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“Didn’t think so.” I examine my nicked, battle-scarred knuckles. “Guess it’s me, then. I’ve won things before. Occasionally without killing anyone.”

Esme gapes at me, blinking in that way that indicates she’s struggling to articulate. “You’d have no chance against the Onyx Knight.”

I drop my jaw and press my hand to my chest. “Are you saying you think I’m too weak to fight him?” I shovel in a few bites of my dinner while watching her debate over what to say. Then I set her at ease. “Calm down. I’m just joking. I’d be stupid to take this monster on. We’re going to have to resort to crime.”

Esme stares at me. Her mouth opens. Then she starts cackling. “We steal it?”

Gods, I can’t take my eyes off of her when she laughs. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and heard. Better than the dance of light off fresh lava. I bury my face in my mug and swig ale before I blush or do something else equally ridiculous. “We steal it.”

She grins. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

“Good thing you’re with an expert.” I signal the bartender for two more ales. “We’re going to need a plan. Multiple plans. Backup plans for when the first three fail.”

Esme wipes her eyes, still smiling.

The sight soothes any lingering homesickness over not returning to Tirene.

Chapter Thirty-One

Agnar

I shoulder my pack and step off the boat onto solid ground at one of the many fishing and trade ports on the main island of The Havens. The capital hosting the tournament is a two-day journey by foot, providing just enough time for us to register before the fighting begins. My legs remember the sway of the boat we’ve been on for the last two days, then settle. Esme follows, pale but steadier than she was an hour ago.

She blinks at all the activity like she just emerged into sunlight after spending days underground.

The docks writhe with the good kind of chaos. Merchants shout prices, dock workers haul crates, and the smell of fresh fish and tar and bread drifts from somewhere inland. Black banners bearing a raised silver fist hang from every post and building facade.

The crowd is thick, so I keep Esme close, holding one hand near the small of her back without touching. Esme abruptly stops walking and plants her feet, earning more than one grumble as the pedestrians split around us.

I follow her gaze.

A juggler performs near a fountain, spinning five wooden pins in the air while a small audience claps. Nearby, a musician plays a cheerful tune on a reed pipe. Children dart between adult legs, laughing and shrieking with hands sticky from sugary buns and candy, and the atmosphere hums with excitement. The port seems to be gearing up for a big event.

“Come on.” I nudge Esme in the back, and she trails behind me. More than once, her nose leads her to a food vender and I have to corral her back on track.

Rows of temporary stalls line the road, wafting the scent of fried dough, roasting corn, and mead. At every street corner, too many bards and musical instruments compete for our attention.

We find an inn two streets back from the waterfront. The Crowing Rooster, according to the sign. The building is an old three-story stone structure with well-maintained flower boxes under the windows.

Inside, my stomach rumbles over the combination of wood smoke, ale, and something savory. I rub my hand over it, dreaming of a meat pie with a crumbling crust. Visitors pack the common room and fill every table, their voices layering over each other in various accents. I can pick out Kamorian, Tirenese, Meridian, and at least three others I can’t place.

The barkeep looks like she could wrestle a bear and come out ahead. She glances up at our approach.

I don’t waste any time on pleasantries. “Rooms?”

“One left.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Top floor. Overlooks the green. Our best. Two silvers a night. You want it or not?”

I fish out the coins. “We do.”

She accepts them with quick fingers, then slides an iron key across the bar. “Third door on the left. Festival’s tonight, so if you’re trying to sleep, good luck. The whole town will be up until dawn. If you leave me your bags, we’ll put them in your room.”

I hand over our bags, and she passes them on to a maid.

Esme peers over her shoulder out the windows, where lights continue to grow and stretch. “Festival?”

The woman smiles. “You’ll join us tonight, yes?”

“Oh, we shouldn’t—” Esme starts.