1. Chapter One: Luka

Luka Lockehart smiles. “Check.”

The room goes still and jaws drop. The empty wooden tables around them have long since been cleaned and tidied, prepared for the next round of games in the morning. As the last match of the Cesse tournament’s opening round, Luka was told by his mother, Linne Lockehart, to anticipate being the main attraction. This is the only reason why Luka let the game drag on so long – his mother needs all the good press she can get with the upcoming elections.

Luka’s opponent stares at the board, eyes wide, hands tugging at his beard. His gaze darts about as he takes in the pieces – the fallen warriors, the hidden taunts Luka wove into each move – before his shoulders slump.

“Mate,” the man – whose name Luka cannot remember for the life of him – says, voice low and not nearly as glum as Luka anticipated. The man shifts his weight, eyes slowly flickering to Luka’s. He’s not an unattractive fellow; probably a few years Luka’s junior with long dark hair, brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles dusting his nose that crinkle as he attempts a smile.

Luka, remembering the attention on them, returns the gesture with teeth.

Around them, their audience leans closer. Other Cesse contestants take furious notes. One paper-runner sketches Luka’s profile. All are eager for a shot of the game’s victor – of the infamously elusive son of new Council Member hopeful, Linne Lockehart.

Luka raises a hand to offer a wave and the crowd’s hushed whispers escalate to excited murmurs. The silent tension that seized the chamber in a giant’s grasp snaps as onlookers shout questions. There are fewer than he hoped for. Linne Lockehart had hoped for more paper-runners, but it can’t be helped that Cesscounthe’s reporters have turned their focus toward their borders, darkened with reports of war and invasion and other eye-catching headlines. Luka will have to make do with the few present.

The half a dozen paper-runners circle closer, desperate for a quote. They work in pairs, one with a sketchpad and the other jotting down notes on Luka’s every movement and breath.

Beyond them, the victors and losers of the Cesscounthe Tournament’s first round of games hover, curious to see how the renowned once child prodigy – the second to ever achieve a perfect score on the Bombani Exam – has played. They gathered about the table near Luka and his opponent, but when the paper-runners elbow them away, the players retreat to the upper floors, leaning over the shining balconies and peering through their theater glasses to make out the board.

Looking around now, Luka can faintly make out that their usual pursed lips of distaste have given way to wide-eyed surprise. His heart flutters, and he has to resist the urge to smirk.

Finally.

The overall reaction isn’t surprising; Luka’s mother has been insistent that he be kept from national – or even local – tournaments until his twenty-first birthday, some three years after the official age of adulthood. His only infamy arose from an earlier incident and his testing scores – but while these were impressive, nothing showed intellect better than Cesse. Luka is a dark horse – an ambush on the Cesse Annual Tournament.

Cesse let Luka finally show the world his skill. And, if the whispered gossip leaking from his competitors hidden in the pews are any indicator, he can finally prove everyone wrong.

Could someone of a dirtied bloodline do this?

“Danessi Lockehart! Danessi Lockehart!” a pretty blonde paper-runner cries. “How do you feel about facing Evland Childes in the upcoming rounds?”

Luka’s smile crimps, and he barely manages to save it at the sound of that man’s name.

“I will answer questions later,” he says loftily, rising from his seat. He extends his hand to his opponent. “Come.”

The murmurs increase and charcoal flies across paper as the paper-runners lap up the shot of Luka lifting his adversary’s hand. Luka knows what they see; a young man, perfectly polished in both looks and manners, attending to his victory like every Cesse winner should: with pride and with certainty.

The dominance would come later – privately.

Luka groans as the man’s lips wrap around his cock, his knees sinking into the silk of the violet sheets. His hips stutter as he thrusts into the throat of the man – whose name he still can’t remember for the life of him. He wraps his hands in soft hair so he can go deeper – deeper –

The man gags as Luka hits the back of his throat and a low noise of pleasure escapes Luka’s lips. Luka admires how the dim lights of his hotel room highlight the hollows of the man’s cheeks – the way his hands are braced against Luka’s bed. Luka can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this – the last time things felt so easy, so good. How long has he dreaded this moment, knowing he would surely win the Cesse tournament?

