My first arrow hits the black dot—but barely. I almost curse before I realize my momma would tan my hide. She would somehow hear it from the stands or read my lips, promise. And I don’t wish to invoke her wrath.

I test the wind this time, then adjust. The arrow strikes dead center. As does the next. I purposefully let the wind carry my next slightly off center.

A line of squires line the edge of the arena on both sides with clear protective spheres rising in front of them in case of a stray arrow. One such squire raises a green flag beside my target with a crank as others put magespheres to their eyes to view their assigned competitor’s target.

A silken dressed servant takes me back to the second line, checking my arrows to ensure I have enough and they are clean from tampering.

A few moments later, as the rest of the arrows thunk into their targets, green and red flags fly.

Eighty of the eighty-four continue on.

I knew it would be tough competition. And this competition is the first with only the top thirty going to the next competition, beginning the whittling down of the numbers. Only the top six knights will continue to the final melee. But that is still many trials away.

I glance over, and of the people continuing are of course the two knights to my right, along with the two bickering knights further down who I tried to hide beside when I got here. The brown-haired dude puffs up like a preening peacock, showing off his three arrows that barely struck black.

I huff an amused breath. Poor guy isn’t going to last much longer. But if his waving to the ladies is any indication, he's not as concerned about his arrows as he perhaps should be... were he serious about the tournament and not other forms of entertainment.

As the next round begins, I pull a little further back on the string. I would hate to hit dead center and not pierce the target. That would be embarrassing.

A sigh passes my lips as I release. Dead center. The next three barely hit black, and the last misses black and red, landing in the third ring from center.

I move further back without the prompting of the silken robed servant at my side. I stop at the next line painted on the sand. It’s a burnt green. Almost a mix of brown and lime. My least favorite color. It reminds me of the terrible acid substance someone tried to inject into Ran before my family was taken.

When the horn sounds again, I knock and draw. Taking a deep breath, I release when I feel the wind still against my fingers. It hits dead center, and I smile.

The next lands in the exact hole of my worst previous shot, to the right of the target in the third ring. I mentally pump my fist. Despite everything, the hundreds of hours I spent shooting still favor me to this day. If anything is worth doing, it’s worth doing right, as my father always said.

I lodge four of five in the black. Sir Handsomelot announces sixty of the eighty-four have progressed.

More rounds whittle our number down to thirty. And our yards to a hundred. Thank goodness the target is brightly painted, otherwise it would be a hard thing to see at this distance. Much less hit.

The line beneath my feet is the green of freshly sprung grasses in a spring meadow. I smile, envisioning the times my family would often travel high up in the Northern Peaks to catch the first glimpse of Wildflower Alley. Those were fun times, Grandma sometimes came with us.

Wildflower Alley is exactly what it sounds like. It’s as if a painter took every dollop of color from their board and threw it upon the grass for it to grow. And grow it did. A multitude of flowers, springing from the depths of winter to usher in a new age. It was one of the first times I saw Eldertrees, who tended the flowers with elegance and grayce, their movements slow and unhurried but with purpose a human would be hard-pressed to match.

I’m brought back to the present when I sense someone behind me. I shift forward a casual step, bending my knees and laying a hand on a blade.

“Expert archery. The last was a bit of a disappointment, considering the shots before.” The prince’s silken voice. I shove down my irritation. Doesn’t he have better things to do?

“And what can I do for you, Your Gloriousness?” I ask gruffly, trying to hide the sarcasm wanting to fly.

Too late, Ran cackles, humor spreading over her thread.

A puff of breath lands on my neck, and I shiver. I hardly allow anyone close enough to shove a knife in my kidneys without having a knife to theirs first.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“I would wager—perhaps further, I would dare—to say when the targets begin to shift, you shall not hit center with five arrows.”

I shift around so that I can stand face to face with him. Well, eyes to chest since I’m so short and he’s a bit of a tall bastard.

One of his eyebrows quirk in a most interesting manner, and I catch a slight sparkle in his eyes that shimmer with an almost silvery sheen.

“I’m not so certain any archer can be so brazen as to take that wager, Your Highness.”

“Ahhh. That is where I believe you’re wrong. Would you like to take a friendly gamble, or are you discomfited?”

I bristle at the insinuation. Why am I trying to protect this guy again?

No sticking the prince, rider, no matter how badly we’d both like to pincushion him.

It would humble him, right? I ask, fingering a knife.

It's not a good look to become the assassin you’re trying to stop.

Ugh. When did Ran get so smart?

