The crowd erupted as the Faroan fell forward to her hands and knees, and the water sailed back to Kell’s side and twined around his wrists.

It had been a feint. The same one he’d used on Holland. But unlike the Antari, Tas-on-Mir didn’t stay down. A moment later she was back on her feet, the red wind whipping around her as the broken plates fell away.

Three down, thought Kell. Seven to go.

He smiled behind his mask, and then they both became a blur of light, and wind, and ice.

* * *

Rhy’s knuckles tightened on the arms of his chair.

Below, Kell ducked and dodged the Faroan’s blows.

Even as Kamerov, he was incredible. He moved around the arena with staggering grace, barely touching the ground. Rhy had only seen his brother fight in scuffles and brawls. Was this what he’d looked like when he’d faced Holland? Or Athos Dane? Or was this the product of the months spent in the Basin, driven by his own demons?

Kell landed another hit, and Rhy found himself fighting back a laugh—at this, at the absurdity of what they were doing, at the very real pain in his side, at the fact that he couldn’t make it stop. The fact that he wouldn’t, even if he could. There was a kind of control in letting go, giving in.

“Our magicians are strong this year,” he said to his father.

“But not too strong,” said the king. “Tieren has chosen well. Let us hope the priests of Faro and Vesk have done the same.”

Rhy’s brow crinkled. “I thought the whole point of this was to show our strength.”

His father gave him a chiding look. “Never forget, Rhy, that you are watching a game. One with three strong but equal players.”

“And what if, one year, Vesk and Faro played to win?”

“Then we would know.”

“Know what?”

The king’s gaze returned to the match. “That war is near.”

In the arena below, Kell rolled, then rose. The dark water swirled and swerved around him, slipping under and around the Faroan’s wall of air before slamming into her chest. The armor there shattered into light with the blow, and the crowd burst into applause.

Kell’s face was hidden, but Rhy knew he was smiling.

Show-off, he thought, just before Kell dodged too slowly and let a knifelike gust of wind get through, the blow slamming against his ribs. Light erupted in front of Rhy’s eyes, and behind them as he caught his breath. Pain burned across his skin, and he tried to imagine he could draw it in, away from Kell, and ground it in himself.

“You look pale,” observed the king.

Rhy sank back against the chair. “I’m fine.” And he was. The pain made him feel alive. His heart pounded in his chest, racing alongside his brother’s.

King Maxim got to his feet and looked around. “Where is Kell?” he asked. His voice had taken to hardening around the name in a way that turned Rhy’s stomach.

“I’m sure he’s around,” he answered, gazing down at the two fighters in the ring. “He’s been looking forward to the tournament. Besides, isn’t that what Staff and Hastra are for? Keeping track of him?”

“They’ve grown soft in their duties.”

“When will you stop punishing him?” snapped Rhy. “He’s not the only one who did wrong.”

Maxim’s eyes darkened. “And he’s not the future king.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Everything,” said his father, leaning close and lowering his voice. “You think I do this out of spite? Some ill-borne malice? This is meant to be a lesson, Rhy. Your people will suffer when you err, and you will suffer when your people do.”

“Believe me,” muttered Rhy, rubbing an echo of pain across his ribs. “I’m suffering.”

Below, Kell ducked and spun. Rhy could tell the fight was coming to an end. The Faroan was outmatched—she’d been outmatched from the beginning—and her motions were slowing, while Kell’s only grew faster, more confident.

“Do you really think his life’s in danger?”

“It’s not his life I’m worried about,” said the king. But Rhy knew that wasn’t true. Not entirely. Kell’s power made him a target. Vesk and Faro believed that he was blessed, the jewel in the Arnesian crown, the source of power that kept the empire strong. It was a myth Rhy was pretty certain the Arnesian crown perpetuated, but the dangerous thing about legends was that some people took them to heart, and those who thought Kell’s magic guarded the empire might also think that by eliminating him, they could hobble the kingdom. Others thought that if they could steal him, the strength of Arnes would be theirs.

But Kell wasn’t some talisman … was he?

When they were children, Rhy looked at Kell and saw only his brother. As they grew older, his vision changed. Some days he thought he saw a darkness. Other times he thought he saw a god. Not that he would ever tell Kell that. He knew Kell hated the idea of being chosen.

Rhy thought there were worse things to be.

Kell took another hit down in the arena, and Rhy felt the nerves sing down his arm.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” pressed his father, and Rhy realized his knuckles had gone white on the chair.

“Perfectly,” he said, swallowing the pain as Kell delivered the final two blows, back to back, ending the match. The crowd erupted in applause as the Faroan staggered to her feet and nodded, the motion stiff, before retreating from the ring.