But, just as his tutors promised, he takes to the dominance naturally despite his nerves.

It helps that he is still recounting his Cesse match.

“Do you see it now?” Luka asks as he eases back, his voice husky. “Do you see how you could have taken the assassin in that move? Had you merely read the board, you would have been able to pin me with that one mistake.”

There is no response beyond sucking, and Luka tries to lose himself to the sensation once again, but it is a difficult thing. Even with the pleasure, with all of Cesscounthe framed in the window across from his bed splayed out before him, like a body ripe for the taking – Luka cannot relax. There is still too much to do. Too many promises to fulfill to his mother. After all, there is only one thing in his life that truly frees from his always churning mind: the tight grip of Cesse.

Well. There used to be two. But the second matters no longer.

Luka lets the man suck for a while more before Luka pulls out and pumps his slick cock, watching the man’s face, his parted lips, his heavy eyes. He stares up at Luka, lost to it all, and Luka sighs.

“You want me, don’t you?” Luka asks, and the man responds with incoherent blubbering. Luka tries to imagine what it’s like; he had only experienced such domination once before, and it was immediately after he had come of age, some three years prior. Had it not been for the person he had lost to, Luka might have said he enjoyed it.

But he had not had the chance to experience such a thing thereafter.

After all, he had not lost a Cesse game since.

“You know,” Luka says, his eyes tracing the man’s wet mouth. “I’ve already told you everything I would do to you with the movements of my pieces. Did you see them? The little messages I left for you?”

Luka is unsurprised when the man shakes his head.

“I told you,” Luka begins as he strokes the man’s face. Luka had been right before; he is attractive. Those little freckles? Adorable.

“I was going to fuck your face until I come on it.”

And Luka, being a man of his word, does so.

After, the man curls up on his side, sweaty chest rising slow and steady with sleep. Luka scowls as he watches the twitch of the man’s eyelids as he escapes to dreams; Luka has not slept beside another body in two years, and he isn’t planning on breaking that streak tonight.

Luka climbs from the bed. He falls into a comfortable pace. The bamboo floor is cool beneath his feet, laid so as not to creak. The chambers are extravagant with their high ceilings and wispy curtains, but not nearly as fine as the Lockehart household. He had wished to return home after each game, but his mother insisted Luka take his opponents to bed here.

Cesscounthe’s Annual Tournament puts up its most likely champions in a suite containing a bed, bath, and a Cesse room. Each is painted the vital colors of thought: blue for the bedroom and for deep dreams, green for the bath for health and cleanliness, and a deep scarlet for the Cesse room – for agility and domination. Floor to ceiling windows mark the northern walls, filling the room with sunlight during the day and the flickering glory of Cesscounthe’s city during the night. A city that seems to move a bit to the left every time Luka glances at it, as if shrinking away from the rumors of the impending Northern invasion – repairs on the high walls, the outer Gamgy District drawn in, Aiutani watches scanning the night.

Luka is too peeved to pay it heed now. He has already taken it all in before, already marveled at the city night after night as a child – back when it was all an untouchable, unattainable thing. Back when his mother’s grasp would turn to an iron band around his wrist, a promise he would not leave the Lockehart compound – not until you can prove your intellect. He could draw the city from memory, so deeply is the image emblazoned into the back of his eyelids – the trail of lights marking the midnight markets and Hyacinth Square, which is left brilliant and golden until the early hours of the morning, when the scholars come to dim the lanterns; the cool dim of the Abraxi District, each noble house hidden behind the compound walls. The smudge of the Gamgy District and the wall surrounding his city, like a towering marble embrace.

Instead of watching, Luka makes straight for the scarlet chambers, footfalls soft as raindrops.

