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"Ready to die, mercenary?" The big guy grinned across the frozen sand. Missing two teeth. "I'm gonna make it slow."
Carlos tightened his grip on the sword. The leather wrap was coming loose again—he should've fixed it last night, but he'd been too busy making sure the burn scars on his neck still looked fresh. Ten years of hiding. Ten years of dirt roads and fake names. And it all came down to this.
One more fight. One more bracket. Get close enough to the capital to matter.
The crowd hammered against the ice walls of the arena, thousands of voices chanting for blood. His opponent circled left, boots crunching, warhammer slung over one scarred shoulder. The kind who'd killed before and wanted everyone to know it.
Carlos didn't answer. Talking wasted energy.
The horn blew.
The big guy charged—no feint, no setup, just raw momentum and a hammer that could crack a horse's spine. Carlos sidestepped. The hammer slammed into sand where he'd been standing. He cut low. His blade scraped off chainmail. The big guy twisted faster than he should've and swung backhanded. Carlos got his sword up. The impact rattled his teeth, drove him back three steps.
The crowd roared.
"That all you got?" The big guy was breathing hard already. "Heard you took down six champions. You don't look like much."
Carlos adjusted his stance. His shoulder ached where the shockwave had traveled up the blade. He could end this fast—there was a move his father had drilled into him a thousand times. The Frostblade Cleave. Royal technique. Perfect balance, single strike, everything committed.
Unmistakable.
Anyone who'd served in the palace guard would recognize it. Anyone who'd watched the crown prince train in the summer yards.
Carlos had spent ten years making sure nobody saw that move again.
So he fought like a mercenary. Dirty. Patient.
The big guy came in again, hammer high, trying to bait a counter. Carlos backed up, watched his footwork. There—a hitch in the left knee. Barely visible. Old injury.
"You scared?" The big guy laughed. "Gonna run all day?"
"If I have to." Carlos kept his voice flat. Lower, rougher, with the accent he'd borrowed from the southern trade cities. Nothing like the crisp northern diction they'd beaten into him as a kid.
The big guy swung. Carlos ducked under and drove his sword into the weak knee. The big guy howled, stumbled. Carlos ripped the blade free and spun away before the hammer came down.
Blood on the ice now. The crowd loved that.
The big guy limped forward, dragging the hammer. His grin was gone. "You're dead. You hear me? Dead."
Carlos waited. The cold seeped through his boots. The Frost Trials were held in midwinter for a reason—only the strong survived long enough to finish. The weak froze. Bled out. Made mistakes.
The big guy charged, roaring, all his weight behind one massive overhead swing. Carlos saw it coming. He could dodge left, dodge right, or—
He stepped forward.
Into the swing.
The hammer came down. Carlos twisted, angled his blade, let the hammer slide along the flat. The big guy's momentum carried him past. Carlos turned with him, smooth, and drove the sword between the chainmail links, up under the ribs. Straight into the lung.
The big guy made a wet, choking sound.
Carlos twisted the blade. Yanked it free.
The big guy dropped to his knees. Hammer falling. Blood pouring down his chest. He looked up at Carlos, confused—like he couldn't understand how a nameless mercenary had just killed him.
Carlos stepped back. His sword dripped red onto the ice.
The big guy fell forward. Didn't move.
The crowd went wild.
Carlos stood there, breathing hard, waiting for the judges to call it. His pulse hammered in his ears. Seven champions down. Seven fights, seven bodies. Nobody had recognized him. The burn scars were holding. The accent was holding. The name Carlos was holding.
He was still alive. Still hidden.
Still—
His sword flared.
Subtle. Just a flicker along the blade's edge, pale blue and white, like frost catching sunlight.
Frostfire.
The mark of House Frostblade. The mark of the old royal line.
Carlos's blood went cold.
No. Not now. Not here.
He angled the blade against his body, tried to hide the glow, but the arena was too bright. The crowd too focused. Someone would see. Someone would know.
He looked up at the judges' stand.
Three northern lords in heavy furs, watching him with narrowed eyes. A battle cleric in white robes, making notes. And at the far end—
A woman.
Young. Dark hair pulled back in a severe braid. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes like black ice. She wore a gown that looked expensive and uncomfortable—the kind you put on a prisoner and called it an honor. A gold chain around her throat. Delicate. Unbreakable.
She was staring at his sword.
Carlos felt the world tilt.
He knew her. Not personally—but from reports, from whispers, from the intelligence networks he'd spent years building in exile. Eliza Silverthorn. The hostage princess. Sent north as part of a marriage pact between her kingdom and the regime that had overthrown his family. She was supposed to be decorative. Obedient. Harmless.
She didn't look harmless.
She looked like someone who'd just seen something impossible.
Their eyes met across the arena.
For a long, frozen moment, Carlos forgot how to breathe.
She tilted her head slightly. A question in her gaze.
Then her lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile.
She knew.
Somehow, she knew.
The chief judge stood, raising his hand for silence. "The winner," he announced, voice booming across the arena, "is Carlos of the Southern Roads. He advances to the final trial."
The crowd cheered.
Carlos forced himself to sheathe his sword. Forced himself to bow. Forced himself to turn and walk toward the exit tunnel like this was just another fight. Just another day.
But his hands were shaking.
And when he glanced back at the judges' stand, Eliza Silverthorn was still watching him.
Still smiling.