He closed his eyes and found a great deal of pleasure in the near lack of pain as it melted away like ice beneath a rising sun.

    The numroot took a while to get used to. But once he fought down the urge to spit it out and down a glass of ale the herb had already taken effect.

    The blood essence pill had healed his broken bones, even strengthening them to some degree. But a tender soreness lingered around his ribs.

    Thankfully the numroot could handle that.

    Just as the name implied it numbed the body’s sensitivity to pain. Which was exactly what he wanted. Above all else, he needed to be at his best.

    He sighed and smiled faintly to himself.

    With his legs crossed comfortably at the ankles he relaxed on the hard ground and leaned his back against a tree. Its leaves swayed in the faint, cool breeze, casting shadows that danced over the back of his eyelids.

    Today was a good day for the festival.

    “What happened last night?”

    He shielded his eyes and blinked. Taren leaned over him, hands on his hips. Worry creasing his brow.

    “Ah, Taren,” he said. “Good morning.”

    “It’s almost noon. And you’re dodging my question.”

    “I am not. It’s only polite to greet family-”

    “Which you wouldn’t have to do if you’d come home last night.”

    “About that,” he said.

    He folded his hands in his lap and looked out over the commons.

    The taste of freshly baked pastries permeated the air. A man playing a violin alongside a young woman singing to a dancing group mingled with the laughter and cries of different crowds gathered around the various attractions.

    He debated whether he should tell his brother everything. But then he rolled his eyes and looked down at his hands.

    “I spent the night with Dylan and Nash.”

    Taren sat down beside him and frowned.

    “I’m listening.”

    He described the beating handed to him by Albryte’s guards. Taren balled his fists and grimaced. His eyes grew wide when he mentioned Grendyl and the Lycan. His mouth dropped when he heard about his visit to the Albryte manor.

    “Of all the stupid things you could have done you had to break into the lord’s home and put a knife to his son’s throat?”

    “I couldn’t just let it go, Taren.”

    “You’re a fool if you think he’ll leave you alone now,” Taren muttered, shaking his head. “What happened after that? Why didn’t you come home?”

    “We went to the Tipsy Gelding. They cleaned me up and shoved this disgusting thing in my mouth. They paid for me to stay the night if I promised not to get into any more trouble.”

    He shrugged. “So I did.”

    “You just didn’t want mother to scold you.”

    “She scolds me all the time. I just didn’t feel like going back after what happened.”

    Taren grunted. “You didn’t miss much. Father hit it off with Alazar but mom didn’t like him. They wondered where you were. Alazar wants to see you again.”

    “I’m sure he does,” he said, remembering Grendyl’s words. Don’t trust him.

    “Well,” Taren said slowly. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home to your bed? You really should be resting.”

    “Stop worrying so much.” He stumbled to his feet, assuring his brother that he was fine by flashing him his best smile.

    “Come on,” he said. “Let’s enjoy the festival.”

    Revelers packed every corner of the commons. Those from the surrounding countryside and mountains mingled with the Faldeners.

    They snacked on meat pies as a troupe of traveling performers reenacted Valoryn’s triumph over the North lords. If only the man hadn’t died so long ago he would have paid any price to meet him.

    A young girl with braids and freckles dotting her cheeks asked Taren to dance but his brother turned her down much to her disappointment.

    He shook his head and watched her go, wishing she had asked him instead.

    It wasn’t long before a platform in the middle of the commons, a large circular arena made entirely out of rockwood, gathered a large crowd.

    Taren grabbed him by the shoulder and squeezed their way through. His brother’s favorite part of the festival was about to begin.

    Evander Silvertree, Victor’s grandson, and Shalyn Forrelli, a retired legionnaire took opposite sides of the stage. They waved at the crowd and offered each other a bow.

    Shalyn moved first.

    Light erupted from where she stood, enveloping her in a bright flash of essence. A second later the light blinked out, revealing Shalyn’s Dragon form.

    Her golden scales gleamed under the afternoon sun, blue eyes burning like a calm steady flame.

    The form of Shalyn’s soul held a distinguished look to it, complemented by the way she stood with her back straight, talons clasped behind her waist.

    Her tail swished slowly as she regarded Evander across the stage.

    Evander was only a moment slower in manifesting the form of his soul. He roared and beat his chest, riling up the crowd as they roared along with him.

    His Dragon form erupted from the light of the essence swirling around him. Red scales glowing like coals, his blue eyes raged like a roaring fire.