The Cesse room is made dim from the glow of the city, long contours cast from the board and its matching chairs. Luka lights one of the gas lamps resting on the mantle at the head of the room. He sets the flame across from the board, the fire turning the motions of his hands into exaggerated shadows as he lays out the pieces.

With the room now lit, the windows across from him reflect his naked body as he moves. Luka casts half an eye to the flex of muscles in his back, to the fall of dark hair across his cheek. He is a composition of opposites; where his eyes are as light as a summer sky and his skin unnaturally paler than a bitter winter, his hair is blacker than the night itself. His body is still growing into the strength of manhood. Already he can see the small muscles of his back and arms – muscles his father names for him in his yearly physicals – flexing in his back as he moves.

Muscles brought on not by work, but by a wretched and long-forgotten inheritance.

The dirty Lockehart line.

Anxiety rolls in Luka’s stomach at the thought, and something silver flickers across Luka’s eyes in the window’s dark reflection, like the fire from the candle at his side has been captured in his irises. Disquieted, Luka shifts his weight, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and forcing an exhale from his nostrils, just as his tutors had ordered. The unruly and disrespectful emotions of fear and nervousness unwind, and he turns to the board once more.

“Partaking in some late night practice?” a voice asks, and Luka all but jumps out of his skin.

The man from before chuckles at Luka’s response, and Luka tries to act like nothing happened, sulkily returning from the game.

“You could certainly benefit from it,” Luka says.

The man hadn’t seen Luka”s eyes; Luka’s shoulders relax marginally.

“You aren’t what I expected,” the man says, and Luka’s tension returns. He decides it best to hold his tongue as the man looks Luka over. “I thought you would be… taller.”

“And I thought you would be a better Cesse player,” Luka replies cooly. “We’ll have to settle for less.” His tutors always warned him his tongue would never make him any friends, but it’s a good thing he’s only here to win this tournament and the fame and fortune that would come with victory. Most victors were awarded an apprenticeship with a Council Member, which wouldn’t guarantee a position in government, but it was as close to a promise as one could get. And Thought knows that the Lockehart family could use the prestige of having a Cesse Tournament winner to clean their name and prove their wisdom.

“Then show me how to play better, Luka,” the man replies, taking a seat across from him. “I still have my second chance tomorrow. I could still rank.”

“You will call me Danessi Lockehart,” Luka corrects. “We are not friends.”

The possibility of this man claiming victory is so infinitesimally slim, Luka contemplates ordering the man to leave. But Cesse is always so much better with a partner.

Besides, his cock is already hardening at the thought of being buried deep in this man’s soft, warm throat once more.

“Listen carefully,” Luka says. “As I do not like to repeat myself, and I’ll make sure you have a chance of winning tomorrow.”

The following morning, standing before the boards announcing that day’s matches, Luka says, “You have no chance of winning.”

The man, whose name… is… well, it probably started with a J. Luka isn’t sure how he doesn’t remember – he just read it seconds before – looks at Luka, dismayed. “But you said –”

“I’m well aware of what I said, but you’re playing against Xyla Mobiele. She will destroy you.” Luka gestures to the chart, fingertips nearly grazing the head of another competitor. There are at least half a dozen other contestants bumping their way across the creaking floorboards to read the board at the center of the room, squinting through the brilliant rays of morning sunlight filtered through the two story high windows above. Weaving amongst the players are the Aiutani, distinctive with their tags and uniforms, as they prepare some dozen players’ tables for the upcoming matches.

Luka pays none of them any heed, his attention too focused on the writing. The names of the upcoming tournaments glare back at him; today, likely to his mother’s disapproval, Luka is in the second round of competitors. There will be no audience-filled room to witness the slaughter – unfortunate, but there’s nothing he can do to fix that. The name across from his is some anonymous backwater – Beowyn? Luka scoffs and shakes his head. No one named their children after the old beasts anymore.

