Page 41 of War Hour

Standing in the sitting room, Torryn pushes in the chair I have sat in as soon as my legs clear the seat. When I send him a confused look, Torryn stares straight ahead, impassive, except for the tips of his ears reddening.

Lord Gennady, from the head of the table, saves me from the awkwardness.

“Lysta, perhaps you could stand at the end of the table. That seat is reserved for Lord Torryn’s Heir, and unless this meeting is also an announcement of your engagement, it would be inappropriate for you to reside there, even if just for the day.”

My face pales several shades, and a soft “Oh” escapes my lips. Pivoting on my heel, I look away from Torryn, who seems pained by the situation.

“I apologize. I was not aware.”

From the end of the table, my knees shake from the scrutiny of the lords and lady staring back at me, many of which are not friendly gazes.

Glancing to the side, I see two empty seats reserved for the Court of Valor.

Lord Gennady clears his throat. “Lord Torryn, would you like to provide some backstory for us?”

When Torryn opens his mouth, Lord Bralas slams his hand down with a resounding thud.

Every head at the table turns to the red-haired lord, who levels a glare in Torryn’s direction.

“If I may interject, perhaps Lord Torryn should start with why he felt he could invade another court.” Bralas folds his hands over the table, leaning forward with a sneer. “Seeing as how no outsider has set foot in the Court of Valor for over acentury, I’d assume it did not strike Lord Drytas with the sudden compulsion to make an allowance for you, of all courts.”

Lord Gennady exchanges a tired look at the interruption but answers in a patient tone, “Lord Bralas, perhaps we ought to let Lord Torryn explain without first accusing him of such a crime.”

Bralas leans back in his chair and crosses his leg. Lips pursed, he glares daggers across the room at Torryn and then me. When he speaks again, his voice is coated with lethal politeness.

“I’m sure Lord Torryn understands ourconcern,” he says, gesturing to the others at the table, “considering his court’s... history.”

A look is exchanged across the table between Bralas and Torryn, and when the ginger lord smirks, Torryn’s knuckles turn white.

It strikes me that the Crowns are much older than Torryn, the closest in age still likely decades apart from him.

“Lord Drytas sent a member of his court into my territory in order to recruit one of my own,” Torryn answers with a steady voice.

Staring at him, I’m reminded of how little Torryn had given me of the story. It seems I’m only being offered bits and pieces and expected to understand the entire picture.

At the further end of the table, another lord leans forward in interest. “And whom did Lord Drytas attempt to recruit?”

“Ardis of Self.” Torryn pauses as if expecting someone to interject, but the table remains silent. “I was well within my rights as a lord to pursue the matter, as I’m sure any of you would have if I had done the same as Lord Drytas.”

His words are cold, and Torryn wields them like a weapon.

“Of course, Lord Torryn. We apologize for the accusation,” Lord Gennady says, narrowing his eyes at Lord Bralas, whoignores the prompt. “We are just trying to get more of the picture. This is all with little precedent.”

Torryn glances at me. “When invited by Drytas, I went in Ardis’s stead to discern his motives. What I found was worse than I’d assumed.”

The room stills as each person at the table waits with bated breath.

“Lord Drytas has been forcing his citizens to Trial by making it a punishment for crimes committed.”

Eyes widen around the room, someone letting out a soft gasp at Torryn’s revelation. The lords begin shouting across the table, mashing into a garble of words.

Lord Bralas stands, drawing the table’s attention once again. “He can’t force them—you know as well as we do. The consent requirement makes it impossible.”

Arguments fling across the table, and I can’t help but flinch at the cruel words being slung like mud, not only at me but at Torryn.

Feeling eyes piercing into me, I meet the gaze of a boy who sits quietly in the raucous room. He’s younger than most people present but probably about my age. He’s placed next to Lord Gennady, but a crown doesn’t rest upon his head—his heir.

Watching him as the chaos unfolds around us, I notice his calm demeanor. He leans forward in his chair before bringing his elbow to rest upon the table, lowering his forehead into the tips of his fingers. Shaking his head, he rolls his eyes at the arguing match.

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