    He flung his arms out to either side. Twin blades fell into his hands, appearing from a burst of blue flame. The blades were short and black and wide like meat cleavers.

    He lunged across the stage in a single leap and swung both blades at Shalyn’s head.

    Other than a slight shifting of her feet, Shalyn remained still up until the last moment. She dropped faster than a blur, her head dipping below Evander’s blades, and spun.

    Her tail swept the stage but the young man anticipated it.

    Evander jumped.

    He grinned, amused by what he saw coming next. Even if it only lasted a bare second, Evander had made himself an easy target in mid air.

    Shalyn rose from her tail sweep and flung out a taloned palm. Evander crossed his blades to deflect the impact, but the force of Shalyn’s strike sent him flying back.

    He tumbled across the stage and only stopped when he drove a blade into the stage itself.

    Taren clapped and cheered along with the crowd. He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help himself from smiling. The joy on his brother’s face made it worth standing through a couple of Dragons fight.

    However, he did take a mental note of how they fought.

    Shalyn held out her right hand. A long, thin red blade, glistening as though it had been dipped in water, dropped out of a burst of blue fire.

    She caught the hilt and leveled the blade as writhing flames coiled up her arm. Red segmented armor appeared that splintered light in a dazzling display like a cut gem sparkling in the sun.

    Shalyn tested Evander with a few shallow strokes and suddenly their dance became a heated exchange of blows.

    His thoughts drifted back to the night before. To the Lycan in the alley and the black sword it held.

    Could he hold his own with Shalyn or Evander if he broke into the second World? Could Grendyl really teach him how to manifest his soul?

    He yelled over the crowd into Taren’s ear.

    “I’m going to rest before the tournament.”

    Taren reluctantly tore his eyes off the match and gave him a quick look up and down.

    “Are you sure you have enough time? The sword skill tournament is next after this.”

    “I have plenty of time. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute.”

    “I’ll come with you then. Can’t have you falling asleep and missing the whole thing or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

    He clasped Taren’s shoulders and made him face the Dragons.

    “There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “Just enjoy yourself and wait for me. I won’t be long.”

    Taren scratched his beard, unconvinced. He picked his way out of the crowd before his brother followed him and left the commons behind.

    He didn’t have long, as Taren pointed out, but he didn’t need to go far. Just someplace where he could silence his thoughts and gather his focus before the tournament began.

    He found a quiet little corner where two streets converged. A bench sat beside the door of a small shop with a second story floor that hung over the street like a ledge.

    He eased himself gently into it and popped another piece of numroot into his mouth.

    A bell chimed as the door beside the bench swung open.

    “Now that’s a pretty face.”

    He looked up at the young woman smiling down at him.

    “Sylvia?” he said, mildly surprised.

    In one arm she held a covered basket and stood on the edge of the street.

    The sun played on her hair, lighting it like a fire. Brushed to one side it covered her shoulder in a mane of thick wavy strands. Her cheeks were lightly flushed and her green eyes caught the sun.

    He lingered on her smile. Then blinked and looked away.

    “Don’t you have servants to do all your shopping?” he said.

    “As it so happens, I do. But it’s nice to get out once in a while, don’t you think?”

    She tilted her head and studied him.

    “Are you not feeling well?”

    “How could you tell?”

    “If the look on your face didn’t give you away the smell definitely would,” she said. “Numroot has its own distinct aroma. You should use it sparingly, by the way. It’s potent but highly addictive.”

    Nash hadn’t told him that. The little shit.

    “I’m sorry about the other day,” he blurted out suddenly. “I shouldn’t have been rude to you. It’s just, how do I say it?” He folded his arms and frowned.

    “You’re an Albryte. Every Albryte I’ve ever known I’ve despised. Except for you. You’ve always been a kind person. Even to someone like me.”

    She set her basket down and took a seat on the bench, tucking a leg underneath her, eyeing him intently.

    “You don’t hurt people like the others in your family,” he hesitated. “But neither do you do anything to stop it. That’s always bothered me, you know? How could someone like you tolerate what they do? And keep on smiling?

    “I thought that maybe meant you were strong, because you were above it all. But really it’s because you can’t do anything about it. And I don’t blame you. Barin and Jon are your brothers. You’re supposed to love your family.

    “But how can someone like you love people like them? It probably tears you apart. Especially when you know that someone will have enough and fight back. That someone will come for their heads. What do you do then?

