Page 55 of War Hour

Neith’s eyes widen before narrowing once again, glaring at her.

In the span of a breath, I am across the room, standing over Sar. Nose flared, chest heaving, I stare down Neith.

Neith grins as if he’s won the battle and the war. “Well, look here. Valor’s ready for some action in the arena, is she? Sign me up for the first round.”

His words scrape my control, his taunting reminding me of Belthan. But when I glance at Sar, a small smear of blood trickles down the side of her face.

Reaching out for her hand, I pull her up with a grunt. She gestures to the exit, and I nod, following her when she moves to leave.

Neith gives me a mock salute as we pass him, and the urge to snap at him curls up again.

Not the time. Not the time, I tell myself.

The field watches us with rapt attention, and it sends a creeping sensation down my spine.

No one has stepped in. No one has even blinked.

Chapter 22

To Sar’s credit, she doesn’t pay much attention to the injury sitting at her temple nor the blood freshly dried along the side of her face. She floats through the capital halls as if the last fifteen minutes never happened, and I can see her mentally distancing herself as well as physically.

Son of Lord Bralas, the fact that Neith had been so bold as to strike his sister doesn’t surprise me. What I found disturbing is that the other Heirs stood by and watched without doing a thing. Someone who stands by and lets injustice happen is not much better than the one committing the act itself.

I would know. I’ve been witness to more than my fair share of injustice, where I had done nothing.

Each time Sar’s nervous ramble slows, I open my mouth, preparing to understand what happened. And each time, she beats me to the first syllable, sweeping my sentence under the rug with her enthusiastic observations.

I let her continue, knowing she likely cared as little as I do about how nice the decorations for the coming Peace Ball looked or if they’ll be serving the glazed apple tarts she and Ardis love ardently.

Despite how desperately I want to know, to understand the relationship between them all. Understand what I have obviously not been told but still expected to navigate. I bite my tongue and let her continue to fill the silence. Because as buoyant as she seems, there is a slight quiver to her hands.

What happened shook her, and I don’t think I have it in me to force anything out of her. She owes me nothing, and her truth is her own. To bury or not.

Safely in the Self tower, Sar sits heavily on an armchair, resting her head on the back. One hand comes up to touch her temple. She winces when her fingers meet the skin. Despite this, she continues the conversation, only half paying attention.

“Do you think you’ll go to the Peace Ball? I’d imagine it would be an excellent opportunity to get some face time with the Crowns.”

As I answer, I move to the kitchen to open drawers and cabinets. They had to have some sort of medical kit or bandages, especially if they trained and fought daily.

“I’d imagine it depends on if I’m allowed to go...” I shut the doors a little too hard in frustration.

“You won’t find any medical supplies. The capital has healers. People from the Court of Change capable of regeneration. There’s no need for any of us to keep that kind of stuff on hand.”

Of course, Evander had mentioned that during War Hour. Why hadn’t we gone to them then?

I sigh, settling on a white cloth. Taking the carafe of water sitting out, I dampen the cloth before wringing it out.

“I really am fine. Head wounds are dramatic when it comes to blood. It’s not nearly as bad as it looks,” Sar says when I hold out the towel for her.

Raising an eyebrow in her direction, I give her an unwavering stare. To which she gives me a half smile before taking the cloth and bringing it to her head.

Sitting on the couch adjacent to her, I watch as she cleans away the blood, the towel tinting pink with each swipe. The slice across her brow is thin and already clotting.

Sar was right. It had looked worse than it was.

I can’t help but breathe a little easier.

“That’ll hurt tomorrow,” I said, stating the obvious just to fill the silence.

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