earth magic, summoning walls that sprout up to intercept the lightning. The arena sand solidifies into glass before shattering.

Henrik presses forward with blade work as impressive as his magic, his economical strikes keeping Agnar from getting inside his guard.

The realization that they’re evenly matched nearly chokes me.

This could go either way.

Minutes pass. The crowd quiets, watching with rapt attention to the soundtrack of clanging swords. Agnar closes in, nullifying Henrik’s ability to use lightning without risking himself.

Then Agnar stumbles.

Sand shifts underneath him at the wrong moment, throwing off his balance for a fraction of a second.

Henrik capitalizes on that fumble by arching his sword toward Agnar’s head. My hand flies up to cover my mouth, panic surging through me.

Agnar readies to parry, but Henrik’s strike is a feint.

Lightning arcs toward Agnar’s exposed side. Henrik follows by aiming his dagger at the gap between breastplate and pauldron that exposes vulnerable flesh.

I bite my cheek hard enough to taste blood. Agnar was never supposed to be in real danger. We should have been long gone by now, having stolen the Everhand on the second or third day. But we underestimated the sheer number of people and how long into the night they’d party. Nobles, scholars, combatants, and attendants alike drift through to stare at the prizes day and night, preventing us from attempting to nab the Everhand.

Responding to my distress, my shadow spinners pour out from under my tunic in a black stream, their tiny bodies scuttling down my leg and across the black sand, perfectly camouflaged.

They reach Henrik in seconds.

I don’t know exactly what they do. Even knowing they’re there, I can’t see them against the black sand.

Henrik’s lightning fizzles out mid-arc as his concentration breaks, and he stumbles backward.

Agnar recovers in an instant.

A second later, the ground collapses under Henrik’s back foot. He falls up to his thigh, off-balance. His defenses are down.

Agnar closes the distance and taps Henrick’s throat with his sword edge. “Yield.”

Henrik stares up at him for three heartbeats, then nods once. “I yield.”

Noise crashes over the arena like a physical force. People leap to their feet, roaring approval, and coins change hands with furious speed. Somewhere above us, the betting boards flash with updated odds. Agnar’s chances of taking the championship rise sharply.

I barely hear over the pounding of my heart and the dead certainty that Agnar could have been killed right then and there.

My eyes lock on Agnar’s face as he steps back and offers Henrik a hand up. The veteran accepts it. They clasp arms briefly, and the crowd goes even wilder over this show of sportsmanship. Relieved laughter rushes out of me, and tears spring to my ears. I clap until my hands go numb. When the roar continues, I jump up and race to our tent to meet him.

Agnar is already inside when I arrive, pouring water over his head. His face jerks up as I walk in, his grin showing off bloody teeth. “Sending spinners onto the field probably counts as cheating.”

I step forward to remove the tabard with his number on it, hiding the way my hands tremble with residual adrenaline. “Probably.”

He looks pointedly at the black dots crawling along the grass to get back into their pouch. “Definitely.”

After laying the tabard on its drying rack, I turn back to him. I should move to his feet next and start removing the armor. Instead, I lean against his back until my mouth is near his ear, close enough for my breath to ghost it. “But worth it?”

He goes very still. The pulse in his neck jumps, and for several heart beats, we both remain rooted in place. Then he swivels his head until our faces are a finger’s breadth apart. This close, I notice his glacial blue eyes lack the cold focus from the arena. “Worth it.”

I meant the Everhand and whether the risk of exposure was a justifiable reason to keep him in the tournament.

Agnar means something else entirely.

At that realization, hope flutters in my belly.