    “Do you defend the monsters you call family? Or do you side with the person who was wronged. When I think about all that, I feel really bad for you.”

    The words spilled out without interruption. And the longer she stayed quiet the less he held back. He didn’t know why he felt the need to say such things. Or what to expect.

    Tears maybe? Some kind of excuse before she cursed him and left? She wasn’t the type to throw a fit, but she had to do something, right?

    “You’ve been holding that in for a long time, haven’t you?” She said.

    He looked up sharply. His breath caught.

    Sadness ringed the edges of her eyes, but at the heart of them lay nothing but a warm kindness that reached out and held him.

    He bit his lip, disgusted suddenly by his need for revenge. Would she still be able to look at him with the same warmth she did now if he’d gotten what he wanted?

    “I won’t refute what you said. And neither will I defend the actions of my family,” she said. “If I could have shielded you from everything you experienced at their hands I would have. I want to you believe that.”

    He studied her eyes, at how they stared not through him, but at him. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. Then something else occurred to him.

    Something he’d only ever suspected but never knew for certain.

    “I’m not the only one with a long list of grievances, am I?”

    She let the question linger and shifted away from him to face the street.

    “Are you going to fight in the sword skill tournament?” She asked.

    “I am.”

    “Why go through with it? Do you really want to fight so badly? Even as you are now?”

    He tensed and looked down at the stones between his feet.

    “I don’t have a choice,” he said.

    “I fail to see how that’s possible. Why do you have to fight? Could you explain it to me?”

    He closed his eyes, letting the question go unanswered.

    “Saul? I can’t help if you won’t talk to me.”

    She leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. Even now, after all the years he’d known her, he still couldn’t believe she was related to the twins.

    He looked at her then and said quietly, “I’m going to kill them, Sylvia. Jon and Barin. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But one day, my face will be the last thing they ever see before their lizard fucking souls are sent straight to hell.”

    Again, she didn’t react the way he assumed she would.

    “I tried talking to them many times,” she said, shaking her head. “Father wouldn’t lift a finger. ‘A peasant needs no kindness,’ he would say. Just, when the time comes make your peace and end it.”

    He peeked at her from the corner of his eye and grunted softly.

    “You and my brother seem awfully close.”

    “What?” She said, startled. The change in topic caught her off guard. Her cheeks flushed even further, a deep red that almost matched her hair.

    “It isn’t like that. We’re just friends.”

    “He told me the same thing,” he said.

    He grinned and stared at her until his silence seemed to irritate her, which only made him laugh. After such an awkward conversation he wanted something to lighten the mood between them.

    “Peace,” he said. “It’s none of my business. But you’re the lord’s daughter. You’re noble and he’s not. I think you can understand my worry.”

    “There’s nothing to be concerned about,” she assured him. “But if there is anything to worry about, it should be whether you’ll make it to the stage on time.”

    He frowned and scratched his chin. He thought he had longer than that but in the end a few more minutes of rest wouldn’t do him any more good than none at all.

    He slowly pushed himself to his feet and left the shade of the store front.

    “Want to come along?”

    “I think I’ll pass,” she said, looking away.

    “Taren will be there. He’s not taking part so you can watch with him.”

    She gathered her basket and came to stand beside him under the sun. Light filled her eyes once more, captivating him again with their brilliance.

    “I think I have some time to spare after all,” she said.

    Shalyn wore a crown of slivernots by the time they arrived.

    He knew the old woman would win. Her cultivation was at the third World, capable of manifesting armor, while Evander was far behind in the second. He stood beside her, arms crossed and pouting as Shalyn smiled and waved at the crowd.

    He pointed out his brother and Sylvia went to stand beside him. Taren jumped. A wide smile broke across his brother’s face and a slight bit of jealousy tugged at his chest.

    The crowd parted to allow Shalyn and Evander to leave the stage. The participants of the sword skill tournament gathered at the steps of the platform and waited for their turn to go up.

    Barin stood impatiently at the front of the group, arms crossed and frowning at the crowd. Their eyes met and the young man stopped fidgeting. A moment passed between them.

    Barin nodded slightly. He nodded back and joined the gathered contestants.

    He shouldn’t have felt surprised to see Alazar climb onto the stage but when he did he groaned and hoped the man wouldn’t make a spectacle of himself.

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    Alazar wore his full military uniform, regarding the crowd with a wide smile and open arms.

