MAREK wheezed, bile rising in her throat as she collided with the bloodstained earth.

The first rule of a joust was never to be the first knight who fell from his horse. Sir Reynold had bested her at that.

Determined, Marek brought herself to a knee. She couldn’t spend too long catching her breath dismounted, or she’d leave herself vulnerable to the sword. That, and if she lost to a man from House Leysworth, she knew Lord Cyrus would withhold her meal and pay.

 Marek spat through the slit of her helm, an iron flavor lingering behind her teeth as she rose to her feet. She seethed at the very possibility of losing to a better-bred knight.

Sir Reynold was Lord Geoffrey’s son. He'd squired with Sir Peter Lionmouth, the best knight in all of Skyosil. Surely, Marek could defeat anyone if she managed to best him.

On the fringe of the arena, Sir Reynold turned his horse. He prepared to charge Marek once more with a proud raise of his lance.

Marek unsheathed her sword, the satisfying grate against its sheath drowning out the shouts of the jeering crowd. She could hardly hear anything but the blood coursing through her veins as her heart galloped faster than Sir Reynold’s mare.

Suddenly, the horse’s thundering legs materialized before Marek’s eyes, on a trajectory to run her down if she failed to leap aside.

She couldn’t move. Eating dirt during a joust was just as humiliating as losing one, and Lord Cyrus hadn’t entered her in the Royal Tournament so she could make a fool of herself.

Seeing that she wouldn’t embarrass House Ronson, Marek lunged, her sword lowering in the nick of time to collide with Sir Reynold’s stirrup.

The momentum ripped Marek’s weapon violently from her hands. At a sickening speed, Sir Reynold’s mare careened toward the arena wall, rearing when it had nowhere else to run.

Sir Reynold himself was just as unfortunate. He slid from the saddle, his leg twisting unnaturally beneath his masterfully crafted greaves. If it weren’t for his mare’s sudden spooking, the creature might’ve dragged him across the dirt until Queen Catrain grew tired of watching him scream.

It wasn’t long before the mare abandoned its master, sprinting about the outskirts of the fray like a feral.

After that, time seemed at a standstill until a Lady in blue finery rushed onto the sands. Marek didn’t know who she was, but she had House Leysworth’s trademark, flame-colored hair.

“He’s not moving,” she said, surprisingly calm as she forced his helmet off. “He’s breathing, though. Someone, fetch a medic!”

A stablehand rushed to pacify Sir Reynold’s crazed mare as Elira raised her skirts to descend the stairs.

“Are you not from the wrong House?” the woman in blue belligerently charged Elira’s approach. “How do I know you will abstain from harming my brother?”

Elira looked insulted. “I’m a Priestess, Lady Diana. Harming anyone is against the code.”

“A Priestess, maybe,” Diana Leysworth’s nose wrinkled as if she saw herself in a dress she hated, “for the wrong gods.”

Kneeling to inspect Sir Reynold’s leg, Elira quirked a brow. “I thought we agreed to put that past us for the Royal Tournament. You’d best not force me to bring your father into this.”

Diana’s fists tightened. “And you had better leave the tent open for visitors, Priestess. I shall expect to visit my brother within the hour.” She spun and marched off without another word.

As Elira hauled Sir Reynold carefully off the sand with the help of House Leysworth’s servants, Sir Peter Lionmouth entered the arena.

All eyes trained on him before he so much as said a word. To receive a commendation from Sir Peter Lionmouth, after all, was a grand accomplishment.

The man himself possessed only half a jaw. He earned his knighthood and name when a circus lion trained to assassinate Queen Catrain tore its remainder apart after he intervened to defend her.

Especially among the rest of Skyosilic knights and nobles, Sir Peter Lionmouth was unquestionably the most honorable man in the nation, and likely one of the only members of a Great House without a damning secret.

“Lords, Ladies, and Queen Catrain, we have a victor of our ninety-second annual Royal Tournament.” Sir Peter Lionmouth unsheathed his fabled sword—Sabretooth—and buried it into the sand. His tone was nonchalant and distant, but not a soul dared interrupt him. “Sir Marek Wolfsbane of House Ronson shall wear Queen Catrain’s favor this year. The kingdom of Skyosil will wish him fortune and franchise, and he shall be presented with a horse and weapon. His Lord, Marquess Cyrus Ronson, will receive a sum of Gold Pieces for sponsoring the best knight of the season.”