I draw my hand away from the hidden blade and take a breath through clenched teeth.

“Fine,” I bite out through clenched teeth at my bond.

The prince stares intently for a moment, then shows me a token. One of the tokens he may individually hand out to his favorites. A way to make the games a bit less fair, and so that the prince actually has a say in the matter of who will protect him. I knew this thing was rigged, but I am just now realizing the extent of it.

“Our wager.” He gives me a broad smile.

My mouth hangs open... and I realize I said that last word to Ran aloud and the prince took it as acceptance for his wager.

My heart gallops in my chest and my mouth becomes dry.

Nope, nope, nope. This can't be happening.

But the prince merely gives me a nod and walks off before I can refute that I was not accepting his wager.

I gape at his back, unsure what to make of what just happened.

“Close the maw there, little tike. You’ll catch flies.” Sir Robin snickers as he jabs an elbow into the side of the giant right beside me.

I glare as they cough into their hands, not bothering to hide their mirth at my expense.

I jab two arrows into the ground with a growl, then another two right beside those. The last I finger, running a hand along it’s fletching.

“Challenge accepted,” I whisper to the prince. I know he can't hear me, but even if I accidentally accepted the wager, might as well try. It's not like I told him no right off because of a dratted inner conversation or anything.

The crown prince glances back and meets my eyes with something deep within that makes my heart flip in my chest. Traitorous organ has been acting up more and more lately with both Silver and this prince, which makes me slightly embarrassed or perhaps guilty. Silver hasn’t asked for anything untoward nor pressed me for more than I can give, but… it almost feels traitorous to feel like this when he’s not here.

The prince’s mouth twitches, but otherwise his face remains placid.

But even as I loathe the way the wager was placed... excitement pools in my chest and makes a smile tip my lips. It seems the prince and I are in agreement for once. We both want to see what I'm made of.

I turn to watch my target as it’s lifted into an arm that swings. The arm is attached to a large, boxy frame that sits some six to seven feet off the ground. I have no idea how the thing works, but it seems the engineers have turned out quite a few tricks for the trial today.

The thirty challengers left check their strings, collect their arrows, and draw.

I breathe in and out, slowly but surely, remembering the lessons, remembering dad’s corrections and praises. It brings peace to my heart, and I feel his voice whispering in my ear. Steady does it, little cub, slow and steady kills the meaney.

I smirk, imagining his grin at turning a childhood tale into a war lesson. He always was exasperating. But he loved me, and I knew it. I feel him beside me now. I feel his finger brush my cheek. You’ve got this, little cub. Make me proud.

My eyes snap open as the horn bellows. I knock and release, knock and release, slowly but surely, until the last feather tickles my cheek. I take one small breath, feel a correction on the wind, aim slightly higher, and release.

I wait for the thud, then it’s just a matter of seeing if I did it. From here, I honestly can’t tell for sure if I truly hit all in the black. But I feel it deep within.

Gasps come from the crowd as the last arrow flies from one of my competitors. I’ve got to hand praise where praise is due. Looking down the line—these are some of the best archers I’ve ever seen.

No one missed a single shot from this range, and most are clustered near the center of the targets. No matter who wins this thing, all here are way more talented than the prince should ever need.

My flag goes up, and then the squire shows five fingers to the one tallying the score behind him, and I smile. That token is mine. My eyes find the prince and I salute him with my bow, my heart strangely giddy at proving my prowess. He gives me a half smile and a slow, steady clap, tipping a metaphorical hat to me.

I flourish my bow in a theatrical bow, and his smirk turns to a full-blown grin, doing strange things to my heart I try to ignore.

Then I turn my attention back to the competition. Only seven of us remain.

The targets are rolled off, and seven groups of five knights in black and gold armor take their place. They're stunning black, gold, and blue roan stallions toss their heads and paw the ground, powerful muscles rippling. Their manes are braided to keep it from being ripped out, and glistening black armor made to look like scales adorn their chests and foreheads. Sky blue barding and piping on their saddle pads match the blue plume from the knight's black helmets and the cape flowing from their shoulders.

All in all, a very intimidating image.

Ooohhh, pretty, Ran says. I roll my eyes. She’s been spending too much time in a barn. She chuffs at me.

I begin to form a response, something about her being too enamored with the horses she hates—

A horn blows, making me jump. The knights in front of me knee their chargers, and I squeak. I was too busy yapping at Ran.

Now I’m not ready. At all.

Oops, Ran says, sounding nearly giddy as she watches through my eyes.

My heart drops to my toes.

Yep.

Oops.