Chapter 4
A kilah gives me a sidelong look.
“It’s just borrowed. For noble purposes.”
“To pretend you’re a noble, you mean.”
“That’s what I said. Noble purposes.”
She rolls her eyes and returns her focus to the arena.
I’d snuck into these tournament games plenty of times in my youth. But this is the first time I’ve dared to walk through the gates in full view, complete with a fine robe, an overconfident strut, and a mouthful of lies. The fine robe—the one with the glowing gold-threaded vines and red-and-green floral silk lining—is my older brother’s wedding robe. It billows dramatically behind me like I actually belong here. Like I’m a full linea, like everyone else who’s officially allowed to attend.
All to stand at the front of the wooden stands overlooking the arena carved into the base of the Claviska cliffs.
The cliffs themselves loom above, spiralling into clouds, and the games below are framed with bright flags and shouting vendors. Today’s event: the mounted archery challenge.
A dozen contestants gather at the far end, their horses restless, heads high. Each has swallowed a temporary spell to block their magic, making this a test of sheer crude skill. Raw instinct.
The rounds begin.
Riders thunder past, loosing arrows at moving targets while their horses leap fences and pivot mid-stride. The first round is impressive. The second, breathtaking.
By the fourth, I’m transfixed.
At first it’s just a glint. A smooth, shimmering fake face. My breath hitches.
Surely it can’t be...
It is . Just take in that absurd composure! That haughty confidence.
I grit my teeth and watch him. He’s dressed in dark riding leathers and an eye-catching cloak, looking as cool as frost, loosing arrow after arrow with barely a glance at the targets. His horse weaves through obstacles, every motion fluid, lethal, exact. Like a dance.
I forget how to blink.
My hand grips the fencepost beside me so tightly I swear it groans. My stomach does something swoopy and undignified. I hate that I feel it.
I hate that I still feel it.
Just par-linea.
His words are still raw in my ears. I can still feel the punch of that moment in the woods. The way he spoke.
But even so, I can’t tear my eyes away.
The crowd cheers. A horn sounds for the next round. I stare, the world growing foggy around the edges.
Akilah nudges me.
I shake my head.
She raises a brow.
I cling harder to the post, like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. It might be the only thing keeping me upright.
I stare out over the arena again.
Calix Solin draws his bow.
His arrow thunks into the bullseye with effortless, mesmerising precision. The crowd erupts. I can’t look away.
By the eighth round, only three contestants remain. And Calix is one of them.
My fingers tighten around the fencepost the moment I catch him laughing with the others. Like they’re old friends, not rivals.
Then suddenly, he scans the stands.
My entire body freezes.
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. I can’t look away. I don’t even want to.
Our eyes meet. Something slingshots through my middle, sharp and tingling. My breath comes out thin, shaky. I grip the post so hard I feel splinters digging into my palms.
His gaze doesn’t waver. It clings. Angry? Annoyed?
Just par-linea.
I swallow hard and force my gaze away. Toward one of the other contestants, who’s galloping through the course now with schoolbook precision.
I cheer. Loudly. Too loudly.
Akilah side-eyes me.
When the flag waves for Calix’s final round, I slouch against the post, angled away like I couldn’t care less. I’m not looking. Not really. Just watching from the corner of my eye. Every limb stiff. Every heartbeat thumping louder than hooves.
He hits the first targets dead centre, shearing through his rival’s arrows. The crowd roars. I don’t turn my head. I won’t.
Another shot. Bullseye.
Then...
Another arrow is nocked, the bowstring pulled taut. But—
Thunk.
It sinks into the post beside me. Pins my sleeve.
My heart launches into my throat.
The crowd gasps. Akilah shrieks. I whirl and meet Calix’s gaze, burning and unrelenting.
I glower. He glares right back.
And without so much as a bow to the judges, Calix rides out of the arena. No nod to his rivals. No fanfare. Just a sharp exit, straight out of the games.
And...
It’s too much.
Before I know what I’m doing, I tell Akilah not to wait and bolt from the stands. I find the family horse I ‘borrowed’, and swing myself into the saddle with a leap.
Ahead, a figure on horseback cuts through the mist toward the cliffs.
I urge my mount after him. “Maskios!”
Just as we break above the low clouds, I catch up.
Calix whirls, teeth bared.
I raise my torn sleeve. Then fish the arrow from my boot and wave it pointedly. “Why?”
His fingers tighten on the reins, jaw flexing. Silent.
I prod. “Because it doesn’t matter if you hit me, a par-linea?”
He huffs. “If I’d wanted to hit you, I would’ve.”
“So you just wanted to ruin my sleeve?”
“You were unchivalrous.”
I lift the arrow. “And what was this?”
“That,” he says through clenched teeth, then sighs, “was an overreaction.”
I blink. Lower the arrow. That... is almost an apology.
I tug at the ruined sleeve and let some of the bite drain from my voice. “I’ll get in trouble for this.”
“I’ll replace it.”
“It’ll never be the one my brother got married in.”
Calix stares at me, aghast. “Why did you wear that?”
I shrug. “Getting into these games isn’t exactly simple. I don’t own any fancy clothes. I suppose I could get married, get a wedding robe of my own...”
“I’ll give you some of my clothes.”
“And boots,” I add quickly. “So I can run far away while you stand there barefoot.”
He blinks. “Why would you run from me?”
I pull my horse back a step and look away. My cheeks burn.
“You’re... unnerving.”
“Unnerving!”
“Exactly that.”
He clears his throat, softens his voice. “Around me, I’d say you’re rather shameless.”
I yank the arrow out again and guide my horse up beside his, pointing the sharp end at his chest. “When have I ever done anything shameless?”
He plucks the arrow from my hand with maddening calm. “No, you’re right,” he drawls. “Not shameless at all.”
The arrow brushes over my palm and I jerk my hand away, gripping the reins hard. I turn my horse, facing the path ahead, and mutter, “First to the third sharp bend.”
“I play drakopagon,” he warns. “You have no chance—”
But I’m already off, thundering up the path.