It hadn’t occurred to Marek that she’d won until Sir Peter Lionmouth called her name. She froze as Queen Catrain made her way slowly down the steps, onlookers promptly dodging her path.

Marek had never seen the Queen up close before.

Since King Rowan Daelfric had passed away, Queen Catrain was the last member of the Daelfric family. Most of the knights competing in her Royal Tournament had hoped to make an impression while she searched for a suitor.

Ironically, Marek knew she was likely the only knight that didn’t dream of marrying the Queen.

Queen Catrain held a clean, silk handkerchief between her fingers as she approached. When Marek looked closer, she could tell the item was much more than a mere household rag. It bore the sigil of the Royal House Daelfric: a crowned, green lion on a white field.

“You have done me a great service with your performance, Sir Marek Wolfsbane.” The Queen dropped into a curtsy.

Thereafter, Marek lowered herself into an embellished bow.

“Your silence is welcome and polite, good knight,” Queen Catrain smiled softly, letting the handkerchief brush over Marek’s fingers, “but I would hear your voice, so long as you mind not.”

You’re mistaken, my Queen, Marek wanted to say. I’m not who you think I am. Not even close.

“Yes, my Queen.” Rising from her bow, Marek dipped her head. She accepted Queen Catrain’s favor when it no longer danced along her gauntleted knuckles.

“Say more. Tell everyone in your stands your plans following your return to Cresthill.” The Queen curiously tilted her head. Strands of dark hair fell into her face when she did, rebelling against the braids that were supposed to contain them. “You are an eligible bachelor, correct?”

Caught off guard, Marek tightened her lips. She hadn’t expected Queen Catrain, of all Skyosilicans, to embarrass her.

“I am,” Marek forced herself to reply, “although, my Queen, I wish to take a squire when I reach Cresthill. I’m not prepared to forfeit my knighthood for a wife.”

The Queen’s smile didn’t falter. Marek noticed how amusement reflected in her green eyes as she spoke. “Regardless, I wish you good fortune. I do hope our paths cross again.”

The Queen departed, ascending again into the stands, and Sir Peter Lionmouth led Marek to the winner’s circle. There, she had her choice from two horses and a small arsenal of weapons.

“These came straight from the Palace.” Sir Peter allowed himself a grin. “I admit I am impressed with you, though I am disappointed in my former squire’s trickery. I apologize on his behalf.” His small display of satisfaction disappeared as quickly as it came.

Marek halted in her tracks. 

Trickery? She must’ve missed something.

“Are you telling me, with that hesitation, that you were unaware Sir Reynold’s mare was in heat?” Sir Peter’s tone teetered on the edge of something angry. “He did it to confuse your stallion, but paid the price for it.”

“No.” Marek’s brow furrowed. “I couldn’t tell.”

Chuffing, Sir Peter Lionmouth earnestly approached the horses. “Well, young man, these are geldings. They will never misbehave.”

Marek shadowed him. She’d ridden plenty of Lord Cyrus’s horses, and even his son, Lord Byron’s. After several years of service, she’d never had her own.

Now, she had her choice between two. One was gold and stunningly lean, the other stocky and dark as a winter moonset.

“Is this one meant for drafting?” Marek extended her hand to touch the black horse, reeling when its head shot unexpectedly forward.

Thankfully, its savage bite was met with only air.

So much for never misbehaving.

“You have a good eye. He’s one of the sturdiest we’ve ever bred, but, as you can see, his temperament could use some work.”

“I’ll take him,” Marek decided. 

Sir Peter nodded curtly. “I will ensure you depart the Tournament with him. His Palace name is Stormstrider, but you can call him what you see fit.” Leaving Stormstrider in his stall, Sir Peter gestured to a weapon rack positioned on the fringe of the winner’s circle. “The Queen also wished her victor to have his selection of these. Lonn Ironhand made every one of them himself.”

Marek’s fingertips felt electric at the sheer prospect of holding one of Lonn Ironhand’s swords. Palace smithing rarely made its way outside of Easthaven, much less to Cresthill.

“HEY!”

A startling cry echoed from the upper stands just as Marek extended her arm to examine the elegant weapons.

“What do you think you’re doing? Bloody pickpocket!”

Upon hearing the shrill complaint, she and Sir Peter Lionmouth instinctively pursued the commotion, Sir Peter unsheathing Sabretooth on his way up the wooden steps.

He was quick for an old man, but she was hardly faster, meeting a trembling Lord Byron atop the stairs.

 “Did you see which way the thief went?” Marek asked as she scanned the spaces between each bench.

