Chapter 15 · The Last Frostblade

"Surprised?"

Gareth Ironcrown kicked the crown fragment toward him. It skittered across the ice, leaving a thin scratch in the arena floor.

Valen's whole body locked up. The blue-white glow from his marks hadn't faded yet—still crawling under his skin, burning the same way it had when they'd tried to erase it with hot iron and poison root. Ten years he'd spent carving that feeling out of his chest.

Here it was. Back in his throat. Hot and sharp.

"My father wanted to melt it down," Gareth said. "I told him no. Let's keep it. Let's wait."

Valen didn't move. His sword was still in his hand. His blood was still singing from the fight with Eliza, from the moment he'd refused to kill her, from the stupid decision to say his own name out loud.

The crowd was losing it. Half screaming his name—*Valen, Valen*—the other half screaming for his head. The trial masters were on their feet. Guards ringed the arena. Nobody moved in yet.

Eliza was still on the sand twenty feet behind him. He didn't turn to look. He could hear her breathing.

"You kept it," Valen said. His voice came out steady.