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The drums started before dawn.
Valen was already awake. He'd been awake since the lockdown announcement, sitting on the edge of his cot in the fighters' barracks, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to survive the next hour. The blood test would light him up like a torch. Royal blood didn't hide. The old magic in his veins would flare blue the second they pricked his finger, and then everyone would know Carlos the sellsword was actually Valen Frostblade, the dead prince who wasn't supposed to be breathing.
He'd burned off his royal marks ten years ago. Held his own forearms over a forge fire until the skin bubbled and the crests turned to scar tissue. It had hurt like dying. But blood didn't burn. Blood remembered.
The drums got louder. Three heavy beats, then a pause. The execution rhythm.
Valen stood up and buckled his sword belt. His hands didn't shake. That was something. He'd spent the last hour considering his options, and they were all bad. Run now, and the trial masters would hunt him down before he made it past the outer gate. The whole compound was locked tight. Sit here and wait for the test, and he'd be exposed in front of two thousand people, including Gareth Ironcrown and the entire northern court.
Gareth. The son of the man who'd led the coup. The one who'd ordered Valen's father dragged into the throne room and butchered in front of the assembled lords.
Valen was going to kill him. That part was never in question. The only question was whether he'd get the chance before they put a blade through his own neck.
Someone banged on the barracks door. "Finalists, out! Now!"
Valen grabbed his cloak and followed the others into the pre-dawn cold. The arena was lit with torches, hundreds of them ringing the sand. The stands were already packed. Apparently a blood scandal was good for attendance.
The other finalists were lined up near the center: Talin Bonecrusher, the ice plains barbarian who'd made it through on sheer brutality. Kellan Redhook, a mercenary captain who fought dirty and didn't apologize for it. Mira Stormborn, one of the few women to make it this far, fast and vicious with paired daggers. And Gareth Ironcrown himself, standing at the far end of the line, wearing polished plate armor that caught the torchlight like he was already crowned.
Valen took his place between Kellan and Talin. Talin gave him a nod. Kellan didn't look at anyone. Mira was staring at Gareth like she was memorizing where to put the knives.
The head judge stepped forward, the same one who'd announced the lockdown last night. He was old, gray-bearded, and he looked like he hadn't slept either. "Finalists," he said, voice carrying across the sand. "You've fought hard to stand here. But before the final bracket begins, we must address a matter of integrity."
The crowd went quiet.
"We have received intelligence," the judge continued, "that one among you may be concealing noble or royal blood. The Frost Trials are open to all warriors, regardless of birth. But deception is not tolerated. False names, false histories, these are disqualifiers."
Valen kept his face blank. He'd gotten good at that.
"Each of you will submit to the blood test," the judge said. "It is brief. It is conclusive. Any who refuse will forfeit and face detainment."
Talin spat into the sand. "Get on with it, then."
The judge gestured, and a woman in dark robes stepped forward. She was carrying a small wooden case. A mage. Valen could feel the hum of her magic from ten feet away, cold and sharp like a blade drawn across ice.
She opened the case. Inside were five crystal vials, each one empty, and a thin silver needle.
"Step forward when your name is called," the judge said. "We will begin with Talin Bonecrusher."
Talin stomped forward, held out his scarred hand, and didn't even flinch when the mage pricked his thumb. A single drop of blood welled up, dark red, and she caught it in one of the vials. The crystal glowed faintly, then went dim.
"Common born," the mage said. "Cleared."
Talin grunted and stepped back.
"Kellan Redhook."
Kellan went next. Same process. His blood glowed pale green for a second, then faded to gray.
"Trace nobility, distant line," the mage said. "Within acceptable margin. Cleared."
Kellan smirked. "My great-great-grandmother was a baroness. So what?"
The judge ignored him. "Mira Stormborn."
Mira walked up, let the mage take her blood, and watched the vial flare white before going dark.
"Clear," the mage said.
Three down. Valen's turn was coming. His pulse was loud in his ears, but his breathing stayed even. He'd fought in worse situations. He'd survived worse odds.
Except this time there was no fighting his way out. This time the enemy was his own blood.
"Gareth Ironcrown."
Valen's head snapped up.
