Page 68 of War Hour

Ignoring what my mouth says, Evander reads my face. He reaches a hand up to rub his thumb over the lines forming between my brows.

Yanking my head back, I scowl at him, but he only chuckles.

“This is how I represent my court. I’ve competed in War Hour with the other Heirs since I was twelve. It’s nothing I can’t handle, Lysta.” Evander leans down to catch my eye. “You aren’t angry I’m competing today, are you?”

What reason would I have to be upset?

I shake my head at the ridiculous notion. “Of course not. I’m still adjusting to the concept of the whole thing. Good luck, Evander,” I say with renewed enthusiasm that sits only at face value.

Taking one last deep breath, Evander opens the door, preparing to leave the safety of the glass prison. “Will you be all right on your own?”

I straighten, giving him a forced smile. “Of course. I doubt Lord Gennady means me any harm.”

Evander levels a look at me, adding softly, “That’s not what I meant.”

Looking away from his searching stare, I swallow thickly. “I’ll be fine. Good luck.”

“If you’re lookingfor Lord Torryn on the field, I’m afraid you will be disappointed.”

Lord Gennady’s voice breaks my concentration, pulling my eyes from the line of Crowns and Heirs preparing to fight in today’s War Hour.

Sending a guilty look at the older gentleman beside me, I open my mouth to explain, but Lord Gennady waves offany excuse I’d been prepared to offer. Warmth gathers in my face, and I turn away from him, hoping he won’t push my embarrassment.

“Why is that?” I ask quietly, twisting my intertwined fingers in my lap.

“Fairness, I think. Many of the other Crowns might boast of their wins against the young lord in the past, but I doubt anyone would wish to take him on now, considering his Trial accomplishments.”

Leaning toward Lord Gennady, I stay quiet, hoping my silence will prompt him to continue. Very few in the capital speak of Torryn’s experience with the Trials, and even I have to admit that, knowing so little, I’m curious.

Tapping his hands against his thigh, Lord Gennady continues, “We can’t even guess which abilities he’s been gifted other than the couple we know. But the length of his Trial tattoo does not lie. He is far more powerful than they give him credit for, and he deserves their respect. He’s earned every single Trial, but they act as if he stole them.”

“I have a feeling it would mean a lot if he heard that from you, my lord.”

When Lord Gennady’s ice-blue eyes blink to mine, I’m afraid I have overstepped.

Freezing in place, I brace for a reprimand. It’s too easy to relax in his presence, regardless of the silver crown propped on his salt-and-pepper hair.

But Lord Gennady’s eyes are soft as he gazes at me deeply.

“I will take that under advisement. Thank you, Lysta.”

Relief coaxes the tension from my upper body, and I sink into the soft cushion of the chair.I’m willing to let my focus latch onto the battle below.

Bash steps forward on the field, wings unfolding behind him as he brandishes two swords. When he crosses them in front ofhim menacingly, the crowd surges to their feet. The white smile he flashes them only incites a fresh round of cheers as his wings beat and he hovers just off the ground.

Opposite him, Lord Rhen swings a curved sword, flipping the weapon in his grip. Strung across his back is a quiver of arrows and a bow, and I lean forward in anticipation.

Without knowing Lord Rhen’s ability, it’s hard to predict how this matchup will go. Bash might have been able to avoid a ground assault with his wings, but any advantage he had is now lost if Lord Rhen can attack him long range. It all comes to if he’s a decent shot.

Lord Rhen bows to Bash, holding the weapon parallel with his nose, then waits as Bash does the same.

The only warning Lord Rhen has is the bend of Bash’s knees before his wings propel him upward.

Lord Rhen spins as he stabs his sword into the sand, eyes searching the sky for a glimpse of Bash’s wings. Grabbing his bow, he knocks an arrow, pulling it taut.

I can’t help but press myself closer to the window, even when my breath fogs up the glass. Searching the high roof of the arena, I, along with the rest of the arena, look for the pair of white wings.

A shadow passes over the window—Bash’s figure blocking out the sun from above. Lord Rhen sees it as well, launching an arrow toward Bash.

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