Page 35 of War Hour

A look of hurt crosses his face before it’s tucked away, leaving a blank expression.

“I only ever planned to bring Drytas true criminals. The three men I was tricking when you showed up stole from a bunch of kids. It was you who got in the way. You forced my hand when you called over the guard.”

My breath lodges in my throat.

If that was true . . .

“And why the ruse? You wanted to face the Trial?”

Torryn tilts his head, and his dark hair shifts across the sides of his face. He lets out a deep exhale. “That was only a small part of it.”

My voice goes monotone as I look away from him. “You want the power. Just like Drytas.”

In a flash, Torryn knocks me off him, grabbing the dagger from my hand, and flings it into the dirt. He hovers over where I lay, shocked, on the ground, before getting to his feet.

“Don’t pretend you know me, Lysta. I’ve fought battles that have lasted longer than I’ve known you.”

His eyes flash with unbridled anger, and I flinch, unwilling to be the fallout. At this, his face changes in an instant, back to his blank slate.

“We want the same thing, and once we get to the capital, they won’t let Drytas”—he spits out the name with venom—“get away with it. The courts may seldom agree, but forcing citizens to Trial as punishment? Just so you can get as many Trialed as possible? It goes against every belief we have in protecting the Trials, what they stand for. It’s supposed to be about choice. Choosing to testyourself—to face parts of yourself you normally wouldn’t. It’s an honor. Taking away that decision strips away the sanctity of it.”

That’s the plan, then? Appealing to the courts and hoping they will intervene? I know next to nothing of the other courts or the capital. But I don’t have the power to change things back in Falland. I’d have to give Torryn an inch of trust and hope it doesn’t screw me over in the end.

The group as a whole seems to take a deep breath as Torryn and I separate, exchanging glares. Torryn stands, leaning down to snatch my dagger off the ground. He shows it to me before making a point of stashing it in his belt. I grumble, prepared to fight for the weapon, until my thoughts are interrupted.

“How are you feeling?” Sar asks as she reaches to help me up, sweeping away the conflict as if we'd been debating the weather. “Portaling can be jarring the first time around.”

I stumble on my feet. “Kinda like my entire world has been turned upside down, but I don’t think it’s from the portaling,” I say, looking at Torryn.

He looks off in the distance, not acknowledging my pointed glance.

“Well, I’m Sar,” she continues, smoothing her hands against her dress skirt repeatedly. The blue cloth contrasts with the red hair cascading to her waist, vibrant with color and energy.

She must be wealthy within her court to have such clothes—without stains or rips. In fact, nothing mars the fabric except white lace adorning the bodice.

I’m struck with a new sense of self consciousness as I examine her dress for the first time. I’d been offered extra clothes from the guard’s supply, which had been perfectly acceptable before, but now, compared to Sar, I feel even further out of place.

Another part of me feels shame creeping up that I paid the clothes I wore any mind when so many in Falland have much less. WhenIhad much less, only just over a week ago.

Sar gestures to Ardis before adding, “And this is—”

“Ardis,” I finish.

The three exchange a look before Ardis gives me a sheepish grin and nods. “Yeah, it’s nice to meet you.” Raising a hand to the back of his neck, Ardis fingers through his blonde hair.

Despite their, at one point, identical appearances, they carry distinguishable differences in their demeanor. Torryn, as Ardis, always wore a tight expression. Brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I can’t recall if I’ve ever seen him smile. The same as Torryn wears now. But Ardis’s face is relaxed, an easygoing air about him.

I nod back to him, and the tension eases.

What a fool I must’ve looked.

“Let’s get moving,” Torryn says, interrupting the awkward silence. He narrows his eyes at the line of trees across the field. “I don’t like being this close to the Border Forest at dusk.”

Chapter 15

There weren’t any grasses or flowers in Falland, every inch covered in cracked stone and brick. Thinking back, I hadn’t found it unusual, the city being so devoid of life. Fields and rivers were only in paintings or books of places I’d never go and had seemed every bit a fantasy as the creatures who filled them.

But now, feeling the soil compress beneath my boots, the grass skimming across the sides of my ankles, it speaks of more realness than anything in Falland. What surrounds me breathes, not with lungs that expand with air but in its movement as a flow of nature.

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