The First Challenge

Three against one.

Not the worst odds I've faced, but the arena sand made footing treacherous, and Vanya Ardmore had clearly paid off the other two. They moved together like they'd rehearsed this, because they probably had.

"She doesn't belong here," Vanya said, twirling her sword with practiced ease. Noble-born, noble-trained. Every line of her body screamed bloodline. "A servant girl in the Crown Trial. It's an insult to the throne itself."

I adjusted my grip on my borrowed blade. Lighter than I was used to. Everything in this arena was lighter than what I knew, the weapons ceremonial. The armor decorative. Pretty tools for pretty women playing at war.

"The law says any woman can enter." I kept my voice flat. No fear to smell. No weakness to exploit.

"The law says a lot of things." She nodded to her flanking partners. "But laws don't matter if you're dead before the first challenge ends."

They advanced.

I backed toward the arena wall, buying seconds. The crowd above us buzzed with anticipation, thousands of spectators who'd come to watch potential queens prove their worth. Or die trying.

Movement in my peripheral vision. The royal box, draped in purple and gold, held four figures I refused to look at directly. The princes. The prize. The men who would provide heirs to whoever survived this slaughter.

One of them was watching me. The weight of it landed on the back of my neck like a hand.

Focus.

Vanya's first strike was meant to end it quickly, a diagonal slash toward my throat. I deflected, barely, spun away from her partner's follow-up thrust.

"She's fast," one of them muttered.

"Fast won't save her."

The third woman kicked sand toward my eyes. I turned my face just in time, but the distraction cost me. Vanya's blade caught my forearm, drawing first blood.

Pain flared. I shoved it away.

The crowd roared. First blood always thrilled them.

I'd been in worse positions. The cells beneath the Justice Hall had taught me to fight dirty, fight desperate, fight like my life depended on it.

Because it did.

I ducked Vanya's next swing and drove my elbow into her partner's stomach. She folded. I grabbed a fistful of her hair and hauled her into the path of the third woman's sword, a human shield.

Screams. More blood, not mine this time.

Two against one now. Better.

"You'll pay for that," Vanya snarled.

"Add it to my tab."

She came at me with real fury this time, her strikes losing precision as rage overtook training. Good. Angry fighters made mistakes.

I parried. Dodged. Let her tire herself against my defense.

The crowd was chanting something. Someone's name. Not mine, they didn't know my name. They knew me only as the criminal, the condemned, the woman who'd chosen trial over execution.

The desperate one.

Vanya's third partner recovered enough to rejoin the fight. My arm burned where she'd cut me. Blood dripped into my palm, making my grip slick.

They coordinated again, driving me back toward the wall. Nowhere left to go.

"Kneel," Vanya commanded. "Kneel and yield, and I'll make it quick."

I laughed. Couldn't help it.

"Something funny, servant girl?"

"You." I bared my teeth. "You think I entered the Crown Trial because I wanted to be queen?"

"Then why..."

"Because the alternative was dying in a cell. So if you want me dead, you'll have to earn it."

She raised her sword for the killing blow.

And a voice cut through the arena like winter wind.

"Leave."

One word. That was all.

Vanya froze. Her partner stumbled backward. Both of them looked toward the man who'd somehow appeared beside us, tall, dark-haired, with the bearing of someone who'd never had to ask for anything twice.

Prince Corvin. The warrior. I'd studied all four of them before entering, memorizing faces and histories. He was the eldest prince by a consort, commander of the Royal Guard, and rumored to have killed his first man at fourteen.

He was also supposed to be neutral.

"Your Highness." Vanya's voice cracked. "This is a trial challenge. Interference is..."

"Not interference." He didn't look at the other women so much as pin them in place. "A suggestion."

Vanya's partner tugged at her sleeve. "We should go."

"But..."

"Vanya."

Something passed between them, calculation, fear, something else I couldn't read. Then Vanya lowered her sword and inclined her head with mocking grace.