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It seemed the pickpocket disappeared as quickly as he came, for she discovered no evidence of anyone who didn’t belong.

“He ran that way!” Lord Cyrus pointed toward the arena, his nose wrinkling with impatient fury. “Apprehend him! What are you waiting for?”

Marek shot down the stairs without a word.

The Tournament had exhausted her, but Lord Cyrus wasn’t a man she wanted to disappoint. House Ronson was notorious for publicizing punishment, and its Lords made excuses to create such displays in their boredom or plight.

Marek certainly didn’t want to receive one of Lord Byron’s floggings. She’d managed to avoid them ever since House Ronson appointed her a squire, and the young man possessed an unquenchable thirst for violence.

Marek’s motivation to stray from a beating lent her legs enough speed to reach the skirt of the winner’s circle. Turning the corner, the red and bright gold plumes of her helmet streaming along behind her, Marek caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure stalking in her periphery. 

He could run, but he couldn’t hide. 

Marek refused to remove her sights from the criminal after he’d crossed her line of vision. Watching as he undid his cloak from behind the circle, preparing to mix in with the crowd of guests gathering at merchants’ tents, Marek readied her stance to charge him.

She couldn’t let him get that far. He’d cause a terrible commotion among the Queen’s guests if he did.

Lunging, Marek aimed her outstretched fingers for the pickpocket’s hood. She shoved him into the dirt as he attempted a retreat, forcing him onto his stomach.

“Oi! ‘Lemme go!” The criminal squirmed in her grasp, refusing to succumb to the pressure. “Yer gonna regret this!”

Marek didn’t relent. She kept her weight between his shoulder blades, pushing him farther into the earth. “I don’t think so. I’m going to need whatever it is you stole from Lord Byron.”

“Lord Byron,” the thief grit his teeth, “don’t got a purpose for all ‘o these Silvers.”

His high-pitched voice made Marek wonder how old he was. In fact, she hadn’t remembered ever apprehending such a juvenile criminal.

“Calm down and do as I say.” Marek’s eyebrows knit together in her concern. If her Lords grew preoccupied with the matter of his punishment, how far they escalated it depended solely on his attitude. “Return the Silver Pieces before this takes a turn for the worse.”

“Yer not Achard,” the thief snarled. “I don’t take orders from ya.” He thrashed excessively, but his efforts were futile under Marek’s solid grip.

“Well,” a familiar voice mused from over Marek’s shoulder, “I had no cause to fear my son would be robbed, after all.” Lord Cyrus positioned himself an arm’s length from the criminal’s head, crouching to scrutinize his face. “What a slippery, little shit.” A grin crept across his lips. “Not slippery enough to escape my knight, though, are you?”

“That’s him, all right!” Lord Byron announced, pointing his finger at the pinned thief. “He has my Silver Pieces!”

Marek forced the money pouch from the criminal’s pocket. She gave it an easy toss to Lord Byron, who let it ricochet off his palm and collapse back onto the dirt.

“Pick it up, son,” Lord Cyrus sighed. “Then, we will do something about this lowlife.”

Marek’s heart sank. Did her Lord truly seek to punish the thief? 

If he did, she hoped the Matron delivered her mercy to his soul.

Marek noticed the incident had attracted an impressive crowd. As Lord Cyrus rose to his feet, members of both Great Houses drank in the scene like vultures. Commoners gathered around to observe, and Marek was startled to realize Queen Catrain and Sir Peter Lionmouth had made yet another appearance.

Lord Cyrus brushed the dirt from his trousers. “Now, Byron, what should we do with this pickpocket?”

Narrowing his eyes, Lord Byron watched as the criminal surrendered beneath Marek. He refused to pity someone audacious enough to steal from an Earl such as himself. “Our House has not hosted a public execution in quite some time, have we, father?”

“It has been roughly a season,” replied Lord Cyrus.

“Surely, you cannot think of killing him,” said Lady Diana. “That’s ridiculous! Look how young he is!”

Lord Cyrus huffed. “Hold your tongue, young Leysworth. This criminal stole from my son. Thus, he is under my jurisdiction, and the Patron demands all thieves face punishment at the hands of the Lord from which they stole.” He gestured to the pickpocket. “This one made the mistake of crossing House Ronson.”

Marek swallowed hard at Lord Cyrus’s persistence, cursed with understanding exactly what was to come. She didn’t want to know how old the criminal was, nor did she want to know his name. Such things made House Ronson’s executions much harsher than they needed to be.

