“Sir Ri. Late, per usual,” Sir Robin says, slapping my back and making me cough.

I shoot him a side-eye. “I’m just on time.”

He raises a brow. “On time is late. Didn’t your squireship teach you anythin’?”

“I had a different squireship than normal.”

He snorts, eyeing me. “That mean you didn’t have a squireship at all?”

I jerk in surprise. A slow, sly grin buds on his lips under a mustache he's been growing out. Oops.

“Hey Xonier! Wanna know a secret?”

I jump on his back. Sir Robin laughs, the other knights watch us—between gauging their blades and sharpening the tips—as if we are insane. One shakes his head and takes shuffling steps to the side, well out of reach.

I cling to his back, even as he walks to Xonier as if I weigh less than dirt. I gulp in a breath, trying not to hurt him but not needing anyone else to know that little tidbit. I trust Xonier, but the more who know my secrets the more likely they are to get spread. Plus the more people who'll get hurt.

“What be this secret?”

“Sir Ri—” Sir Robin's voice devolves into muffled grunts when I slam my hand over his mouth, finally locking my legs around his waist and my other arm around his throat, careful not to choke him.

I faceplant in the dirt when he throws me. I glare at Sir Robin between spitting dirt and grit from my teeth with a grimace. Gross.

“Sir Ri is an excellent marksman. We’ll have to up our game to defeat ‘em.” Robin whistles as I smack my forehead down in the dirt with a groan. All that for Sir Robin to share that? Grand.

Xonier scratches his ear. “Urci Alishi,” he mutters, shaking his head and walking away.

Robin pats my back, a dust cloud erupting.

“That was the most fun I’ve had in years.” Sir Robin grins innocently when I prick his ribs with a knife, glaring. “Ya shoulda seen your face. Better than a dragon in a pub, if ya ask me.”

Something about how he says that makes me pause. “A dragon in a pub?”

He nods, a starry-eyed grin overtaking his face as he looks into the sky, scratching at a beard just poking through his cheeks. “Yep. It was an adolescent, but boy, did it cause a stir. The barkeep about broke down in tears at the destruction, and he weren’t no little man, either.”

I choke on a laugh. Then sober. “Why’d you not tell him what you know about me?”

His grin this time is a bit softer than his usual mischievous grin. It softens his eyes and makes wrinkles appear. He acts young and adolescent, so he almost seems like an older, teasing brother at times instead of a man who's old enough to be my father.

“Contrary to what ya think, kiddo, I ain’t gonna spread your secrets.” He pats my head like a dog. I growl like Ran. His grin widens.

“Ladies and gentlefolk!”

A knife appears in my hand and I reflexively place the black blade against the man’s throat. His throat bobs, his eyes glancing down at the blade and then into my cold eyes.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I blink, coming back to the present and realizing I just kinda put a knife at the announcer’s throat in the middle of fifty thousand people. I glance behind me, the blood draining from my face. The other knights watch me, ready to run me through with swords should I make a wrong move.

Ahhh, shoot.

“Think you may put the blade away now?”

I jerk it away and sheath it as if scalded.

An arm is thrown about my shoulder, making me jump. “He gotcha good, didna he?” Sir Robin says, squeezing my shoulders a little too tight in warning.

“That’ll teach me to sneak up on the little warrior. Forgot just how much training you knights go through as squires and then in the wars,” Sir Handsomlot grumbles, his green and yellow top hat jingling with bells. Bells! I can’t for the life of me figure out how he snuck up on me.

Sir Robin’s chest rumbles, and he eyes me with a raised brow—likely because he’s silently laughing at how I didn’t train as a squire. I roll my eyes, jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow. He backs off after one final warning squeeze.

“Sorry. I’m a bit jumpy,” I say, wincing as Sir Handsomlot rubs his neck again, where a red mark shows where my blade was.

“No harm, no foul, little man. Just keep those knives from my throat, eh?”

“You gonna keep from scaring the dickens out of me?”

He barks out a laugh, then seems surprised. “A jester should not be jested,” he says, glaring at me, but laughter dances in his eyes. A smile nearly breaks through his pursed lips.

I give him an innocent grin, and his smile wins out. “Can’t stay mad at you, can I?” he says, a wry smile turning his lips. “Ladies and gentlefolk!” he begins anew, and I duck my head with a blush when I realize everyone has their eyes on us, making my skin prickle. I rub my arms, trying to flatten the hairs standing on end.

“It seems all our competitors are here, and ya know the saying the smallest dog has the biggest bite? It’s true. Don’t take those little things for granted.” This gets a few laughs. “And now, the king has a special announcement for us.”

We turn to the royal boxes, where all manner of colors splash against the white stone of the arena in flags, parasols, and clothes. And it says quite a lot to say the clothing of the peacocks are actually in brighter colors than the flags. It almost hurts my eyes.

And then there is the royal family, today in a shade of dark, royal blue with silver accents.

The king coughs, then turns to his son. “Is this thing on?” he asks, jumping when the entire arena rings with his voice. He chuckles. “I suppose it is.” The people chuckle, many of the people laughing because it’s expected. And he is a truly good king, kind and lenient to his people, if a little eccentric. “My good folk. It is my greatest pleasure to host you here today. When a child grows, one wishes to give them all they need to succeed. To thrive. And one always wishes for the chance for grandchildren,” he whispers into the magespeaker, his eyes twinkling when he looks at his eldest son.

Were Prince Arin any less disciplined in his facial expressions, he would roll his eyes. As is, his lips pinch and he merely watches his father as the arena catcalls and cheers. “Yes, yes. And in that, I wish to announce that we shall have a ball on the night of the full moon, to celebrate the coming choosing of the Protector and a special announcement we shall have. And all are welcome at the palace, but be warned, only so many will be allowed in. The rest will meet here. Sir Handsomelot shall speak my tidings when the moon is at her peak in the arena, and I shall do the same in the palace. May The King bless us.”

“And hold us ever in his favor,” I whisper with the arena.

Sir Handsomlot wipes a tear from his eye. “Ahhh. The love of family. Now then, let’s kill some rabbits!” He looks around. “Did I let the rabbit out of the bag?” The arena groans to his chuckles. “Oh, no. Forgive me. I nearly wrung the rabbit.”

Sir Xonier cuffs Handsomlot on the back of the head. “That for Xonier’s bleeding ears.”

The arena laughs as Sir Handsomlot rubs his head and glances around. “Fine, fine. No more rabbit puns. But I have let it from the bag, so let’s get at the rules—”

The knife throwing is a lot like the arrow trial. There will be a test with the targets standing still, swaying, and then with something moving.

The problem is that the something moving is a secret.

Each competitor has three targets and three knives each throw. There will be a total of five throws. In the end, we will throw fifteen knives for the first round.

The closest target, at four yards, counts for three points black bullseye, two points red second ring, and one point white outer ring.

And from there, the second target, at five yards, is worth double. So bullseye six, second ring four, and outer ring two.

And the farthest target, at six yards, is triple the first.

So you can play it safe or make it count.

Choices, choices.