After Lilith killed them all, I did my best to banish my siblings from memory. Maybe shoving away my time as a guardsman has allowed earlier memories to fill the space between my thoughts. Maybe learning they weren’t my siblings at all has done the same.

I’m not sure I like that. Especially since we’ve run out of chores.

“It’s too hot to run,” I say.

“It’s too hot to do anything.” Tycho takes a handful of water and splashes it over the back of his neck.

“Oh,” I say. “I was going to ask if you wanted to get the practice blades.”

“Wait. Really? Yes.” He stands up straight, the heat forgotten.

“Go ahead, then.”

I dump the bucket behind the storage room, then hang our rags to dry. By the time I make my way over to the armory, Tycho has a light training sword in his hands, and he’s swinging it in a practiced pattern. He’s good enough now that I’d trust him with a real blade—in another time and place. As Hawk, I don’t know any moves more advanced than simple blocks and thrusts.

We spar in the narrow space between the armory and the stables, where Worwick stores larger equipment. The scraver’s cage is back here, too, our only audience, though its dark form is motionless. Worwick was serious about five coppers, because he tried charging it last night. He was getting it, too, until a man complained that he didn’t pay to see a half-dead pile of skin and feathers.

Now it sleeps most of the day, cocooned in its wings.

Tycho is tiring, so I give him an opening. He spots it immediately and lunges. I barely have time to sidestep his blade.

He’s panting from the effort, but he grins. “I almost got you.”

I can’t help smiling back. “Almost.” I tap his blade away with my own and push sweat-dampened hair off my face.

“Play time is over, boys,” a man calls, his voice booming through the space. I recognize the voice before I see the man: Kantor. One of Worwick’s “champions.”

Worwick has two men who fight in the tourney: Kantor and Journ. They’re both middle-aged and good with a sword—they must be, to fight any challenger who walks in here—but their real value to Worwick is in giving the audience a good show. One of them is quiet and reserved when he’s not in front of a crowd, a man who carries hard candies in his pockets for children who cheer from the sidelines, then goes home to a sweet wife and three boys of his own. A good man who works hard, fights fair, and earns an honest living.

The other one is Kantor.

Kantor is a man who bets against himself, so even when he loses, he wins. Worwick shouldn’t allow it, but I’m pretty sure Kantor cuts him in on his winnings. He’s loud and boorish and lies without consideration. He makes for a good villain in front of the crowds. Unfortunately it doesn’t stop when he’s outside the arena.

Tycho moves to return his sword to the rack, but Kantor picks up one of the real swords and deftly knocks it out of his hand, sending it into the dust.

“When are you going to learn to hold a sword like a man?” he says.

“Leave him alone,” I say.

Tycho silently fetches his weapon, but I catch a glimpse of his scowl, even though he keeps his head down in front of Kantor.

Kantor has the brain of a child, and he’s found an entertaining diversion, so it barely takes a shift of his weight for me to see he’s going to smack Tycho’s sword away again—and this time he’s going to make it hurt.

I step forward, swing my practice blade down, and pin Kantor’s sword to the wall.

His head whips around. His mouth hangs open, though he quickly snaps it closed.

“I should take off your hand for that.” He scrapes his weapon free.

I could take off his hand before he’d get close to mine, but I shrug and look away. The best way to deal with Kantor is to not take him too seriously. “The practice blades dull the real ones. If you want to play, use your own, or take it up with Worwick.”

He frowns, but I’m right and he knows it. His pride won’t let him hang up the weapon, though. He moves away, twisting the sword in his hands, letting it cut patterns into the dust. He stops by the scraver’s cage.

“What is Worwick going to do with this thing?” Kantor pokes at it with the tip of his sword, and the creature doesn’t move.

“Don’t hurt it,” Tycho says.

“Hurt it? It’s practically dead.” Kantor steps close and jabs the weapon through the bars, his steel blade piercing flesh.

The scraver roars and spins to its feet in a whirl of wings and blood. It slams against the bars, claws reaching for Kantor, screeching so loudly that it echoes through the arena and the horses in the stable begin to stamp and fuss.

Kantor jerks back, trips over his own feet, and lands hard in the dust. Three long stripes of blood cross his forearm. Kantor swears and surges off the ground, lifting his sword as if he’s going to plunge it into the creature’s midsection.

Tycho dives in front of him, putting his back against the bars. “No!”

I expect the scraver to slice those claws into Tycho as well, but the creature falls back and growls.

Kantor looks like he’s ready to go through Tycho anyway.

I step in front of him. “Enough.”

Kantor lifts his sword a few inches. “Move, or I’ll go through you both.”

The training blade is still in my hand. My fingers tighten on the hilt.

I don’t know what Kantor sees in my expression, but surprise lights in his eyes. He gives a rough laugh. “You want to fight me, boy? Over that thing?” He gestures with his blade. “Go ahead, then. See how long you last.”

I’m tempted.

“What’s going on?” calls Worwick, his voice booming across the small area. The screeching must have drawn his attention. It probably caught the attention of half the city.

In my peripheral vision, I see Worwick come around the corner, but I don’t take my eyes off the man in front of me. Kantor doesn’t take his off me.

“Kantor! Hawk!” Worwick sounds confused. “What … what are you doing?”

“Kantor was going to kill your scraver,” pipes up Tycho. “Hawk stopped him.”

“Ah, I was just fooling around,” drawls Kantor. He lowers his sword and holds out his arm. “The damn thing got me good.”

“You got it first,” I say.

Behind me, the scraver growls again.

“Enough foolishness,” says Worwick. “The Grand Marshal has dropped off a royal decree to be read before the tourney. Rumors are running wild in the street, so we’ll have a packed house tonight.”

That’s enough to pull my attention away from Kantor. “A royal decree?”

“The prince is offering five hundred silvers to anyone who can produce someone with the blood of a magesmith.”

I freeze. The blood of a magesmith. Rhen can’t say it outright, because he’d lend legitimacy to the rumors, but he’s looking for the heir.

He’s looking for me.

“Five hundred silvers!” Kantor finally lowers his blade and turns away from me. “Worwick, I’d turn you in for five hundred silvers.”

“Evidence of magic must be proven,” says Worwick. His eyes light up. “Tycho. Hawk. You spend time in the city. You haven’t seen evidence of magic in Rillisk, have you?”