Chapter 11 · The Mark

"Carlos of the Iron Coast will face Gareth Ironcrown in the semi-final round."

Valen's blood went cold. The crowd roared. He stood at the edge of the arena, watching the man stride out from the opposite gate.

Gareth Ironcrown. Built like a war hound. The son of the man who'd burned down half the west wing the night of the coup.

Valen's fingers twitched toward his sword.

"Move it, Carlos." One of the officials waved him forward.

Valen stepped onto the sand. Too bright. Too loud. He could see Eliza up in the judges' section, her face pale, hands folded. She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at Gareth.

Smart girl.

Gareth turned. His eyes locked on Valen. He smiled. It wasn't friendly.

"Carlos." Gareth made the name sound like an insult. "Heard you took down six men yesterday. Impressive."

Valen didn't answer. He drew his sword and checked the edge.

"Not much of a talker, huh?" Gareth pulled his own blade. Longer than Valen's. Heavier. "That's fine. I prefer to do my talking with steel anyway."

The officiator raised his hand. "Fighters ready."

Valen shifted his weight. Gareth's stance was too open.