The man, whose name Luka is now certain starts with a J, says, “Xyla Mobiele? Who is she?”

Before Luka can respond, an all too familiar voice says, “Not a who – a what.”

Luka’s lip curls as Evland Childes, the only other to ever receive a perfect score on the Bombani Exam all Siacchi children are required to take, approaches at a saunter. The man is incapable of walking with any other stride – his shoulders always somewhat slumped, lips half curled into a smirk. The crowds of competitors, upon seeing him, part with open mouths.

“Danessi Lockehart,” Evland says when he sees Luka, mouth quirking until the smirk is full-grown. He tilts his head back, which he has to do to look down on Luka, so similar are their short heights, dark locks falling from his cheeks. It is unfair how, despite being so rotten on the inside, Evland Childes looks to all the world like a piece of art turned flesh – all cheekbones and sharp angles and curving muscle. Though it has been some three years since Luka last saw Evland, Luka is disappointed to find that age has only honed his rival’s looks to perfection. Some have even said the two of them resemble each other, though every time such a thing is spoken in either of their presences, both turn varying shades of disgusted green.

Evland tells Luka with a smirk, “My mother sends her regards to your mother. May the best woman win, she says.”

More people gather around the three of them, and Luka braces his shoulders beneath the weight of their curious stares.

“Danessi Childes,” Luka replies, his own head tilting back. He hates being looked down upon. “I’ve never once forgotten how considerate your mother is. I’ll relay the message.” Evland’s mother is Linne’s greatest opponent in the Council Member election. Anger at the words – at Evland’s entire existence – dull from years of wear, rolls through him. Luka has more than enough practice to quiet the emotion before it appears in his eyes.

“An it?” the nameless man at Luka’s side repeats, brow furrowed. Luka scowls and scans the bubble of people surrounding them. Already, faces turn in their direction – interested in their infamy and the conversation.

This is not the kind of attention his mother requested.

Deep breaths. Ground yourself. Luka inhales, just as his tutors had drilled into him – just as the Toula taught him – and lowers his eyelids. One mistake could give him away – he could lose it all. More importantly: his mother could lose it all.

He needs to stay calm and look for an opening to escape.

Evland, oblivious to Luka’s mental battle, turns to the other man. “You know – an impyassus.”

The man’s furrowed brow turns from confusion to wide-eyed horror, and though Evland need not go on, he does, because he’s Evland.

“ – or maybe you would know her better as a dog? Because that’s what they are after all – animals, right? Barely better than humans – the same as those barbaric Northern Kiterans.” Evland laughs, glancing about at the crowd. When his eyes land on a pair of competitors, they automatically echo the gesture.

“I didn’t realize they let impyassi play,” the man whose name starts with J says, looking around as if fearing to spot one.

“You must be from the country.” Evland shakes his head. “Those few impyassi that pass the Bombani Exam and aren’t put to manual work in the Gamgy District or made Aiutani – as they should be – are, unfortunately, still allowed to participate in the activities of everyday citizens. Despite lacking the emotional control needed – they could snap at any moment, you know.” Evland snaps his fingers to punctuate this point, and the man actually flinches.

“I’ve never even met one before,” the man says.

That you know of.Luka grits his teeth and forces his clenched fists to relax.

“Oh, but Danessi Lockehart here has, haven’t you?” Evland says, his gaze flickering back to Luka. He has ugly green eyes – like mold. Like slime. They look rotten on his beautiful face.

“You have?”

“He has,” another terribly familiar voice says, and Luka resists the urge to shut his eyes and hope he can wake from this nightmare.

When he faces the scene once more, Xyla Mobiele stands before him, one hand on her hip, the other hanging loose at her side. To the growing crowd around them, she likely looks the picture of calm and poise; her lips are pursed in an easy smile, and her eyes narrowed as if sharing an inside joke.

