Page 51 of War Hour

A man with an emerald hood peeking out of his armor holds a woman in white by the throat, her feet dangling.

I’m brought back to Valor’s throne room as she fights to get free. My chest gets heavy, and Evander is suddenly too close. I clutch my throat as if reminding myself that I’m fine—that I can breathe.

But then, in one fell swoop, the woman snatches the sword off the hip of her opponent, swinging it with no hesitation.

I gasp.

Blood swirls in the sand of the arena’s pitch as the woman stands victorious. A severed hand is held above her head, while her adversary clutches his arm to his chest.

My breathing gallops, stuttering in my chest, and Evander turns to me with concern. I can hear him consoling me, explaining that there are healers that can fix it, that the man isn’t disfigured.

I don’t know how to explain to him that my reaction isn’t from any concern for the competitors on the field, but from being reminded of what may very well be happening in Valor at this very instant.

In the chaos of the capital, I momentarily forgot what brought me here. Even if the capital had battles for show, fights that were nothing more than a sporting match, the same can’t be said for what Drytas threatens to rain down.

War is coming, and it will not confine itself to an hour.

Chapter 21

War Hour prompted multiple realizations in its aftermath. Like I’ve taken a dose of poison, I feel weaker than before. Seeing just a glimpse of what properly trained Trialed can do makes me question whether I could ever match up.

Even though I had a dagger in Falland, it had been more for in case someone decided I was an easy target. I never actually used it. Why would I, when flashing the weapon was enough to make thieves flee and brutes back down from a fight?

What I’ve always thought of as a blessing or just sheer luck is now my curse to bear. Without any practical training or experience, holding my own will be out of the question. And maybe my shield could protect me, but if I learned anything yesterday, it’s that I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I’m up against.

Andthesewere the people Lord Drytas would be setting the Untrialed up against. Untrained. Unprepared. Yet deemed fit to send off to fight Drytas’s battles for him.

The harsh reality sets a dim outlook for the future. But the same poison that attacks the body also ignites a defensive response. And maybe yesterday was the poison I needed to decide I’m not going down without a fight.

Selfishly, I’ve been keeping isolated in the capital for my comfort, but I could be doing more. Torryn said we need allies, that people here need to trust me.

That is what makes me agree when Evander asks me to accompany him for Heir training.

Swords clashing together welcomes me to the arena before Evander leads me through the ground entrance. My stomach clenches at each resounding scrape and the shouts that follow. Stepping out from the tunnel onto the battlefield, rays stream in from the open ceiling and reflect off the sand. Momentarily blinded, I bring my hand up to block the sun until my vision adjusts.

From pitch level, the arena seems to stretch infinitely. Seats cascading upward away from the metal cage.

Peering at the seven glass viewing booths positioned around the pitch, I wonder briefly if the courts would ever see me fight down here.

Would they call me barely Trialed if they saw what I could do?

But today won’t be that day, as there isn’t a soul present, save for those on the field.

Evander had said Heir’s training is closed to the public. Probably a smart idea, for I’m sure if it weren’t, spectators would pack the house to the brim. Who wouldn’t want to see the future of their court training?

Evander jogs ahead as I scope out my surroundings.

Visha squares off against a redheaded boy in a sword fight. It’s obvious she’s at a disadvantage, her movements slower thanher opponent’s. But he doesn’t increase his attacks, backing off and motioning for her to start again.

Evander catches their attention and Visha beams, abandoning her practice to give the approaching Heir a side hug.

I try to mask my surprise at Visha’s presence. I hadn’t thought being a lord’s niece made someone an Heir, but this camaraderie between them explains it. They’re friends beyond just allies.

A shadow crosses my vision from above. I duck, craning to see what soars overhead. Finding the moving target, I swallow thickly when my breath lodges in my throat.

Four archer’s peaks tower dozens of feet above me, positioned far apart in a square shape. Atop them, portaling from one stand to the next, is a red-haired boy, barely fourteen. Sword in hand, he holds the hilt with a tight grip, head on a constant swivel as he peers around for his target. The moment he looks to his right, a figure with large wings circles him, knocking the boy from the tower.

A scream echoes in the arena as the boy falls, arms flailing at his sides as he drops, plummeting toward the sandy pitch below him.

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