“The Patron does not exist, Cyrus. Neither does the Matron. The Champion has proven this time and time again,” Lady Diana shot back. “The Champion advocates for a just trial by your Court. House Leysworth expects you to grant him one.”

“That’s Lord Cyrus to you, and I will not visit the Black Market to—”

“You are a Marquess, and I am a Marchioness! I will call you whatever I see fit, you—”

“Silence!” shouted Lord Geoffrey as he turned to face Cyrus. “I apologize for my daughter’s arguing. However, she is correct about the Champion’s procedure. The thief should be awarded a proper trial.”

“Fine, then. I will ask someone else,” Lord Cyrus scoffed. “It seems her Majesty the Queen has joined us.”

Marek couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. As usual, House Leysworth and House Ronson bickered amongst themselves. This time, though, the Queen was among them, and she did nothing about the conflict. Marek couldn’t empathize with Queen Catrain. She faced no reprimand for voicing her opinion, but if Marek spoke out against Lord Cyrus, he’d tie her to a post and let Lord Byron flog her.

How can she just stand there? Marek gritted her teeth. Worse, how can I just stand here? Is avoiding a punishment worth letting this boy die?

Despite having thoughts that urged her to stand, Marek found herself rooted to the ground.

Is his life worth less than my secret?

The most she could do was loosen her grip on the thief while the nobles badgered Queen Catrain.

“My Queen, I hope you do not mind my addressing you so directly.” Lord Cyrus bowed with a flourish, red and gold cloak spilling over his shoulders. “However, I wish to remind you that the Laws of the Patron and Matron—the official deities of Skyosil—demand the Lord of the offended house decide the punishment for criminals.”

Before the Queen could reply, Lady Diana interjected, “With all the respect in the world, Your Majesty, the Matron and Patron failed to show in Skyosil when we needed them most. The Champion’s Prophet was the one who cured our nation of Phantom Rot.” She lowered herself into an exaggerated curtsy. “The Champion would not be pleased if this criminal were executed without trial. I ask that you let us hold one.”

Queen Catrain suffered an unintentional drop in posture as Lord Cyrus and Lady Diana cornered her against the crowd.

Marek saw apprehension loom in the Queen’s eyes, noticing how she couldn’t seem to blink it away. What was she afraid of? If it was Lord Cyrus or Byron, Marek couldn’t say she blamed her.

Queen Catrain straightened herself. “Cyrus is correct.” Her expression hardened into something stone-like. “Diana, you know I am fond of you, but the Champion is not recognized by our Priests or Priestesses. The Matron and the Patron have no prophets, and according to their laws, Cyrus should name and execute the thief’s punishment.”

Execute. Marek thought that was a poor choice of words.

Lady Diana wordlessly melded into the crowd, though her expression suggested she was less than satisfied with the Queen’s choice.

Lord Cyrus, on the other hand, looked as if he’d won a game of chess against the Leysworths. “Claude, fetch Doomdriver from the stable,” he ordered with a serpentine smile. “Take Brom with you, and find some extra rope.”

“Yes, sir,” Claude replied with a salute before departing with his squire.

Claude—who most Skyosilicans recognized as Sir Claude the Magnificent—was Marek’s senior by two years, so it was natural Brom be appointed his squire. Marek had always wanted to train her own but was forced to wait because she lacked the proper seniority. She wouldn’t let herself regret her place in the pecking order now. Assisting Lord Cyrus and Byron in their executions was a horrendous task, and she was glad not to subject anyone to it the way Claude did to Brom.

“Cyrus, you cannot be serious.” Lady Diana scoffed. “I understand this is how you usually handle public situations, but this boy is…” Her brow furrowed as she examined the thief’s face. “How old are you, anyway?”

To her surprise, the pickpocket put up a finger for each year while he counted, his torso still buried beneath Marek’s unyielding weight.

“I dunno,” he said after a while. “Twelve?”

Lady Diana made a face. “How do you not know your age?”

“Does it matter to you, Diana?” Lord Cyrus asked bellicosely. “Actually, I recommend against answering that. Regardless of his age, he’s a criminal, and criminals face punishments when they are caught.”

Lady Diana’s fists tightened as if she intended to punch Cyrus square in the face. “What do you mean, does it matter? I ought to—”

“That’s enough, Diana.” That time, it was the Queen who interrupted their bickering. “You can handle House Leysworth’s criminals however you would like. Your station has limitations.”