But Luka knows her – knows her like he thought he knew his own soul. He recognizes the pinch in her dark gaze, the tension in her shoulders. He can see, even from this distance, the flash of color that sparks across her irises, quick and deadly as a flame, turning her brown eyes to amber.

Xyla Mobiele tosses her red hair over her shoulder and bares her teeth in a smile. “Danessi Childes,” she says in a cool voice. “So nice to see you again.”

“Mobiele.”

“The impyassus?” the man Luka now sorely wishes he had never associated himself with squeals in soprano. “I’m supposed to play against you?” He looks Xyla up and down as if she is some giant, not a petite woman with soft curves and stubby legs.

Xyla’s smile grows some fang. “In the flesh.” Her eyes flicker to the board showing the upcoming matches. “And you’re my opponent?” She examines the man, looking at him the way one would a piece of fruit that has sat out in the sun for too long – as if searching for oozes. Her attention skims over Luka as she glares at Evland, and Luka’s heart squeezes. “Guess I’ll see you in the final round then, Danessi Childes,” she says.

“Bold to think someone won’t take you out before then,” Evland snaps.

“Don’t speak to her like that,” Luka growls unthinkingly.

Xyla shoots him a poisonous look, a look that he can read far too well: don’t fight my battles for me.

Then fight better,Luka thinks as he narrows his eyes.

Evland turns his leer on Luka. “What are you going to do about it?”

Luka’s mouth flies open to respond, but before the words can leave his tongue, a gong sounds and all the players jump. It’s time for the first match – if players are not in their seats within the next five minutes, they will be marked as automatically forfeiting the round.

The crowd knotted around Luka, Xyla, and Evland loosens. Those participating in the initial round of matches peel away to find their tables. The paper-runners are finally allowed entrance to the competition chambers, a half dozen today. Their eyes scan the crowd, raking across the slowly filling tables, the scarlet walls towering above them all, the platform overlooking the playing floor – searching for faces that will win them headlines. They immediately beeline toward Evland – and Luka.

Xyla sighs at the paper-runners’ approach and spins on her heel. “Come now, little man,” she says to her opponent. “It’s time for me to play with you.”

“I’m taller than you are!” the nameless man replies.

“Maybe in bones, but not in spirit.”

Xyla tosses a look over her shoulder at Luka, her lip curled. “Don’t have too much fun without me, boys,” she says to him.

Don’t you dare protect me, her eyes scream at Luka.

Despite the hostile message, the weight of her gaze does odd things to his injured heart.

Luka looks away.

The first pair of paper-runners arrives. The dark haired man asks, “Are you two playing each other in the next round? What are your thoughts on a match with Danessi Lockehart, Danessi Childes? Who do you think would win?”

Evland laughs, the sound like oil to the fire of Luka’s anger. “Who do I think would win?” he repeats. “Ridiculous. The only one who could possibly pose a challenge to me – the highest ranking Cesse player in this country – is that animal over there.” He jerks his chin in the direction of Xyla. The only sign she has heard the comment is the slight stiffening of her shoulders, but her even strides do not pause. Evland continues, “Just goes to show how untalented this generation is.”

The paper-runner scribbles furiously on his notepad. Heart pounding in his ears and heat warming his cheeks, Luka takes another deep breath.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

A mustached paper-runner swings toward him, eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. “What do you say to that, Danessi Lockehart?”

Luka licks his lips, reply loaded and face trained perfectly: a patient – almost indulgent – smile for the foolhardy Evland. It’s a look that’s been practiced endlessly before mirrors and warped glass.

But then Evland interjects, “You’ll see what I mean when the speeches open for the Council Members tomorrow and Linne Lockehart tries to steal my mother’s hard-earned spot. That lack of talent? It runs in the Lockehart line.” Evland leans close to the paper-runners, who lean closer to him in turn. “You’ve heard, haven’t you? That the youngest Lockehart has failed the Bombani Exam’s pretests? Must just be another animal like that thing over there.”