"Of course, Your Highness. The servant girl lives. For now."

They retreated across the sand. I watched them go, my pulse drumming in my throat, hyper-aware of the man standing close enough to touch.

"I'm not supposed to help you." His voice was low, rough-edged. Like speech was a concession he resented making.

I pivoted toward him.

Up close, he was exactly what the rumors promised, built for violence and nothing else, with a face that gave away nothing and took in everything. A scar bisected his left eyebrow, white against sun-darkened skin.

"Then don't," I said.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

"You're bleeding."

"I noticed."

He looked at the cut on my forearm, then back at my face. Looked at me like I was a map with missing roads.

"You fight like someone who expects to lose."

"I fight like someone who's been losing her whole life." I flexed my injured arm, testing the damage. Painful but not deep. "It's the winning that throws me."

"You didn't win. You survived. Different thing."

"Is it?"

He didn't answer. Around us, the arena was emptying, the opening ceremony apparently over now that the entertainment had concluded. Contestants streamed toward the exits, whispering behind their hands. Spectators filtered out more slowly, still hungry for drama.

The other three princes remained in the royal box. I felt their attention like physical weight.

"Why did you help me?"

Corvin's expression closed off. "I didn't."

"You told them to leave."

"A suggestion. They chose to take it."

"They chose because you're a prince. That's help."

"That's fear." He turned away, dismissing me. "Don't confuse the two."

I watched him walk toward the royal exit, each step measured and deliberate. A man who never hurried. Who never needed to.

"Prince Corvin."

He paused. Didn't turn.

"Thank you."

His shoulders tensed. Then he kept walking, and his footsteps faded on the sand.

Not quite alone, though.

A soft laugh drifted down from the royal box. I looked up and found three pairs of eyes still fixed on me.

Prince Soren, the charmer, leaned against the railing with a smile that promised trouble. Prince Bastian, the scarred one, watched from shadows that seemed to gather around him. Prince Ashwin, the youngest, studied me with open curiosity, ink stains on his fingers even from here.

Four princes. Four sets of eyes.

And me, bleeding in the sand, alive despite everything.

The Crown Trial had begun.

The healers' tent smelled of herbs and desperation.

I sat on a narrow cot while a tired-looking woman stitched my arm shut, her fingers efficient but impersonal. Around us, other contestants nursed their wounds from the opening ceremony, a charitable term for what had basically been organized violence.

"You're lucky," the healer said. "An inch deeper and you'd have lost use of this arm."

"I know."

"You should have yielded."

"I know."

She tied off the thread and applied a poultice that stung like wasp venom. I didn't flinch. The cells had taught me to master that too.

"Next time," she continued, "don't antagonize the Ardmore girl. Her family funds half the council."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She gave me a look that said she doubted my sincerity. Fair assessment.

I left the healer's tent and walked through the contestants' quarters, a sprawling complex of sleeping chambers, training rooms, and common spaces. Luxurious by any standard, though I knew better than to feel comfortable.

This was still a cage. A prettier one, certainly. But a cage nonetheless.

My assigned chamber was small by noble standards, which meant it was larger than any room I'd ever slept in. A narrow bed. A washstand. A window that actually opened, letting in evening air scented with jasmine.

I stood at that window and watched the sun set over the palace towers.

What am I doing here?

The question haunted me.

I hadn't entered the Crown Trial to win. I'd entered to escape execution. The charge was murder, Lord Ventris, my former employer, found dead in his study with my knife in his chest.

I didn't kill him.

I saw who did.

But the truth hadn't mattered. The real murderer had council connections, and I was nobody. A servant. Expendable.

The trial was supposed to be a reprieve. Survive a few days, maybe a week, and then die in some challenge designed to weed out the weak. At least it would be a public death. At least it might force attention on my case.

I hadn't expected to make it through the opening ceremony.

I definitely hadn't expected a prince to intervene.

