“No.” My sword pulls free like an old friend, and I swing hard and fast before he’s ready. He barely has time to block. Our blades collide, and the crash of metal sings through the arena. The crowd roars with approval.

Dustan loses ground quickly, backpedaling as he waits for an opening to retaliate. He expected me to fall back and be an easy mark. He underestimated me—a failing I’d reprimand him for if I were still his commander.

When the opening comes, Dustan strikes with a fierceness I don’t expect, and I’m forced to yield ground. My body remembers the movements, this dance of swordplay. When he swings for my midsection I slap his blade down, and we break apart, circling.

“I do know you,” he calls. His eyes are shadowed with anger. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one.” His swords lifts, and I advance.

He’s good. Better than I remember. When we break apart again, a strain builds in my forearms that he likely doesn’t feel at all. An hour in the dusty arena with Tycho is not equal to the amount of time the Royal Guard spends training.

He must sense this, because his next attack is brutal and swift and brings me to the ground. I taste blood and dirt on my tongue. I roll before he can pin me, then drive off the ground to put a shoulder into his midsection.

I thought I could get him off his feet, but he’s quick and grabs hold of my armor, using my momentum to his advantage. We crash to the ground together. He kneels on my sword arm before I can raise it.

It’s a good move, but I know it. I use my free hand to snatch the dagger from his belt, and I aim for his throat. He swears and jerks back, but it frees my arm and puts him off balance. I surge forward and flip our positions.

He’s quick enough to get his sword up to block mine, but I’ve got leverage. I bear down until he’s in danger of cutting his own neck. He’s breathing as hard as I am, but on his part, it’s more anger than anything else. “Tell me who you are.”

“That was a clever move,” I say. “With the armor. Who taught you that?”

Dustan speaks through gritted teeth. He’s straining hard, and a thin line of blood appears below his blade. “If you kill a guardsman, you’ll lose your head.”

He’s not the only one who thinks so. The sounds from the crowd have turned to a confused murmur.

Worwick’s voice calls out over the crowd, and he sounds a little strangled. “Journ! I will remind you this is not a death match.”

Motion flickers from the opposite side of the arena. Other guardsmen have sensed that their commander may be in danger.

I put the point of his dagger right against the vulnerable spot just below his jaw. “Tell your men to stand down.”

“That’s him!” a voice shouts from the sidelines. Familiar, but I can’t place it. “That’s him. I knew he wasn’t dead.”

A spike of fear drives through my heart. Dustan is glaring at me—but slowly his expression changes. The anger flickers to puzzlement. “Commander Grey?”

I need to make a decision. The blades between us tremble from our opposing efforts.

“Don’t you dare let him get away,” shouts a voice.

“I am not your commander,” I say to Dustan.

“But—”

I punch him in the side of the face with the hand holding his dagger. It barely buys me a second, but I sprint for my tunnel. An arrow whistles by my shoulder and lodges in the wall. Another quickly follows, striking my armor and skidding harmlessly away.

The tunnel opens into the storage yard, but I grab hold of the ladder mounted into the side wall and swing myself up, taking it two rungs at a time. I ease into the loft just as guardsmen pour into the yard. Dirt and cobwebs slide under my fingers, and I hold my breath. My heart sprints along, begging for air.

The crowd is going wild in the arena, voices echoing throughout the entire tourney. The men fan out, going in opposing directions. As soon as they’re a safe distance away, I crawl, keeping low against the loft flooring.

I’m on the opposite side of the tourney from where Tycho and I sleep above the stables. If I were a lucky man, I could crawl the full distance, drop into the stables, and be galloping away before anyone knew better.

I think of the silver ring hidden in my mattress. I could escape completely.

Either way, I’m not a lucky man. The loft on this side of the stadium only runs as far as the armory. I’ll need to climb back down and somehow make it through the packed crowds to find my way to the stables.

It takes less than ten minutes to crawl through the dusty shadows, and I find the armory empty. I drop from the loft silently, but the scraver startles and rattles against its bars, hissing at me.

I ignore it and pull knives from the wall to slide into my greaves, then add two more under my sword belt.

Worwick’s voice carries over the crowd, loud through the door. “Yes, Commander.” He sounds panicked. He also sounds very near. “I assure you, I will provide whatever assistance is necessary.”

I pull back into the shadows near the scraver’s cage. The ladder to the loft is beside the door into the tourney. I’m trapped here more effectively than I was in the arena. My heart beats in my throat.

The scraver screeches at me, fangs bared, clawed hands scrabbling against the floor of its cage. I remember how easily it sliced into Kantor’s arm when provoked. Maybe it can do the same to armored guardsmen.

I draw a dagger and begin sawing at the rope holding the cage closed.

It stops growling.

My breathing is rapid and loud and these damn ropes are so thick. A key rattles in the lock on the door. Silver hell.

The scraver hisses at me. Then it whispers, “Hurry.”

My hands go still. I look up, wondering if I really heard that. My eyes lock with its solid black ones.

A cold breeze sweeps through the room. The scraver cuts a stripe across the back of my hand with his claws, and it growls, “Hurry!”

I don’t have time to consider what this means. I swipe hard. The rope gives. The door opens.

The scraver launches forward with enough force to knock me back. Once clear of the cage, its wings unfurl and it screams with rage. Men shout and scramble as they try to escape its path—running into others who are trying to come through the door. Blood flies as its claws find bare skin.

I sprint through the melee, back to the ladder, and hoist myself up.

“Scraver!” I call, then whistle.

I don’t wait to see if it follows. I just run.

When I reach the storage yard again, I don’t drop gently from the loft. I land hard and roll. I come up running, sprinting into the dusty alleyway behind the tourney.

With a screech and a flapping of wings, the scraver sails out of the loft, gliding to the ground. I expect it to stop, like a chained dog who’s been liberated and found a new master, but it doesn’t. Its clawed hands and feet grip at the dusty ground, find traction, and it takes flight again, wings beating hard against the air. In seconds, it’s high above me.

A whoosh of air announces an arrow, and I duck sideways, my body responding before my thoughts do. I dodge the first, but not the second. Pain pierces my thigh, and my leg goes out. I stumble hard and fall, skidding several feet in the dust.

I force my legs to hold me again, and I’m on my feet, sword and dagger drawn, before the guardsmen get to me. There are only three. Dustan is one of them. His lip is swollen and bloodied from where I hit him. I don’t know the other two, but they both have arrows nocked and waiting. One has three deep scratches across his face and jaw.