“Don’t be nervous – it’s exciting! Plus you came second last time, so you know you can do it,” Alys assured her.
“That’s true,” Kara said.
Her team had lost by a mere two points. Her father expected better this year.
Together, Kara and Alys entered the arena, the gates guarded by Thorne soldiers, standing at attention, waiting for any excuse. The stone stands were tiered in a circle surrounding them, raising so high the top benches were slightly blurred against the sunlight. All unoccupied – the casting was a private ceremony. But for the trials, there wouldn’t be one empty seat. Seven Council chairs were held in their own box, raised above the rest to afford the best view. There was an additional chair set slightly apart: for the Fatàn judge.
“I know they don’t sit on the High Council,” Alys said, eyeing Fatàn’s seat. “But I don’t understand why they don’t compete.”
“They’ve always said–” Kara began.
“That their foresight could bias them,” Alys finished. “I know. But you’d think they’d want a littlefun.”
“Hmm, I imagine knowing how it ends takes the sport out of it,” Kara said.
The centre of the arena was filled with seven distinct podiums, all arranged in a circle, with the House crests flying from pillars behind each one. They walked towards the green podium where the two other Hale delegates waited – Thomel, slight and nervous-looking, and Emric, dark-haired and stoic – and stood proudly before their snake and flower crest.
Anya climbed up on Sorrel’s beside her, all yellow with a crest of wheat. Henry was already on the Caldris podium on Kara’s other side. He nodded once, offering her a small smile before turning back to his conversation.
That’s it? By the Four Gods, how am I going to marry this man?
She should feel relieved that he wasn’t pushing her into public interaction before she was ready, but all she felt was a hollow ache. Kara looked away before the tears came.
That’s when she saw him.
He was entering last beside his comrades, dressed in Thorne black and crimson, too-long dark hair, and although she couldn’t see them, she knew – piercing ice-blue eyes.
The man from the market.
He walked towards the red podium. The Thorne soldiers guarding the arena straightened as he passed, a quiet ripple of deference following him as he climbed up alongside the three other Thorne delegates.
Kara’s stomach dropped.
Oh no. He’s not just a delegate.
That’s Sebastian Thorne.
He looked relaxed – if anything, a little bored by the proceedings. His gaze swept over in her direction, and stopped. Recognition flashed and he smirked – he’d caught her staring. Her cheeks burned.
She leaned towards Alys, her voice low and horrified. “You know the Thorne I bumped into at the market?”
Alys turned, distracted from fiddling with her bracelet. “Hmm?”
“It wasSebastian Thorne.”
Alys peeked over at the Thorne podium, studying him surreptitiously, and gave a small incredulous laugh. “You’re joking. The war hero himself?”
“Apparently. And he’s just as arrogant as I’d heard.”
Alys snorted. “And there’s a one in four chance you’ll be on the same team as him.” She regarded him with open interest. “Mmm, speaking of which, as we’re stuck with a Thorne either way,” Alys said cheekily. “This one is at least nice to look at.”
Kara gave her a look of pure exasperation. “You can have him.”
When Kara glanced back, Sebastian wasn’t looking anymore, but was deep in conversation with a pretty Thorne woman who was also competing. A hush came over the crowd of delegates. The High Council entered, led by her father, solemn faced and straight backed. The other six Lords and Ladies followed behind; Evelyn Sorrel amongst them for the first Arcalon since her husband’s passing from Trimaara fever last year, the grief still present in the lines on her face. Galen Caldris came behind her, a portly man with a jovial expression.
My future father-in-law. What an odd thought.
Last to enter was Lord Tobias Thorne. Sebastian’s father. Now she looked closely, the resemblance was unmistakable. His face was much more severe than his son’s, his long greying hair pulled back with a red leather tie. His face was heavily scarred – battle wounds he wore proudly. Across the arena, Sebastian straightened – only slightly. Enough that she noticed. The Fatàn judge walked in slowly behind Tobias Thorne, hooded and mysterious. She raised her hands.
