A wisp of hair blows into my face as I stand just outside the entrance to the training arena.

  Here we go.

  I step through the wide entrance, taking in the round, stone walls and the concrete bleachers that surround a sand pit. Only one section of the bleachers is currently being occupied, and it’s filled with the men I’ll be competing against over the next few months, men who will be trying to kill me just fervently as I’ll be trying to kill them.

  I guess that there are over two hundred competitors here already, and their boisterous chatter dies down the second they spot me.

  I almost freeze, but I grit my teeth and hold my head higher as I strut over to a vacant spot at the end of the bottom row. Fake it ‘til you make it. My false confidence doesn’t prevent the others from staring at me, though, as the murmurs start up again. I try not to wince when the catcalls begin.

  “Since when are tits allowed in?”

  I turn my head, glaring at the burly man who made the comment. He smirks and makes a rude gesture in my direction, and I decide that he will get the honor of being the first to lose his life at my sword.

  The clamoring comes to a halt all of a sudden, and I look over my shoulder to the entrance. One of the tallest men I’ve ever seen is walking in. Well, not walking so much as striding. He moves with a smooth swagger, a deadly grace that hints at the damage he could do and is punctuated by the sword holstered to his hip.

  His onyx hair sways, gently brushing against his shoulders and his back as he lifts his head, his seaweed-green eyes snapping up to meet mine. There’s a slight stagger in his step as he looks me over from head to toe, pausing on the sword at my side rather than my tits. He isn’t just checking me out like the other men. He’s sizing me up, evaluating me as a threat. He immediately soars to the top of my list of people I need to look out for. His strong, angular features make his stare even colder as he turns to look at the other men. I catch sight of the circular tattoo on his neck, identifying him as a caelick—a weak-blood with very little, if any, siel magic. Most are the offspring of one half-blood parent and someone with no cael magic, or of two caelick parents. Caelicks sit at the bottom of the totem pole in Caelumine; they get the worst jobs and the poorest treatment. They’re also the top candidates for the Calling: people willing to do anything to help elevate their families.

  While his marking indicates his low class, the tall man’s clothing and appearance suggest nobility. His clothes are made from the most expensive fabric, his hair groomed to perfection.

  It doesn’t add up.

  My eyes track his movements as he climbs the bleachers to sit in one of the back rows on the side opposite mine, as if he is trying to move as far from me as possible. I turn away.

  The talking starts up again amongst the other competitors, except this time it isn’t about me.

  I guess my tits aren't interesting enough to keep a conversation going for long. I almost let out a laugh, but instead I lean back to eavesdrop on the two men behind me. They’re talking about the mystery man. speak about the mystery man being the favorite and the prince being pissed that he wasn’t just handed the position as his champion.

  Who is this guy, and why didn’t I know about him?

  I turn to investigate the man again, wondering how he could have slipped under Conrad’s radar if he’s so popular and important. We planned for every angle, and we accounted for every person who might come into play.

  The man turns his head, and his hard eyes instantly lock with mine. My breath catches in my chest for a minute as those emerald orbs try to penetrate me. It feels like he’s trying to see through to my soul. My breath pushes shakily through my lungs as I return his stare, studying him just as intently. He’s truly a beautiful man, despite the darkness that obviously surrounds him. I spent the majority of my life around a woman who is literally consumed by darkness, and this man reminds me very much of her, even at a glance.

  I have no doubt that he’s going to be a challenge, but I also know that I can take him on.

  His eyes betray no emotion, making him appear robotic, or maybe just soulless. I wouldn’t be surprised if the latter were true. That would explain why a caelick might be dressed like a member of the royal family. Only the heartless would associate with those people.

  His face moves the slightest fraction, his lips turning down. I rip my gaze away from the dark man, noticing that my heart is beating much faster than earlier.

  Laughter cuts through the chatter, and I follow the noise to a pair of guys approaching. They’re twins, which is obvious from their matching features: icy blue eyes, sharp noses, plump lips. One has a little more scruff on his face, and his brown hair is longer than his brother’s. He’s the one who’s laughing, his eyes full of amusement that I can detect even from a distance. The other brother smirks, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes, and he appears more subdued than his twin. Their clothes, like the dark man’s, suggest royalty, and this confirms my suspicion about the men’s identities.

  The Bae twins.

  Orrael and Orrtyn Bae are the sons of the advisors to King and Queen Fawcett, and the twins follow in their parents’ footsteps as advisors to the prince, Elyjah. The Bae family are at the top of my list, just under the Fawcetts, of people I plan to destroy. As advisors to the Fawcett court, they would have been first to know about the plot to take my family’s throne.

  The scruffier twin’s eyes rake over the crowd, pausing on the dark man a second longer than anyone else. The dark man stares right back, his face still hard as stone, but there’s something soft lurking right beneath the surface in his eyes. The twin’s mouth pulls into a wide, genuine smile before his head starts to turn again. His gaze sweeps right over me at first, but then he pauses and swivels his head back in my direction. His brow raises the slightest fraction before he nudges his twin, who also turns to look at me.

  I wait for the protest and snarky comments, but they never come. Instead, the two just watch me, matching grins on their faces. The scruffy one winks at me, and they go back to conversing amongst themselves.

  Not what I expected.

  The chatter carries on, and I start to wonder where the man of the hour is. He’s got to be here. I mean, this competition exists to determine who will be his champion.

  Another five minutes of chatter pass by. The orange-haired man from the check-in line approaches and sits next to me, the twins continue to laugh, and I catch the dark man shooting me glances.

  Finally, there’s a commotion as everyone gets to their feet. All heads turn to the entrance. A man walks through the arch. Short black hair, silver accents peeking through that have nothing to do with age, smoky gray eyes. The man is just over six feet; he’s not one of the tallest or broadest men I’ve seen, but what he lacks in size, he makes up for in confidence. His shoulders are squared, his back straight, his gait strong and steady.

  The crowd quiets, knowing they’re in the presence of high royalty.

  The crown prince.

  The clean-cut twin clears his throat. When I glance at him, he raises a brow and makes a small gesture at me. Stand up. Shit. Unlike my companions, I have no respect for the royal family, and it shows.

  While the twin’s eyes don’t indicate any anger at my blatant disrespect, they do offer a bit of warning. I stand, dusting off my clothes, and he looks away. I glance around to see if anyone else noticed my hiccup, but everyone seems focused on his highness. Everyone except the dark man. I turn away before I can be sucked into the deep pits of his cold green eyes.

  Then, a steely voice:

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

 

 

  Quirah Casey, Warrior Princess

 

 

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