A little late for you to get properly involved, Your Majesty, Marek wanted to say, but bit her tongue. The guilt she felt intensified with every second she spent holding the young criminal’s body against the dirt. Queen Catrain wasn’t helping, and Marek felt resentment for Skyosil’s monarch spread inside her chest like a persistent infection as a result.

Claude and Brom returned with Lord Cyrus’s dappled stallion before the silence could become awkward. As Claude passed Doomdriver’s reins to Lord Cyrus, Brom uneasily approached the criminal with the rope in hand.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Marek asked him.

Brom swallowed hard, forming careful nooses on either side of the long line. “Yes,” he finally said, sliding the hoops around the thief’s ankles.

“Oi!” growled the criminal. Without warning, he delivered a swift kick at his oppressor, his foot narrowly missing Brom’s face. “Why’re ya tyin’ me up? I’m not an animal!”

Marek held the pickpocket’s haunches down with her other hand. Sending him to his death was painful enough for Brom; he didn’t need to earn a black eye in the process.

“Would you like to repeat that, thief?” Lord Byron challenged him as Brom finally fastened his feet. 

The pickpocket scrambled, rising on a knee after Marek finally released him. “I said I’m not—”

Snickering, Lord Byron tugged hard on the rope, sending the boy sprawling ass-first toward the ground. “Yes, you are. Best to stop pretending otherwise.” He removed the bag of Silver Pieces from his pocket. As Claude fastened the center of the rope around the horn of Doomdriver’s saddle, Lord Byron opened the bag and dumped enough money to hire a small entourage of prostitutes onto the unsuspecting criminal’s head.

The pickpocket’s jaw tightened. Marek could tell the falling coins had hurt him, but he exasperated himself pretending otherwise.

A proud boy. She watched Lord Cyrus ask onlookers to stand aside while Claude finished his hitch on the horn. This is such a waste.

Though Lord Cyrus had set boundaries for the observers, Lady Diana crossed them to kneel beside the sitting criminal.

“Whadya want?” he hissed. He’d thrashed and kicked throughout his apprehension, but it seemed Lord Byron had suffocated his fire. “Gonna throw more stuff at me? Gonna spit on me?”

“No,” Diana muttered softly. “I want to know your name.”

The thief turned to face her. “It’s Varic. Dunno what it’s worth to ya, though,” he replied flatly.

Marek hadn’t any desire to assign Varic an identity. Her awareness of his humanity only complicated her feelings toward an execution she couldn’t stop. However, something bothered her more than even that, something she couldn’t understand for the life of her: Varic’s skin was abnormally dark. The only time Marek had seen a shade like his was when she looked at Queen Catrain Daelfric. 

Marek was surprised no one else questioned it but refused to speak a word aloud about the coincidence. After all, she hadn’t seen many people outside Cresthill in her lifetime. Perhaps dark skin was more common in Skyosilicans than she’d thought.

From the corner of her eye, Marek saw Lord Cyrus bow again. “Watch this, my Queen. You might very well find you enjoy the way we handle entertainment in House Ronson.”

“Father,” said Lord Byron. “I want to do it this time.”

“Wait,” Lady Diana interjected, shooting a cold glare at the Ronsons. “There’s no Priest or Priestess here. I want to read Varic’s last rites.”

Lord Cyrus looked to the Queen, who dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Proceed, Diana.”

Claude and Brom returned to the crowd after testing the ropes. Marek reluctantly joined them, looking on as Lady Diana lowered her head to pray quietly.

“What’re ya doin’?” Varic asked her, his eyebrows knitting together.

Diana’s face scrunched. “Reciting the last rites of the Matron and the Patron.”

“Well, ya don’t gotta do that,” Varic replied coldly. “There ain’t any gods where I’m from.”

As she returned to Lord Geoffrey’s side, Diana’s blue eyes widened with surprise. Marek couldn’t blame her. The religious debate in Skyosil had two sides, so those who failed to worship a deity had no place in their nation. Varic was the first person like that Marek had ever met.

“Well,” Lord Cyrus said with iron resolve. “We should get on with this, then.” He gave his son a curt nod. “Byron, do the honors.”

“Glady, father.” Byron’s childlike excitement made him stand tall, his amber eyes sparkling as he awarded Doomdriver the hardest slap on the ass he could muster.

It landed with a reverberating smack! and sent the horse galloping into the valley beyond the Tournament grounds.

Marek watched the stallion sprint, dragging poor Varic across the dirt at an absurd speed. She felt guilt eat at her heart like acid, but it still didn’t hurt enough to make her say anything.