Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I frown. “I haven’t noticed any girls.”
I glance back at Calix and the aklo riding with him, noting their leathers and the curved sticks they carry.
“You play drakopagon?” I ask. “Are you any good?”
Calix lets out a scoff.
“Veronica is forever urging me to practice. Come forward a few steps?”
His jaw tightens. “Why?”
“Three steps should do it. I can drop in front of you or behind. Take your pick.”
With a muttered curse, Calix moves his horse and taps my rump with the curved end of his drakopala.
He glances at his aklo and sighs. “Give him your horse. Go back.”
I drop into the saddle, syrup-sticky hands gripping the reins. Calix casts me a long, wary glance—like he still isn’t sure why he’s doing this and dare not imagine what will happen next.
I wiggle my fingers. “Syrup’s a bit sticky.”
He flicks a lazy finger. Magic swirls, cleansing and efficient.
I sigh. “What a waste.” I lift a knuckle to my mouth. “Should’ve been licked clean.”
Calix slams his eyes shut and spurs his horse forward.
When we arrive at the drakopagon pitch, a half-dozen young men are riding hard, tossing a tied-up bundle toward a hoop at one end. They’re laughing, whooping.
But over the din, a sound pierces through.
Meowling.
Calix and I frown, searching for the source.
Our gazes land on the bundle.
My heart drops.
I urge my horse over the low fence and canter toward them.
“Give me that cat.”
“Get off the pitch,” one growls. “It’s ours.”
“You’re torturing it.”
“No one wants to drop it. It adds stakes to the game. Better for practice.”
“How’d you like to be tied up and thrown around for fun?”
Calix rides up beside me. “Release the cat. At once.”
The youths snicker. “Who do you think you are? King?”
“Who do you think you are?” I snap. “Rich bullies with nothing better to do?”
One swings his drakopala at my face—I duck.
“We’re all first-born sons of high-ranking officials! We’ll be running the court someday!”
Enough.
I wheel toward the one holding the bundle, toss out a sleeping spell— He slumps in the saddle.
I catch the cat.
And immediately we’re under fire. Nasty spells come flying.
Calix charges into the throng, blocking each one. “Get to the woods.”
I obey, galloping hard, heart in my throat.
One glance over my shoulder. A spell slices through Calix’s sleeve.
At the clearing, I pace, stomach knotted. Watching every shadow.
He comes on the whisper of wind and hooves—upright, composed. But his eyes spark as soon as he sees me.
He halts his horse hard.
I pat the bundle at my chest, the cat now safe in a makeshift sling. I offer a smile, slide my horse closer, and nudge his foot from the stirrup. I lean over and carefully tuck the sling’s strap around his neck.
“There-there. Maskios has money. He’ll take care of you.”
I return to my seat and raise a brow. “Why are you glaring at me like that?”
“That was dangerous. You risked your life. For a cat.”
“They might’ve killed it!”
“You can’t save everyone!”
I turn so we’re side by side. “I can try.”
“Sometimes you shouldn’t. Sometimes you just have to make hard choices. Not everything can be saved.”
“How defeatist.”
“They would’ve spelled you from your horse. You’d have been trampled. Killed. And in the end, it wouldn’t matter. You’re just par-linea.”
Just par-linea.
The words slice sharper than any spell.
I rear back, my horse shifting beneath me. “Just par-linea.”
The ache is sudden. Raw.
“That’s the truth.”
Leaves rustle around us.
The cat meows softly from his chest.
I slide off the horse. My hands tremble as I pass him the reins.
I don’t look at him.
As soon as the reins leave my fingers, I bow my head.
And walk away.
Akilah gives me a sidelong look.
“It’s just borrowed. For noble purposes.”
“To pretend you’re a noble, you mean.”
“That’s what I said. Noble purposes.”
She rolls her eyes and returns her focus to the arena.
I’d snuck into these tournament games plenty of times in my youth. But this is the first time I’ve dared to walk through the gates in full view, complete with a fine robe, an overconfident strut, and a mouthful of lies. The fine robe—the one with the glowing gold-threaded vines and red-and-green floral silk lining—is my older brother’s wedding robe. It billows dramatically behind me like I actually belong here. Like I’m a full linea, like everyone else who’s officially allowed to attend.
All to stand at the front of the wooden stands overlooking the arena carved into the base of the Claviska cliffs.
The cliffs themselves loom above, spiralling into clouds, and the games below are framed with bright flags and shouting vendors. Today’s event: the mounted archery challenge.
A dozen contestants gather at the far end, their horses restless, heads high. Each has swallowed a temporary spell to block their magic, making this a test of sheer crude skill. Raw instinct.
The rounds begin.
Riders thunder past, loosing arrows at moving targets while their horses leap fences and pivot mid-stride. The first round is impressive. The second, breathtaking.