Gareth stepped forward, and for the first time Valen got a good look at him up close. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with his father's sharp jaw and his mother's pale eyes. He moved like someone who'd been trained since birth, confident and clean. And on his belt, sheathed in black leather, was a sword Valen recognized.
His father's sword.
The blade his father had carried into every campaign, the one with the Frostblade crest etched into the guard. The one that should have been buried with him, or passed to his son.
Valen's son.
Gareth held out his hand. The mage pricked his finger, caught the blood, and the vial lit up like a star. Bright gold, flaring hot, then settling into a steady blue glow.
"Royal blood," the mage said. "Direct line."
The crowd erupted. Cheers, gasps, a few boos from the back. Gareth didn't react. He just stood there, bleeding into the vial, and smiled.
"I registered my lineage when I entered," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I have nothing to hide. My father is Lord Ironcrown, regent of the north. My blood is legitimate."
The judge nodded. "Cleared."
Gareth stepped back, still smiling, and his eyes found Valen.
For a second, just a second, Valen thought he saw recognition there. But then Gareth looked away, and the moment passed.
"Carlos Venturi."
Valen's fake name echoed across the arena. He made himself walk forward. Made himself hold out his hand.
The mage took his wrist. Her fingers were cold. She raised the needle.
Valen felt the edge of the blade on his belt, the one he could draw in less than a second. He could kill her. Kill the judge. Make a run for the gate. He'd die, but he'd die fighting, and that was better than dying on his knees in front of Gareth Ironcrown.
The needle touched his skin.
And then someone screamed.
Not a cheer. Not a gasp. A real scream, high and sharp, from the stands.
The mage flinched. The needle slipped. Valen pulled his hand back, blood smearing across his thumb, but the vial was still empty.
Everyone turned toward the sound.
It was coming from the royal box, the section reserved for the northern court and their guests. Valen couldn't see what was happening, but he heard voices shouting, guards moving, someone crying.
The judge swore under his breath. "Hold," he said to the mage, and started toward the stairs.
Valen stood there, blood dripping from his thumb onto the sand, and tried not to look like a man who'd just been granted a five-minute reprieve from his own execution.
Gareth was still watching him.
"You fight well," Gareth said. His voice was calm, conversational. "I watched your matches. You've got old training. Noble training, maybe."
Valen wiped his thumb on his cloak. "I've fought a lot of nobles. You pick things up."
"Maybe." Gareth's hand rested on the hilt of the stolen sword. "Or maybe you were taught by someone who mattered. Someone royal."
Valen met his eyes. "You saying I'm a liar?"
"I'm saying," Gareth said slowly, "that if you were, it would be a shame. Because I'd have to kill you in front of all these people. And I'd rather save that for someone who deserves it."
The judge came back down the stairs, fast, his face tight. He gestured to the mage. "Change of schedule," he said. "The test is postponed. We have a situation."
The mage frowned. "Postponed? For how long?"
"Until further notice." The judge turned to the finalists. "You're dismissed. Return to your quarters. The bracket will be announced within the hour."
Talin swore in his own language. Mira sheathed her daggers. Kellan just shrugged and walked off.
Valen didn't move. He was still staring at Gareth, at the sword on his belt, at the man who was standing between him and everything he'd lost.
Gareth smiled. "See you in the bracket, Carlos."
He turned and walked away, the torchlight catching on the royal crest that didn't belong to him.
Valen looked down at his hand. The blood on his thumb was already drying, dark red in the cold air. Not glowing. Not yet.
He'd bought himself time. Maybe an hour. Maybe less.
He turned toward the stands, toward the royal box, and saw her.
Eliza.
She was standing at the railing, pale and furious, and she was staring right at him. One of the guards was holding her arm, pulling her back, but she didn't look away.
And then Valen saw what she'd been screaming about.
On Gareth's sleeve, stitched in silver thread where only someone in the royal box could see it, was a mark. A kill order.
The symbol of the old guard. The ones who'd carried out the coup.
The blood test wasn't a test.
It was bait.
And the moment Valen's blood lit up blue, Gareth was going to put his father's sword through Valen's chest and call it justice.