    “For those who haven’t heard my name is Alazar Maxillion. And today I’ve been allowed by lord Albryte the special honor of acting judge for this year’s sword skill tournament.

    "I’m sure you’re all just as excited as I am to watch our young folk settle their scores, so without further delay, let’s begin!”

    He caught Alazar’s attention and the man gave him a boyish grin and winked.

    How could such a carefree man ever get so far in the legions? He shook his head and waited for his name to be called.

    His first match was easy. A boy several years younger than him who he recognized as Hallen offered no challenge at all.

    Before going up he activated his essence body and chose a sword from among the rack of weapons positioned by the base of the stairs.

    The swords were made of fine steel but the edges had been purposely dulled so they couldn’t cut. At most a hit from one would break bones and leave behind a ruin of black and purple bruises.

    He faced the young man and waited for him to make the first move.

    “You look terrible,” Hallen said. “I’d feel bad winning just because you weren’t at your best.”

    “If that’s an offer to let me surrender, I’ll have to disappoint you,” he replied.

    Hallen laughed and approached him casually.

    He knew Hallen from when they were boys. And so he knew Hallen had grown up in a baker’s household and had been a baker’s boy his entire life.

    If he’d been a hunter he’d have known to approach his prey as if it could kill him at any moment. And wounded prey was the most dangerous kind of all.

    Hallen moved, not even bothering to hide his intent.

    He swung and knocked the sword from Hallen’s grasp and levered the blunt tip of his blade underneath the boy’s quivering chin.

    “I guess one of us really wasn’t at their best, huh?” he said, grinning.

    His next match lasted longer.

    Sweat beaded on his brow but he was careful not to expend himself. He kept his blade close to his chest, his swings short and shallow.

    He would have liked a little more elegance in his technique. Clean and precise.

    But today was different.

    The boy, Fenek, pulled back and studied him with a frown.

    “Why struggle so hard? I heard you just broke into the first World and I can tell you’re hurt. You can’t win.”

    “Even at my worst, I’m still better than you, Fenek,” he said, wiping his brow.

    “I’m at the fifth realm of the first World,” Fenek smirked. “You’re so much smaller than me I can’t even see your cultivation.”

    He smiled. If only Fenek knew. “I thank you for the breather, boy. Now come here so I can show you how much I care about your pathetic little realm.”

    His third match left him breathing hard.

    His movements were slow and rigid. The numroot began to wear off again and his essence body could no longer silence all the pain and soreness.

    It kept him from finishing the match as quickly as he’d have wanted but he couldn’t afford to anger his injuries by putting the full force of his skill behind the blade.

    The third opponent, a young man named Robyn, tested him carefully, never giving away a single opening. Like him, Robyn was a hunter who knew the proper way to handle prey.

    He couldn’t fool Robyn or provoke him into making a mistake like the previous two. He needed to take a risk. If Robyn wouldn’t give him an opening he’d simply have to make one.

    He parried a flurry of strikes and on the last one he allowed his sword to fly from his hand. The last stroke from Robyn left the young man in a position where he could have parried but when the man saw what he’d done he hesitated.

    He locked eyes with Robyn and took a small step toward the blade laying half a dozen feet away. He feinted and Robyn fell for it.

    He lashed out and grabbed Robyn’s sword arm, twisting him around.

    They tumbled to the stage floor. Pain stabbed his tender ribs and tears pooled at the corners of his eyes. He clenched his jaw, holding back a cry.

    He fell atop Robyn who struggled to get out from under him.

    When he drew the long hunting knife strapped behind his waist and slapped Robyn a few times lightly on the cheek with the flat of the blade, Alazar declared him the winner.

    Just one more to go, he thought miserably.

    As he’d expected the final match was between him and Barin.

    In a stroke of luck the twins had paired off together and instead of fighting it out Jon forfeited the match without swinging his blade a single time.

    When Alazar called his name he took his place on one end of the stage while Barin took the other. Alazar motioned for them both to meet in the center.

    “You’re looking a little pale there, lad,” Alazar said. “No shame in backing out if you have to.”

    “I’m fine,” he breathed. “I’m exactly where I want to be. Besides, I wouldn’t dare insult our young lord here by denying him what he wants.”

    Barin stared at him inscrutably.

    “Let him fight, Alazar. The dog’s made up his mind already.”

    “Very well,” Alazar said.