I'm not supposed to help you.

Then don't.

Corvin haunted me more than the sunset. The way he'd looked at me, like I was something interesting. Something worth watching.

Don't, I told myself. Don't mistake attention for protection. Don't mistake interest for care.

I'd made that mistake before. With Lord Ventris himself, actually, I'd thought his kindness meant something. Thought being a favored servant meant safety.

Then he'd witnessed the wrong murder and tried to speak out, and someone had silenced him. And framed me.

The Crown Trial wasn't escape. It was just a different kind of trap.

But at least it was a trap with options.

I touched the bandage on my arm. The pain had dulled to a throb. Beneath it, I felt something else, that strange hum I'd spent years suppressing.

Magic.

The real reason someone wanted me dead.

In Valdara, magic was rare and viewed with suspicion. Lord Ventris had discovered my gift accidentally, a burst of power when a kitchen fire nearly consumed me. He'd kept my secret. Promised to help me understand it.

And then he'd died, and his murderer had realized what I was, and suddenly my execution wasn't just about silencing a witness.

It was about eliminating a threat.

I pressed my palm flat against my chest, feeling the warmth coiled beneath my ribs. Not yet, I told it. Not yet.

If I revealed my magic, the council would have another excuse to kill me. If I continued to suppress it, I might not survive the trials.

Neither option led anywhere good.

A knock at my door.

I didn't move. "Who is it?"

"Someone who prefers not to announce himself in corridors." A smooth voice, laced with amusement. "Open the door, trial girl. I promise not to kill you. Tonight."

I shouldn't.

But I needed information, and whoever stood on the other side clearly had some.

I opened the door.

Prince Soren leaned against the frame, golden hair catching the corridor's lamplight. Up close, he was almost pretty, bright blue eyes, a dimple when he smiled, a face designed to make people trust him.

I didn't trust him.

"Well," he said, looking me over. "You're interesting."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation." He invited himself into my chamber, glancing around with casual curiosity. "Small. The council really doesn't think much of you."

"The council wants me dead. I don't think room size is their primary concern."

He laughed. A genuine laugh, which somehow made it worse.

"You're right. They do want you dead. The Ardmore faction, specifically." He perched on the edge of my washstand, somehow making the position look elegant. "Did you know Vanya's mother is Lord Corvath's mistress?"

I hadn't known that. But I filed it away.

"Lord Corvath," I repeated. "Council leader."

"The very same. He's been working for months to ensure his allies' daughter wins the trial. Having a nobody servant girl actually compete disrupts his plans considerably."

"I'm not competing. I'm surviving."

"Same thing, from where I'm standing." His smile sharpened. "You're the interesting one. Corvin noticed. Bastian noticed. Ashwin definitely noticed. And now I'm noticing."

"And what exactly are you noticing?"

He studied me. The amusement faded, replaced by something harder.

"I know who really killed Lord Ventris," he said. "Do you?"

My pulse spiked. I kept my face neutral through pure will.

"I was there," I said carefully. "I saw the killer."

"Mmm. And yet you didn't tell the magistrates."

"They didn't believe me."

"Because the killer is Lord Corvath's nephew." Soren leaned forward. "Who's currently engaged to Vanya Ardmore. Who's currently trying to become queen. Do you see the pattern?"

I saw it. I'd seen it from the beginning.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I like chaos." He stood, straightening his jacket. "And because Corvin doesn't save people. Ever. The fact that he saved you suggests something interesting is happening."

He walked to the door, then paused.

"A word of advice, trial girl. The Crown Trial isn't about strength or magic or political connections. It's about finding allies before your enemies find you."

"And you're offering to be my ally?"

That dimple again. "I'm offering to not be your enemy. For now. The rest depends on how interesting you continue to be."

He left.

I stood alone in my chamber, the scent of jasmine cloying now.

One prince had saved me. Another knew my secrets.

And the trial had barely begun.