Lila rapped her fingers on the rail and leaned forward.

Why did he seem so familiar?

* * *

Kell ducked, and rolled, and dodged, trying to pace his speed to Kisimyr’s, which was hard because she was fast. Faster than his first opponent, and stronger than anyone he’d fought, save Holland. The champion matched him measure for measure, point for point. That first blow had been a mistake, clumsy, clumsy—but saints, he felt good. Alive.

Behind Kisimyr’s mask, Kell caught the hint of a smile, and behind his own, he grinned back.

Earth hovered in a disk above his right hand, water swirling around his left. He twisted out from behind the shelter of a pillar, but she was already gone. Behind him. Kell spun, throwing the disk. Too slow. The two collided, attacked, and dove apart, as if they were fighting with swords instead of water and earth. Thrust. Parry. Strike.

A spear of hardened earth passed inches from Kell’s armored cheek as he rolled, came up onto one knee, and attacked with both elements at the same time.

Both connected, blinding them in light.

The crowd went wild, but Kisimyr didn’t even hesitate.

Her water, tinted red, had been orbiting her in a loop. Kell’s attack had brought him close, into her sphere, and now she pushed hard against part of the circle, and it shot forward without breaking the ring, freezing as it did into an icy spike.

Kell jumped back, but not fast enough; the ice slammed into his shoulder, shattering the plate and piercing the flesh beneath.

The crowd gasped.

Kell hissed in pain and pressed his palm against the wound. When he drew his hand away from his shoulder, blood stained his fingers, jewel-red. Magic whispered through him—As Travars. As Orense. As Osaro. As Hasari. As Steno. As Staro—and his lips nearly formed a spell, but he caught himself just in time, wiped the blood on his sleeve instead, and attacked again.

* * *

Lila’s eyes widened.

The rest of the crowd was fixated on Kamerov, but she happened to look up right after the blow and saw Prince Rhy in the royal box, his face contorted in pain. He hid it quickly, wiped the tension from his features, but his knuckles gripped the banister, head bowed, and Lila saw, and understood. She’d been there that night, when the princes were bound together, blood to blood, pain to pain, life to life.

Her attention snapped back to the arena.

It was suddenly obvious. The height, the posture, the fluid motions, the impossible grace.

She broke in a savage grin.

Kell.

It was him. It had to be. She had met Kamerov Loste at the Banner Night, had marked his grey eyes, his foxlike smile. But she’d also marked his height, the way he moved, and there was no question, no doubt in her mind—the man in the arena wasn’t the one who’d wished her luck in the Rose Hall. It was the man she’d fought beside in three different Londons. The one she’d stolen from and threatened and saved. It was Kell.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Tieren, appearing at her side.

“Just enjoying the match,” she said.

The Aven Essen made a small, skeptical hum.

“Tell me,” she added, keeping her eyes on the fight. “Did you at least try to dissuade him from this madness? Or do you simply plan to feign ignorance with him, too?”

There was a pause, and when Tieren answered, his voice was even. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t, Aven Essen.” She turned toward him. “I bet if Kamerov down there were to take off his helmet, he’d look like the man he was on the Banner Night, and not a certain black-eyed—”

“This kind of talk makes me wish I’d turned you in,” said the priest, cutting her off. “Rumors are dangerous things, Stasion, especially when they stem from someone guilty of her own crimes. So I’ll ask you again,” he said. “What are you smiling about?”

Lila held his eyes, her features set.

“Nothing,” she said, turning back to the match. “Nothing at all.”

II

In the end, Kamerov won.

Kell won.

It had been a staggeringly close match between the reigning champion and the so-called silver knight. The crowd looked dizzy from holding its breath, the arena a mess of broken stone and black ice, half the obstacles cracked or chipped or in ruins.

The way he’d moved. The way he’d fought. Even in their short time together, Lila had never seen him fight like that. A single point—he’d won by a single point, unseated the champion, and all she could think was, He’s holding back.

Even now he’s holding back.

“Stasion! Stasion!”

Lila dragged her thoughts away from Kell; she had her own, more pressing concerns.

Her second match was about to begin.

She was standing in the middle of the western arena, the stands awash in silver and black, the Faroan’s pale-green pennant only an accent in the crowd.

Across from her stood the man himself, Ver-as-Is, an orb of tinted earth in each palm. Lila considered the magician—he was lithe, his limbs long and thin and twined with muscle, his skin the color of char, and his eyes an impossibly pale green, the same as his flag. Set deep into his face, they seemed to glow. But it was the gold that most caught her interest.

Most of the Faroans she’d seen wore gems on their skin, but Ver-as-Is wore gold. Beneath his mask, which concealed only the top half of his head, beads of the precious metal traced the lines of his face and throat in a skeletal overlay.

Lila wondered if it was a kind of status symbol, a display of wealth.