    The captain put his hand on his shoulder and turned him around, his voice lowered. “You never got back to Raemis about his offer.”

    He grimaced at the captain. Grendyl had been right after all.

    “It isn’t like that,” Alazar said, holding up his hand. “I had no idea what the old man was up to until this morning. I just want you to know that you don’t have to worry about it. I straightened it all out myself.”

    Alazar slapped him lightly on the shoulder, grinning as he gave him another wink and backed away from the center of the stage.

    “Let the final match of the tournament begin!”

    He frowned and tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. Now wasn’t the time for unnecessary thoughts.

    He took several steps back and drew his sword. Barin mirrored him and together they circled the stage sizing up one another.

    Barin lunged.

    Their swords clashed and Barin swung again. He stepped around the half hearted swing and gave one of his own. Barin’s pale face was like a mask. Cold and unreadable.

    The young lord rushed in, aiming a slash for his eyes. He parried in time and stumbled backward as Barin pressed him again.

    A small grin crept up the side of Barin’s face.

    He lowered his guard and Barin followed suit. He parried the blow and the one after that, all while making it look as if he were losing.

    It galled him to make the other man look better in front of the whole village. What he was attempting took way more skill than the young lord would ever have.

    He narrowly missed a parry that would have brushed harmlessly against his chest. A sharp sting traced a line through his shirt. He gasped and almost dropped his sword.

    Barin smiled wickedly. The heat simmering beneath his cold eyes burst forth.

    The young lord rained a series of quick cuts and thrusts. Each strike of Barin’s blade sent a shock down his arm that would have ripped the sword from his hands if not for the essence pumping through his blood.

    Everyone else had been offered swords with blunt edges so how had he gotten one that wasn’t dull? He gritted his teeth and glanced over at Alazar.

    The man stood with his arms crossed. His carefree manner hidden behind by a solemn gaze. Alazar had clearly noticed but wasn’t interfering.

    He scowled and poured all his focus into his stance and pushed his essence body to its limit, exerting every drop of essence that he could force through his veins.

    Barin whipped his blade around. He parried, tossing it aside with a grunt. And took a step forward, hooking a boot behind one of Barin’s feet.

    Instead of falling on his back, the man stumbled a few steps, slashing wildly to keep his distance.

    Barin grimaced and lunged with his sword held high and strait, aiming for his neck.

    He took that moment to drive the end of his sword into Barin’s chest, thinking he could step around Barin’s thrust, but the young man parried at the last moment. His attack went wide, brushing over Barin’s shoulder instead.

    With horror he realized he’d left his chest exposed.

    But the young lord didn’t take the opportunity to finish him. Barin lifted his leg and slammed his boot into his aching ribs.

    A cry died in the back of his throat as he stumbled gasping for air.

    The crowd roared. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow to come. But a second passed. And then another. And another.

    Barin paced back and forth, a cruel smile curling his lips. His eyes held the look of a predator eying its meal.

Alazar made no move to call the match.

    He rose unsteadily, but fell back again to one knee, clutching his sides.

    “I must thank you, dog,” Barin said. “This present you’ve given me has been most delightful. And I plan to cherish this for a long time.”

    As the young lord advanced his eyes fell upon the crowd behind him.

    A mixture of awe and excitement poured out from every face he saw. All except for one.

    A man too sick to leave his house had made it out on his own.

    His father leaned heavily on a cane, face wrought with worry. Their eyes met and he froze.

    Barin took another step, swinging his sharp edged blade playfully.

    “Get up, dog. I’m not finished with you yet.”

    He tore his eyes away and glared at the young lord gloating over him. His body trembled with a rage he had never felt before.

    He squeezed the hilt of his blade and pushed himself back onto his feet, using the sword as leverage. His body screamed with pain but somehow it didn’t hold him back this time.

    The crowd cheered. Barin tilted his head, confused, before he scowled.

    “Dog, don’t even try-” Barin gasped like he’d been kicked in the gut and doubled over.

    He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Essence poured into him, silencing the pain, filling his muscles until they surely couldn’t handle any more.

    And then his limit broke, his power growing still.

    Barin looked up at him, eyes wide and full of terror.

    “What have you done?” Barin shrieked.

    He glanced at the ring on his finger and balled his hand into a fist. The ring bit into his flesh and burned hotter than a flame. Oddly enough the pain disappeared the harder he focused on it.

