Chapter 12 · Blood on the Royal Mark

"Guards!" Gareth's voice cracked across the sand. "That's the dead prince!"

Valen didn't move. His arm was still bare, the burned mark half-visible under the arena lights. The crowd saw it. Gareth saw it. And Gareth was backing up fast, sword shaking.

Boots on stone. A lot of them.

Valen should've run. Should've grabbed his sword and cut through the exit before they boxed him in. But his feet stayed planted.

Ten years he'd hidden this mark. Ten years of cold and hunger and mud-pit fights for copper coins. And now Gareth Ironcrown—son of the man who'd put the brand to his skin—was calling for his head.

Fine.

Valen picked up his sword.

"Hold!" The chief judge stood, chair scraping back. The old man's face had gone white. "Contestant Carlos, drop your weapon."

"My name," Valen said, "is Valen Frostblade."

The crowd noise surged. Shouting. Disbelief. Someone screaming. Valen didn't look up. He kept his eyes on Gareth.

Gareth was still backing toward the edge of the ring. "You're supposed to be dead. My father said—"

"Your father lied."

"Guards!" The chief judge again, louder. "Seize him! That man's an enemy of the crown!"

Twelve guards poured onto the sand.