A couple of paper-runners gasp, and the scratch of pens on paper grows louder.

Rage ignites in Luka so fast and so fierce he cannot contain it.

How dare he.

How dare he speak of Xyla in such a way. How dare he speak of his mother like that.

And worse – deeper than the anger – is a cutting fear: how does he know about Cassian?

Dimly, he is aware of the way his nails lengthen and cut into his palms, drawing blood – of the way his teeth stretch in his mouth, almost too large for his jaw. He has just enough sense to cast his eyes to the ground and wait one second, two seconds, three seconds, before speaking.

Evland watches with interest. “Perhaps it’s best for you to withdraw, Luka,” he advises. “The Bombani Exam scores were likely a fluke – you’re really no better than your idiot brother, are you? You wouldn’t want to bring any further embarrassment to your family.”

Evland’s words have the opposite effect: it’s like Luka has been doused in ice water. His mother. The speech tomorrow. He can’t lose control now – here – not after everything he has done to get to this point.

Luka bites his cheek until his mouth fills with iron and squashes everything down and away. Evland is wrong – it was no fluke that Luka got a perfect score on the Bombani Exam. Luka will be the perfect son. He will be the perfect would-be Cesse champion.

He will make his mother happy – proud.

A plan rises in his thoughts – a plan that will keep his family strong. A plan that will allow Luka the opportunity to remove this bigoted ass from the tournament entirely.

Even with this drive, his words still emerge in a barely human snarl as he speaks: “You speak big words for someone who is going to lose to me tonight.”

“Tonight?” Evland laughs. “Are you confused, Danessi Lockehart? Nerves gone to your head?”

“Yes. Tonight.” Luka inhales and exhales so forcefully, he wonders if he is going to force his lungs through his nostrils. “I challenge you, Danessi Evland Childes. You speak terrible rumors and you attempt to sully my family’s good name. I cannot allow you to do such things.” Luka pauses, raising his head when his racing heart finally slows. He allows the grin to spread across his face, lips pressed tight to hide his teeth. “I fear that only one controlled by powerful emotions – jealousy, anger – would speak such words. I challenge you to prove your intellect. I challenge you to prove your control.”

Again, gasps ripple through the paper-runners and eyes dart back and forth between the two men. Tournament contestants crane their necks from their tables.

Evland’s fine features warp with rage. “How dare you?”

“If you do not accept, I will be forced to share with these good people,” Luka nods at the paper-runners around them, “that Danessi Evland Childes is mentally unfit – after all, who would be afraid to defend their own honor? Who would be afraid to prove their control?”

Evland’s nostrils flare, before he masters his expression. “Fine,” he says, and then a light flickers in his eyes. “On one stipulation: as challenged, I get to set the victory prize.”

“I will not stop you.”

“When I win, you will withdraw from the tournament.” Evland’s smile is huge.

The anxiety that shoots through Luka is painful; his mother made him wait too long to attempt Cesscounthe’s Tournament, which took place once every five years. Contestants above twenty-one are not allowed to compete, as there is little point in introducing anyone older into apprenticeships. Should Luka not win the title this year, he will not have another chance.

Not for the first time, Luka wishes he could go back in time and shake his mother – demand that she allow him to display his intellect sooner. Had she done so, he would have surely brought fame and fortune to the Lockhart name – but now…

Evland’s grin grows wider. Luka has hesitated too long.

“Fine by me,” Luka forces himself to say.

“Happy to eliminate you sooner.”

“Meet me at midnight. South of Hyacinth Square.”

“In the Gamgy District? What – are you going to have me jumped by some hired beggar outside the walls, Lockehart?”

Luka raises his chin. “I don’t need anything beyond my own wit to beat you.”

He is proud of how the words are firm as they leave him; how they betray none of the knotting in his gut, of the shake in his hands. He knows that his eyes are clear and blue as a summer sky. His tutors would be proud.

