Page 99 of War Hour

While there’s no way Lord Gennady would rescind his offer if I make a fool of myself, I’d still like to hold my head high afterward.

Today would showcase just how powerful Torryn is, and while everyone certainly fears him, they would not turn away from the opportunity to watch him fight and bleed like the rest of them.

The arena stomps in sync, pounding a haunting rhythm like a war drum, forewarning our fight. It builds the anticipation as we draw closer to the center. As we pass each court’s viewing boxes, it doesn’t escape my notice—or Torryn’s, from the glare he pins in their direction—that the Crowns and Heirs watch us with bated breath.

Standing in the windows of their boxes, their faces are drawn tight, eyes narrowed. They glance across the pitch to the other Crowns, too far away to communicate their worries—unable to decide if they should stop what’s unfolding before them.

My shoulders raise as their attention falls on me. They’ll see me now.

Torryn brandishes his sword, turning toward me in one smooth motion. My hand flinches for my own, fingers brushing the silver guard cresting the hilt, as I think the battle has already started. But then Torryn’s molten eyes meet mine, sparking with a fire I can’t unsee. Arms out to the side, Torryn leans forward and down, sweeping into a low bow. His loose strands fall into his face.

A thunder of gasps echoes around the arena, watching as the young lord bows to his opponent, one who is neither a Crown nor an Heir.

Anger quells the anxious trembling of my hands. My grip is firm as I mirror him. Torryn looks up at me through his thick lashes, eyeing me as I swoop into a similar bow. Sticking one foot out behind me, I raise my arms, bowing to Torryn and never letting my eyes fall from his. His lips curl into a smirk, showcasing his bright white teeth.

It’s now or never.

I flinch back at Torryn’s voice in my mind, before steeling my face.

Looking around at the surrounding crowd, they have no idea what Torryn is capable of. But they will after today. Tired of always being on the defensive in every aspect of my life, I leap to strike with my sword, which Torryn blocks with his.

Swords crossed, I push against Torryn, whose face is one of complete composure. Knocking me backward with sudden strength, I stumble, barely keeping my footing. We skirt around each other, watching for the other’s next move with narrowed eyes.

I aim for his torso, and he sidesteps, locking his cross guard with mine as he pushes it away from him. Our swords lock, and my arms shake, trying to not crumple under his strength.

Torryn doesn’t seem affected at all by my efforts, barely straining, as he holds his weapon tight against mine. While Ican already feel a trickle of sweat follow my brow, Torryn looks like he could do this all day—he probably could, considering he’s been training at this his whole life.

When he looks at me with a tilt of his head and a quirk of his eyebrow, my face heats. Is he taking this battle seriously—taking me seriously? I know why I wanted this fight to happen, but why challenge me in the first place?

“Why did you do it?” I growl, my face inches from Torryn’s.

Torryn pulls his lip between his teeth, then smiles. He snorts before chuckling. “Do what? Come to Valor to Trial in the first place, or bother trying to help you?”

I recoil at his words, and my foot slips in the sand. Torryn’s sword pushes forward at my stutter, scraping down my own with a piercing screech. Knocked backward, I land on the ground. Fingers fumbling through the sand, I feel for my sword. I roll to the side when he attacks again in quick succession.

Torryn edges forward, leaning in till his shadow blocks my face from the sunlight. He tilts his head mockingly. “I know it’s so hard to believe, coming from a place that fears the Trials, but most of us want that power. To prove we possess the virtues worthy of such gifts. Most of us want to become stronger versions of ourselves. Instead of staying the same—going through the motions every day. Waiting for someone else to fix our problems.”

Fiery red anger surges through me. I reach for the dagger strapped to my thigh, kicking out Torryn’s feet. He falls to one knee, still a head taller from where I kneel. I grab his shirt, pulling him into the blade that I press to his throat.

It brings me back to that day in the field—the last time I had a knife to Torryn’s throat. When he’d promised that Drytas would not get away with it. All the while, he’d been manipulating me in court politics that I didn’t understand.

This is familiar isn’t it.

Torryn’s voice echoes in my head, and I press the knife deeper. Shifting slightly, I try to shake his tone from my mind.

Drips of blood pool at the crease where my dagger kisses his throat. He swallows, and it bobs under the blade. Torryn smirks, eyes heavy lidded as he stares at my eyes, then my lips, then at the crowd watching us with bated breath.

“Did that strike a nerve?” he asks.

You can’t win like this.

With one sudden shove and a moment of my hesitation, Torryn has me on my back. His foot stands atop the wrist holding my dagger. Staring up at Torryn, he raises both of our swords, crossing them at my neck.

“Do you yield, Lysta?”

Glaring at him through my brow, I grit my teeth as I try to shift him off me. Swiping my legs to kick at his arms. My arm is useless under his weight.

“Do you yield? I assume you would be used to it. Rolled right over for Drytas in the end. Ready to play house instead of continuing to fight.”

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