Brost, Losen, and Sar.

Three of the tournament’s magicians—two Arnesians and a Veskan—competitors now aligned against a common foe. Kell expected as much from Brost and Sar, two fighters with tempers to match their size, but Kisimyr’s protégé, Losen, was built like a willow, known for his looks as much as his budding talent. Gold rings jingled in his black hair, and he looked out of place between the two oaks. But bruises stained the skin beneath his dark eyes, and his face was grey from grief and lack of sleep.

“Get out of the way,” demanded Brost.

Hastra stood resolute. “I cannot let you pass.”

“On whose orders?” snapped Losen, his voice hoarse.

“The royal guard. The city guard. The king.”

“What is this?” demanded Kell, striding toward them.

“Stay out of it, Antari,” snarled Sar without turning. She stood even taller than Brost, her Veskan form filling the hall, a pair of axes strapped to her back. She’d fallen to Lila in the opening round, spent the rest of the tournament sulking and drinking, but now her eyes were full of fire.

Kell stopped at their backs, relying on their fighters’ instincts to make them turn. It worked, and through the forest of their limbs, he saw Hastra slump back against the doors.

Kell took in Losen first. “It won’t bring Kisimyr back.”

The young magician flushed with indignation. Sweat prickled on his brow, and he swayed a little when he spoke. “Did you see what that monster did to her?” he said, voice slurring. “I have to—”

“No you don’t,” said Kell.

“Kisimyr would have—”

“Kisimyr tried, and lost,” said Kell grimly.

“You can stay here, hiding in your palace,” growled Brost, “but our friends are out there! Our families!”

“And your bravado cannot help them.”

“Veskans do not sit idly by and wait for death,” boomed Sar.

“No,” said Kell, “your pride carries you right to it.”

She bared her teeth. “We will not hide like cowards in this place.”

“This place is the only thing keeping you safe.”

The air was beginning to shimmer with heat around Brost’s clenched hands. “You cannot keep us here.”

“Believe me,” said Kell, “there are a dozen other people I’d rather keep, but you were the only ones lucky enough to be in the palace when the curse fell.”

“And now our city needs us,” roared Brost. “We’re the best it has.”

Kell curled his hand, pricking the base of his palm with the point of metal he kept against his wrist. He felt the sting, the heat of blood welling on his skin.

“You’re show ponies,” he said. “Meant to prance in a ring, and if you think that’s the same thing as battling magic, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“How dare you—” started Brost.

“Master Kell could fell you all with a single drop of blood,” announced Hastra from behind them.

Kell stared at the young man with bald surprise.

“I’ve heard the royal Antari has no teeth,” cut in Sar.

“We don’t want to hurt you, little prince,” said Brost.

“But we will,” muttered Losen.

“Hastra,” said Kell evenly, “leave.”

The young man hesitated, torn between abandoning Kell and defying him, but in the end, he obeyed. The eyes of the magicians flicked toward him as he passed, and in that instant, Kell moved.

A breath, and he was behind them, one hand raised to the outer doors.

“As Staro,” he said. The locks within the door fell with a heavy clank, and fresh steel bars spread back and forth over the wood, sealing the doors shut.

“Now,” said Kell, holding out his bloodied hand, palm up, as if to offer it. “Go back to the gallery.”

Losen’s eyes widened, but Brost’s temper was too high, and Sar was lusting for a fight. When none of them moved, Kell sighed. “I want you to remember,” he said, “that I gave you a chance.”

* * *

It was over quickly.

Within moments, Brost sat on the floor, clutching his face, Losen slumped against the wall, holding bruised ribs, and Sar was out cold, the tails of her blond braids singed black.

The hall was a little worse for wear, but Kell had managed to keep most of the damage confined to the bodies of the three magicians.

Drawn by the noise, the inner doors flew open, and the doorway filled with people—some magicians, others nobles, all straining to see into the foyer. Three magicians laid out, and Kell standing at their center. Just what he needed. A scene. The whispers were starting, and Kell could feel the weight of eyes and words as they landed on him.

“Do you yield?” he asked the crumpled forms, unsure which exactly he was addressing.

A huddle of Faroans looked rather amused as Brost struggled to his feet, still clutching his nose.

A pair of Veskans went to rouse Sar, and while most of the Arnesians hung back, Jinnar, the wind mage with the silver hair, went straight to Losen and helped the grieving youth to his feet.

“Come on,” he said, his voice slower and softer than Kell had ever heard it. Tears were streaming silently down Losen’s cheeks, and Kell knew they didn’t stem from bruised ribs or wounded pride.

“I didn’t reach for her on the roof,” he murmured. “I didn’t …”