As Rhy watched, massive dragons carved of ice were being lowered into the river to circle the eastern arena, while canvas birds flew like kites above the central one, caught in a perpetual wind. And to the west, eight magnificent stone lions marked the stadium’s posts, each caught in a different pose, a captured moment in the narrative of predator and prey.

He could have simply numbered the platforms, Rhy supposed, but that would have been woefully predictable. No, the Essen Tasch demanded more.

Spectacle.

That’s what everyone expected. And spectacle was certainly something Rhy knew how to deliver. But this wasn’t just about putting on a show. Kell could tease all he liked, but Rhy did care about his kingdom’s future. When his father put him in charge of the tournament, he’d been insulted. He’d thought the Essen Tasch a glorified party, and as good as Rhy was at entertaining, he’d wanted more. More responsibility. More power. And he’d told the king as much.

“Ruling is a delicate affair,” his father had chided. “Every gesture carries purpose and meaning. This tournament is not only a game. It helps to maintain peace with our neighboring empires, and it allows us to show them our resources without implying any threat.” The king had laced his fingers. “Politics is a dance until the moment it becomes a war. And we control the music.”

And the more Rhy thought on it, the more he understood.

The Maresh had been in power for more than a hundred years. Since before the War of the Empires. The ostra elite loved them, and none of the royal vestra were bold enough to challenge their reign, solid as it was. That was the benefit of ruling for more than a century; none could remember what life was like before the Maresh came to power. It was easy to believe the dynasty would never end.

But what of the other empires? No one spoke of war—no one ever spoke of war—but whispers of discontent reached like fog across the borders. With seven children, the Veskans were reaching for power, and the king’s brother was hungry; it was only a matter of time before Lord Sol-in-Ar muscled his way onto the Faroan throne, and even if Vesk and Faro had their sights on each other, the fact remained that Ames sat squarely between them.

And then there was Kell.

As much as Rhy joked with his brother about his reputation, it was no joke to Faro or Vesk. Some were convinced Kell was the keystone of the Arnesian empire, that it would crumble and fall without him at its center.

It didn’t matter if it was true—their neighbors were always searching for a weakness, because ruling an empire was about strength. Which was really the image of strength. The Essen Tasch was the perfect pedestal for such a display.

A chance for Arnes to shine.

A chance for Rhy to shine, not only as a jewel, but as a sword. He had always been a symbol of wealth. He wanted to be a symbol of power. Magic was power, of course, but it wasn’t the only kind. Rhy told himself he could still be strong without it.

His fingers tightened on the balcony’s rail.

The memory of Holland’s gift flickered through his mind. Months ago he had done something foolish—so foolish, it had nearly cost him and his city everything—just to be strong in the way Kell was. His people would never know how close he’d come to failing them. And more than anything else, Rhy Maresh wanted to be what his people needed. For a long time he thought they needed the cheerful, rakish royal. He wasn’t ignorant enough to think that his city was free of suffering, but he used to think—or perhaps he only wanted to think—that he could bring a measure of happiness to his people by being happy himself. After all, they loved him. But what befitted a prince would not befit a king.

Don’t be morbid, he thought. His parents were both in good health. But people lived and died. That was the nature of the world. Or at least, that was how it should be.

The memories rose like bile in his throat. The pain, the blood, the fear, and finally the quiet and the dark. The surrender of letting go, and being dragged back, the force of it like falling, a terrible, jarring pain when he hit the ground. Only he wasn’t falling down. He was falling up. Surging back to the surface of himself, and—

“Prince Rhy.”

He blinked and saw his guard, Tolners, standing in the doorway, tall and stiff and official.

Rhy’s fingers ached as he pried them from the icy railing. He opened his mouth to speak, and tasted blood. He must have bitten his tongue. Sorry, Kell, he thought. It was such a peculiar thing, to know your pain was tethered to someone else’s, that every time you hurt, they felt it, and every time they hurt, it was because of you. These days, Rhy always seemed to be the source of Kell’s suffering, while Kell himself walked around as if the world were suddenly made of glass, all because of Rhy. It wasn’t even in the end, wasn’t balanced, wasn’t fair. Rhy held Kell’s pain in his hands, while Kell held Rhy’s life in his.

“Are you all right?” pressed the guard. “You look pale.”

Rhy took up a glass of tea—now cold—and rinsed the metallic taste from his mouth, setting the cup aside with shaking fingers.

“Tell me, Tolners,” he said, feigning lightness. “Am I in so much danger that I need not one but two men guarding my life?” Rhy gestured to the first guard, who still stood pressed against the cold stone exterior. “Or have you come to relieve poor Vis before he faints on us?”

Tolners looked to Vis, and jerked his head. The other guard gratefully ducked back through the patio doors and into the safety of the room. Tolners didn’t take up a spot along the wall, but stood before Rhy at attention. He was dressed, as he always was, in full armor, his red cape billowing behind him in the cold wind, gold helmet tucked under his arm. He looked more like a statue than a man, and in that moment—as in many moments—Rhy missed his old guards, Gen and Parrish. Missed their humor and their casual banter and the way he could make them forget that he was a prince. And sometimes, the way they could make him forget, too.