Page 49 of War Hour

Chapter 20

At the heart of the capital is the arena, the stomping ground of War Hour.

Rings of seats encircle a battle field, separated by a cage of steel. Row after row of shouting spectators fill the stands, salivating at the action unfolding before them.

Perched above the crowd, Evander and I sit in the Court of Truth’s viewing booth. It feels more like a glass cage, save for the luxuries trapped inside with us. Plush seats and a lit chandelier hang over a table of various foods and refreshments.

But Evander doesn’t spare them a second glance, either too enraptured by the fight or blind to the extravagance.

Down on the sandy pitch, two men stand opposite of each other, swords crossed, feet sliding as they try to overpower their opponent. Locked with equal strength, one dodges to the side, barely escaping the blade’s bloody promise.

“Who are they?” I ask, glued to the action.

“No one I know personally, but the taller one, wearing the purple, is from the Court of Virtue—ruled by Lord Nicaise. The other one, in gold, is from the Court of Change—Lady Ivianna’s court. You can always tell by their colors. They’re required to wear them in order to fight.”

“Marking where they are from?” I ask, peeking at Evander out of my peripheral.

He tilts his head, pondering my question. “Not exactly. Most of the time, that ends up being true, but you wear the color that you’ve sworn loyalty to.”

My confusion must be obvious, as Evander stifles a chuckle at my expression.

“Some renounce their birth court in favor of another. If you are powerful enough—or well trained—you can aim for a better position within a different court. That’s another reason for War Hour being treated like a grand showcase—”

Looking at the battle with new realization, I speculate, “It’s an audition.”

Evander doesn’t immediately confirm my hypothesis, but when I turn to him, he smiles, nodding. “Exactly.” He leans toward me conspiratorially.

I wouldn’t stand a chance of impressing anyone out there—not as I am now.

Shaking the line of thought from my mind, I change the subject.

“Why are they bothering with weapons? I can see their Trial tattoos, so they must have powers to use?”

“Most powers of the Trials don’t give a physical advantage—or, at least not a significant one. That’s why we train with weapons and combat. Powers work better when used complementary. But you’re not watching close enough if you think they aren’t using any abilities.”

I frown, thinking his words are an insult, but his expression is light, teasing.

He nods to the field. “Look again.”

I narrow my eyes, peering at Evander for a defiant heartbeat before returning to the battle.

The man from Change is on one knee, sword held high above his head, as his opponent attacks relentlessly. Arms shaking, I’m positive he’ll falter, unable to withstand the unyielding attacks. But then I blink, and he’s gone.

My eyes scan the pitch for where he’s disappeared, but within a second, he materializes behind his opponent, mere feet from his previous position.

Eyes wide, I breathe out. “He’s teleporting?”

Evander glances at me with furrowed brows. “Teleporting? No, he’s momentarily turning invisible and moving out of reach. You know people who can teleport?”

Not wanting to open up a line of questioning into Falland, I quickly dismiss Evander’s curiosity. “I thought I’d heard it was a possible power, but maybe not.”

Evander looks at me for a beat too long, and I’m sure he has figured out something. But then he turns back to the field as if I never said it.

“What do you think the other is doing? The one from Virtue.”

Following Evander’s gaze, I see the man in purple cuts his attack off mid-strike. Without a beat of hesitation, he pivots on his heel as if already knowing where his opponent moved to. Seconds before the man from Change can raise his sword, he flinches out of the way as though expecting the move. Again and again, he dodges without a single hit landing.

“Is he—predicting where he will go?” I ask, uncertain of if my guess even makes sense.

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