    The ring looked even darker than usual, as if coated by a thick black fog. And underneath the veil faint markings pulsed in a red light until the essence flooding into him suddenly stopped and the markings faded back into the depths of the ring.

    He stretched his arms and tested his body, twisting his torso from side to side. Everything had been healed.

    “I should ask you the same question,” he said. “Bringing a real sword to a friendly competition? It’s almost as if you’re trying to kill me. And here I thought we had a deal.”

    Barin’s face twisted.

    “Don’t pretend you weren’t planning to do the same thing. Do you think I forgot what you said that day you fought my cousin Cera? I’m only defending myself!”

    He laughed and leveled his blade between Barin’s eyes.

    “Only a piece of trash could make such a ridiculous claim.”

    The young lord scrambled to his feat.

    “Alazar, I command you. Kill him. Kill him right now!”

    Alazar shook his head. Barin cursed and leapt into the crowd.

    With every bit of strength in his legs he launched off the stage, catching Barin with a shallow strike to the back.

    Barin tripped and fell to the ground. The crowd circled them, jostling for a better view.

    “What are you all looking at?” The young lord spat. “Don’t you know who my father is you filthy peasants?”

    Barin scrambled to his feet, looking like a cornered rat searching for a way out.

    “Jon?” Barin cried. “Jon? Where the fuck did you go!”

    This was what he truly wanted. Not a single trace of pride remained in the young lord cowering before him. And the whole crowd saw it.

    Barin struck with blinding speed as he stood there, reveling in the young lord’s shame.

    He parried and stepped into the wild swing. Barin cursed and danced back as his elbow missed the young man’s face by an inch.

    He swung his blunted sword for Barin’s head, spun and jabbed for the stomach, danced to the side and slashed at a knee.

    Barin parried every blow, growing slower by the second. His movements duller each time their swords clanged together. Barin’s impenetrable defense was crumbling.

    He smiled. His newfound strength urging him on.

    He danced on the balls of his feet as he adjusted to the sudden rise in his cultivation.

    Barin’s eyes bulged, his teeth bared underneath the strain. He couldn’t help but laugh at how weak the young lord had become.

    How pathetic.

    With all his strength, he squeezed the hilt of his sword and hammered the blade down onto Barin’s wrists like an avalanche.

    He roared.

    Through the blade he felt the soft crunch of bones as Barin screamed. The man’s sword fell from his grasp and rattled across the cobble stones.

    Barin fell to his knees and looked up at him, useless hands dangling. He stared down at the young man who’d tormented him for years and looked into his frightened eyes.

    Terror froze over them like a thin layer of ice. And underneath it lay an endless depth of hatred. Neither one of them could know peace while the other still lived.

    Raising his sword smoothly above his head he took a deep breath and tightened his grip. Although it had no edge it was still a weapon. Hit him over the head hard enough…

    Suddenly he realized the crowd had grown silent. Something sharp pricked at his neck. He glanced down and hesitated. The tip of a sword extended from beneath his chin.

    Alazar gave him an inscrutable look.

    “Enough. Step back and lower your sword. It’s done.”

    He stared back at Alazar in disbelief. Of course someone steps in to save the noble but no one cares when it’s a peasant’s life at stake.

    A tense moment passed where he was sure he’d strike the young lord dead, even it meant a sword slicing open his neck.

    And then it passed. The tension dropped from his shoulders as he took a step back, tossing the blunted sword at Alazar’s feet with contempt.

    Alazar eyed him before sheathing his blade and turning to face the crowd with a satisfied nod.

    “And so concludes this year’s tournament. Congratulations to our young champion, Saul, on his tremendous victory. Let’s hear a round of applause!”

    He stared blankly at the crowd. Some stared back at him with fear in their eyes. Others with open wonder. A hushed silence gripped the air, but after someone raised a cheer, the silence burst.

    Barin shoved his way through the crowd, hurling curses left and right. His twin caught up to him and led him away, face tight with worry.

    The essence in his body receded. His blood cooling without a fight to keep it warm.

    Alazar clapped him on the shoulder.

    He glared at the man as Alazar leaned in close, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd as he whispered into his ear.

    “We need to talk,” Alazar said. “Later. About your father. He isn’t sick.”

    As it happened he caught sight of his father in the crowd. Allanir smiled proudly and shuffled toward them with obvious difficulty.

    “What do you call that then,” he said flatly.

    “Poison, lad. That’s what I call it. Poison and treachery and neither one can be cured with a little medicine.”