The third day of the assessment dawned colder than the first two. The lake had frozen solid overnight, the ice thick and black and etched with patterns that looked like faces if you stared too long. The pine trees on the slopes bent under the weight of the snow, and the wind carried the smell of smoke and iron and the faint copper tang of blood.
Kaelen arrived at the arena before the sun was fully up. The torches were still burning, their flames pale in the growing light, and the knights stood motionless at their posts, their white-gold armor glowing like bones in a grave.
He found a place at the edge of the field, away from the other houses, away from the whispers and the speculation. Sprite was on his shoulder, the beast's ember eyes half-closed, its tail curled around his neck like a scarf. The bond hummed in his chest, warm and steady, and he knew Lysander was somewhere nearby even though he could not see him.
He had been close by ever since he saw tears in his eyes.
