They are both shirtless, skin gleaming with sweat from their efforts. As I watch, Cadogan lands an uppercut to Penn’s stomach that makes him reel back with a grunt of pain. His torso twists around, and I get a glimpse of the dark whorls that feather across his pectoral.
His Remnant.
It is a mirror of Soren’s mark—a triangular design that spirals across the right side of his chest like smoke turned flesh. I cannot see the details clearly from this distance, but there is something in the design that dances like living flame, the pointed whorls and furls reminiscent of fire in a hearth. I can’t help thinking that the real thing is infinitely better than the version gouged into the leather cover of the tome stashed under my pillow in the spire.
Penn’s fist flies out, clipping Cadogan across the mouth. A spurt of blood hits the sand floor of the pit.
“Yield?” Penn asks, grinning darkly.
Cadogan shakes his head, wipes his bleeding mouth, and lifts his fists. They continue to prowl around each other for a few moments. I flinch each time another blow lands. The otherspectators cheer and heckle, making bets about which man will finally admit defeat. Very few bet against Penn—possibly because he is their prince, but more likely because his skill is apparent to anyone with eyes.
I’m so enraptured, I do not even notice Mabon, Gower, and Jac in their midst until they materialize around me.
“Hello, boys.”
“Ace,” Jac greets, elbowing me lightly in the side. His eyes do not leave the ring. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Was I supposed to sit in my tower like some tragic heroine in a folktale for children?”
“No. But you could’ve at least told someone where you were going.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid.” I touch my cloak pocket, where the sturdy hilt of my dagger presses against my thigh. “I can take care of myself.”
“Be that as it may, your life is too valuable to put in jeopardy. Penn will have our heads if he finds out you’ve been wandering around unprotected. Especially outside the castle grounds.”
Mabon grunts in agreement.
Gower, per usual, glares at me like I am a bug to be squished.
“Fine.” I swallow some of my petulance. “Next time, I’ll let you know before I leave the keep.”
“Much appreciated, Ace.”
We watch the sparring match for a few moments. The way the two men move around the ring is so fluid, they could be waltzing in a ballroom—if not for all the blood.
A faint ruckus sounds from behind us as someone forces their way through the crowd. I turn just as a man with a crop of copper-red hair emerges, carried forward by a set of wooden crutches.
“Farley!” I cry in delight.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Miss Bullseye herself!”
“How’s your leg?”
“On the mend, thanks to you.” He grins at me. “I’ll be back in action in no time.”
I drop to my knees, gown pooling in the dirt as I examine his splinted bone. What I can see of his leg beneath the bindings looks healthy. I probe the flesh, pleased to find no swelling or crookedness.
“It’s healing well,” I say, rising back to full height. “But you shouldn’t be up and about yet. If you overtax yourself, the bone won’t set properly.”
He rolls his eyes. “I get around well enough on these crutches. I refuse to spend one more day sitting on my ass. The cart ride from Vintare took an age.”
“And he hasn’t stopped complaining about it since,” Jac mutters.
Mabon laughs.
Gower is still too busy glowering at me to express any amusement. His mood is black as the limp hair that falls around his face.
I frown at Farley. “Let’s at least get you out of this throng. If you topple over, there’ll be no getting you up again.”