I scream, long and loud, hoping Parrish is still close, that he’ll hear.

No. I don’t want him to see.

A man seizes my arm and jerks me to my feet. My vision feels washed in blood. I still can’t breathe.

I wanted peace, and now Sorra’s bleeding out on the floor.

“You will be unharmed,” the prince is saying. I can barely process the words. “But your presence here will ensure that your mother leaves Emberfall alone for good.”

CHAPTER TEN

GREY

The narrow tunnel to the arena muffles the sound of the crowd. I haven’t worn proper armor in months, but my limbs remember the weight. Journ is broader than I am, but his breastplate fits well enough, his bracers snug against my forearms.

“Worwick likes to rile the fighters up,” Journ is saying. “He’ll tell them to draw blood. Sometimes it’s better to give the crowd a little.”

I eye his scarred arms and say nothing. We’re alone here in the tunnel, but no one knows I’m taking his place. Worwick will figure it out the instant I set foot in the arena, but by then it’ll be too late for him to question it.

Hopefully I’ll put on a good enough show that it won’t matter after that.

“He won’t like it if you draw blood, though,” Journ says. “No one wants to be made a fool. Let them think they can win for a while.”

I know this, but I let him keep talking anyway. My heart sends blood pulsing through my veins.

“Four matches,” Journ says. “Can you stay alive through four matches?”

“Ask me when I’m done.”

He starts to chuckle, but his breath catches and he presses an arm to his abdomen. “Most of these men don’t have much skill,” he says. “They’re all just out to have a good time and bring home bragging rights. But sometimes they’ll surprise you.”

I nod. Above us, the drums begin a familiar rhythm. The resulting cheer is near deafening, even from here.

I don’t need to be exceptional. I just need to put on a good show. I just need to stay alive.

I take a step toward the end of the tunnel, but Journ catches the shoulder of my armor.

“Hawk.” He swallows. “I will owe you for this.”

How I wish Kantor had taken a hoof to the chest instead of this man. “You owe me nothing.”

“I’ll have a chance to repay you one day.”

I smile. “Then let’s hope I survive the night.”

The drums beat again. Worwick’s voice calls out. “From the depths of the Valkins Valley, a man nearly forged in steel, rarely defeated, my champion, Journ of Everlea!”

I step into the arena, and the crowd screams so loud that I worry they’ll bring down the roof. After the quiet dimness of the tunnel, the light and sound are overwhelming. I draw my sword the way I’ve seen Journ do a hundred times, then lift it high.

Worwick stands high in the crowds, and my back is to him, so I have no idea whether he’s noticed me. I hold my breath and wait for his next words.

“We have a special event for you all tonight,” Worwick croons, his voice carrying to the crowd. “A very special event.”

He hasn’t noticed. Good.

“As usual, betting is closed once the second fighter enters the arena,” he calls. “I believe we’re in for a good match. A man of this skill doesn’t often visit Worwick’s Tourney. Place your bets now. I think we’ll see a lot of money change hands tonight. Who feels the kiss of luck on their cheek? Is it you? Is it you?”

He’s good at what he does, because there’s always a frantic last-minute scrambling to lay money down on the match.

“Now,” calls Worwick. “Our second fighter is ready to enter the ring. Champion Journ, to your—” His voice breaks off, and he clears his throat. “Ah, Champion Journ, to your position, please.”

Silver hell. He noticed.

Well, he can do nothing about it now. I sheathe my sword and move to the center of the arena.

“Our opponent hails all the way from Silvermoon Harbor,” Worwick calls. I spot the shadow of a man jogging through the opposite tunnel. My vision narrows down to the entrance. The crowd, the arena, this is all a show.

The sword at my side, the battle before me—those things are real.

My hand finds the hilt. I cannot draw until the other man does. If he’s from Silvermoon Harbor, he’s likely a fisherman or a dockworker. Someone dared into this challenge by friends drunk on ale.

The man’s hair becomes visible: sandy blond. Then his shoulders, the leather of his armor rich and gleaming. Not borrowed tourney armor, then. Each silver buckle sparks with light.

Gold and red stripes adorn his shoulder, bound together by a crest stamped in gold, a lion entwined with a rose.

I go still. I know that crest. I know those stripes.

“From Ironrose Castle,” calls Worwick, “we have the honor to host the Commander of the Royal Guard, Dustan of Silvermoon.” He winks at me from the stands, like we’re in on some joke. “Be sure to keep your head, Journ.”

The crowd screams with approval.

I take a few steps back before I can help myself. I know he’s riling the crowd. He has no idea what this means for me.

I know Dustan. I chose him myself. He was one of the first guards to swear to Rhen under my command. Does that mean the prince is here, watching this match? I want to search the crowd, but there are too many faces. Too much noise. I cannot tear my eyes from my approaching opponent.

My instincts are screaming at me to take action, but I see no path here.

Dustan has not drawn his sword. My hand has gone slick on the hilt of my own.

He slows as he approaches, and his eyes narrow slightly. As he stops in front of me, he frowns and takes his hand off the hilt. “You look anxious,” he says, his tone easy. “Journ, is it?”

The words take a moment to register in my mind.

He does not recognize me.

But of course he doesn’t. It’s been months. We only knew each other for a matter of weeks—and then, I was clean-shaven, with shorter hair and richly adorned armor and the manner of a leader.

Today, I am little more than a stable hand dressed up like a soldier. I’m Hawk. Or right now, I suppose I’m Journ.

Dustan leans in as if to share a secret. “The Royal Guard is not so vicious as rumor would have you believe.”

He believes I am nervous about the match.

“We’ve been on the road for weeks,” he continues. “My men dared me to enter.”

Then Rhen must not be with him. The prince would not leave Ironrose for weeks—and his guard commander certainly wouldn’t leave him unguarded for sport.

We’ve been quiet too long. The crowd is growing restless. Booted feet begin a relentless stomping. Any moment now, they’ll begin chanting.

“Do not withdraw,” Dustan says, misreading my silence for fear. “I’ll go easy.”

As predicted, the crowd begins its chant. Fight. Fight. Fight. It spurs my heartbeat and sharpens my focus.

Dustan puts his hand on his sword hilt and meets my eyes. There’s a question in his gaze.

I give him a quick nod.

He begins to draw. As the blade slides free, recognition flickers in his expression. “Journ—is there a chance we’ve met before?”