I lunged and narrowly missed the leather of his vest.
Dalric spun, light on his feet, his sword slashing past me as I ducked. “You spent too many days at the harvest feasts.” He winked, then called to Thorne, “He’s sluggish. I told you not to take him to the dueling pits.”
Thorne bit into an apple, watching with mild amusement. “He won me a year’s pay. Best investment I’ve ever made.”
“Great.” I deflected another blow. My muscles burned, the strain of earlier rounds catching up with me. Dalric pressed his advantage, damn him.
He lunged again, and I ducked, narrowly avoiding his blade. He had me near the edge of the platform—too close for comfort.
Then I saw my opening. With a sharp upward slash, I drove him back a step. Before he could recover, I tossed my sword into the air, flipping over him in a single smooth motion. I caught the hilt as it fell, the movement instinctive.
Dalric laughed, lowering his sword slightly. “Theatrics won’t win you a battle.”
“No, but they’ll win me this match,” I said, driving a final strike toward his legs. He stumbled back, conceding the point.
I smirked and bowed. “Victory. Again.”
Thorne chuckled, tossing his apple core aside. “Cocky bastard. One good night at the pits, and he thinks he’s invincible.”
Dalric pulled off his helmet, his golden hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to throttle you right now.” He scowled, though humor glinted in his eyes. “I swear, you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Rykr.”
I removed my own helmet, letting the cool air hit my face. A faint smile tugged at my lips. These moments—however fleeting—made the endless days of training worthwhile.
“You cursed yourself with all that saving your energy talk,” Thorne said, clapping Dalric on the shoulder. “My father always said, ‘The silent enemy is the most dangerous one.’”
“That explains your ineffectiveness,” Dalric quipped, setting his sword on the platform. “You never shut up.”
“Rykr Westhaven!” a deep voice interrupted us. “Warlord Ellison requests you at headquarters.”
I turned as one of the warlord’s officers approached. Thorne scowled. The Regulation soldiers had about as much patience for the officers as I did—most came from wealthy or noble families whose influence had secured their rank.
In that way, the Bloodbinding kept the realms balanced. Rich or poor, no one could buy a gods-granted gift. Strong lineages increased the chances of being born with a realm’s craft, but even that guaranteed nothing. The magic imbued into humans at the start of the Fourth Age, when the gods had abandoned direct intervention, was unruly and unpredictable. I’d seen it here—noblemen longing for the powers they hadn’t been born with.
Which was why I could never tell my friends I was Prince Calix. Or Ederyn.
They would see me as an interloper who’d manipulated his way into mastering their realm’s craft.
The warlord’s officer looked coolly between Dalric and me. “Which one of you is Westhaven?”
“I am.” My lips twitched. “Don’t tell me you think I look like this sorry hagspawn.”
Dalric laughed. The irony was, we did resemble each other. He could have passed for my brother, which was unusual for a Pendaran. His mother had been Ederyn, though, which explained the looks.
Thorne, on the other hand, looked every inch a Pendaran warrior—dark hair, intimidatingly broad with massive, well-muscled arms and legs. He also wore a berserker bearskin cloak, regardless of the weather.
Dalric had suggested drunkenly once that Thorne might even be a shapeshifter.
The officer inspected us. “You won’t have time to clean yourself up. He’s expecting you in ten minutes.”
I watched him go, narrowing my eyes.
Something about him was … off.
“What’d you do this time?” Dalric asked with a grin.
I raised a brow. “Who says I did anything?”
“When was the last time Warlord Ellison called you for a private chat?” Thorne asked Dalric, peering over at me.