Evland’s smile grows hard. “I look forward to my victory.” He spins to the paper-runners. “I assume you all caught that? Be there for the money shot – Childes Beats Forever Second Best Lockehart – Again. The perfect headline for the morning of your mother’s speech, don’t you think, Danessi Lockehart?”

Luka’s saved from having to respond by a second gong – the next round of Cesse matches are about to begin. Relief washes over him.

Mercifully, the room snaps to silence. Luka turns with the group of paper-runners and Evland to face the balcony above them all as Council Head Dawls approaches the railing, stepping into beams of morning sunlight. The woman is tall and stately, her dark hair shorn so near to her skull it looks like fuzz. She pastes only the smallest of smiles on her perfectly composed face as she addresses them:

“Players of the 72nd Cesscounthe Cesse Tournament, thank you for coming here today, and congratulations on your soon to be second match of this elite game. We the Council Members of Siacchi appreciate your intellect and your time. Before I allow the next round of matches to begin, I am sorry to say I have… tragic… news to report.”

The quiet in the room takes on a tense hum as Dawls swallows, shifting her weight. Luka already knows what she will say before she parts her lips. “I will keep matters brief. You are our bright future. You have all heard the rumors of Northern Kitera, and I am here to tell you: it is true. They have breached our northern borders.”

Murmurs creep through the room and a different kind of fear, a quiet, disbelieving fear, grips Luka. Images of the terrible Northerners flash through his mind; always bare-chested despite the cold, emotions wild and untamed, lips pulled into an animalistic snarl. Barbarians by any other name, the Kiterans were supposed to be monsters to scare children into disobedience, not enemies all but pounding down Cesscounthe’s supposedly impenetrable walls.

“How dare they tempt us to break the vow of nonviolence,” Evland hisses next to Luka, and for the first time in his existence, Luka finds himself agreeing.

Dawls continues, “Our greatest strategists are working tirelessly to ensure you and all of our citizens’ safety, and our Aiutani will help us uphold our vow of pacifism. However, should the time come, know that we will look to you, our would-be Cesse Champions. You are the brightest minds of our young generation, and when these final rounds conclude… your country will need you.”

Dawls’ gaze combs through the crowd. She pauses when her eyes meet Luka’s. “Will you answer the call of Cesse and Thought?”

“The call is all I’ve ever known,” Luka and the room answer in unison. Pride roots in the cool fear shivering in Luka’s breast, and images of muscled giants pounding against the walls of the inner Cesscounthe districts melt away.

Luka’s city is the brightest gem in all of Siacchi. They will find a way out of this, he has no doubt. And he will do everything in his power to help.

Dawls’ lips curl into an almost maternal smile. “I expected nothing less.” She tips her head, but before she releases them to their matches, she adds, “With that said – you, our young Cesse players, are too valuable to lose. Take care in the days that come. The North draws too close. Cesscounthe will be imposing a curfew. Those found out after dark will receive strict punishments.”

Discontent rolls through the crowd, and Dawls bows her head. “I realize this is stifling, but it is for your own safety. The Northerners are monsters. We do not know what they will do to our people should they break through the inner walls. Please remain indoors come nightfall and do not tread past Hyacinth Square. Understood?”

This time, the assent that rises is begrudging, but assent nevertheless.

Luka swallows, his eyes flickering to Evland. For half a second, Luka wonders if Evland will call off their match.

Evland’s jaw flexes, and, as if sensing Luka’s eyes, his gaze rises. Don’t be a coward, he mouths to Luka before spinning on his heel and striding off.

Perfect.

Dawls is being overcautious. Luka has nothing to fear. The walls of Cesscounthe have not fallen in some century and a half, during which the Siacchi have observed their vow of nonviolence with ease. Luka knows this city better than he knows himself: his home will always be safe for him.

Besides, Luka told his mother he would get her the attention she needs. With this midnight match, it’s certain he’ll get her name on the headlines for the paper tomorrow.

He just hopes it will be a story touting his victory.