​Chapter 10_The Wild Card

Pov: Tarni

The hard floor of the academy cellar pressed against my back, but the heat coming from Banjo’s body behind me ​was even more uncomfortable.

You’re breathing too high in your chest, Kael,” Banjo murmured, his voice a low vibration that rattled straight through my ribs. “Do that up here, and a blade will find the gap between your armor before you even register the steel.”

​I clamped my jaw shut, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth to stop the tremor in my teeth. Kael. He was calling me Kael. I had to remember that. I wasn't Tarni the sister who had spent her entire life tucked away behind embroidered silk screens and quiet hallways. Right now, under the suffocating weight of my twin brother’s leather doublet and the thick mud smeared across my jawline, I had to be the young lordling who never flinched.

​If Banjo caught even a hint of the softer line of my neck or the wrong rhythm of my pulse, the lie wouldn't just unravel it would bleed out right here on the damp flagstones.

​“I’m fine,” I rasped, forcing my voice into the lower, gravelly register I’d practiced until my throat bled in secret.

​Banjo let out a short, rough laugh that blew warm breath across the shell of my ear. “You’re about as fine as a stray hound surrounded by wolves, kid.”

​Around us, the cellar hummed with the thick, foul stench of sweat, cheap ale, and copper. It wasn't the pristine training yard of the High Citadel with its polished granite walls and silver-trimmed targets. This was the Under-Vault, an unscheduled, illicit pit buried beneath the academy’s ancient foundations, where guards turned a blind eye for a palmful of brass and students gambled away their monthly stipends on illegal blood sports.

​In the center of the subterranean hall stood a massive, scarred slab of ironwood, pitted with hundreds of deep, splintered gouges. Torchlight flickered wildly against the damp walls, casting long, writhing shadows that made the crowd around the ring look like a pack of starved specters.

​Banjo hadn't asked if I wanted to come. When the midnight bells had chimed, he’d simply kicked open the door to my quarters, tossed a heavy, balanced throwing knife onto my narrow cot, and hauled me down three flights of hidden spiral stairs. To test your nerve, he’d said with that infuriating, crooked grin. A highborn pup like you needs a little dirt in his marrow.

​“The target isn’t going to wait for you to find your balance,” Banjo whispered, his hand sliding down my arm.

​His fingers were rough, callous-scared, and hot so violently hot against my cold, clammy skin that a sharp shiver spiked down my spine. I stiffened instantly, trying to pull away, but he tightened his grip, pressing his chest firmer against my shoulders to lock me in place. The solid, heavy mass of his body enveloped mine. I could feel the hard ridge of his ribs, the steady, unbothered thud of his heart, and the sun-kissed warmth rising off his bare skin despite the dank chill of the cellar.

​He reached down, engulfing my knuckles with his own, forcing my fingers to adjust around the bone handle of the balance-blade.

​“Feel that?” he asked, his chin almost resting on my shoulder. “You’re gripping the hilt like a drowning man holding a rope. You kill the blade’s flight before it even leaves your palm. Hold it like a secret, Kael. Light. Dangerous.”

​My pulse hit my throat like a hammer. My mind raced, terrified that if he shifted an inch lower, he’d feel the binding wrapped tight around my breasts, or realize that the shoulders beneath his grip were far too narrow for the male heir of House Vane. Every instinct yelled at me to shove him off, to pull a dagger and put space between us. But to pull away now would be a confession of weakness. Kael would have sneered. Kael would have shoved back with a crude joke.

​Instead, I froze, caught between the terrifying thrill of his proximity and the agonizing dread of discovery.

​“You talk too much, Banjo,” I snapped, leaning back just enough to hit his chest with the back of my head, trying to mask my panic with arrogance.

​Banjo chuckled again, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated against my skin. “And you don't listen enough.”

​Across the pit, a towering third-year fighter named Vane no relation, just a monster with a jagged scar running from his lip to his ear threw his blade. The heavy steel whistled through the smoke-thick air and slammed into the wood with a deafening CRACK, buried two inches deep right into the painted red center.

​The cellar erupted in wild jeers and heavy thumping of tankards against stone. Coins clinked as bets were violently settled.

​Vane turned toward us, spitting onto the stone floor. His dark eyes locked onto Banjo, then slid slowly over to me, full of malicious amusement.

​“Who’s the pint-sized runt, Banjo?” Vane roared over the din, wiping his bloody knuckles on his trousers. “You bringing your little sister down here to clean up the rust?”

​My heart stopped. Cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. Did he know? Could he tell?

​Banjo didn't even blink. He stepped slightly in front of me, putting his broad, sun-bronzed shoulder between me and the crowd, though he didn't drop his hand from my wrist.

​“This is Kael,” Banjo called back, his voice echoing smoothly over the rowdy crowd. “And he’s got fifty silver pieces that say he can cleave your knife right down the spine before you finish your next drink.”

​My eyes widened in horror. Fifty silver? I didn't have fifty silver, and more importantly, I hadn't thrown a weighted iron blade in darkness like this in months.

​“Banjo, you idiot,” I hissed under my breath, trying to wrench my wrist free. “Are you insane?”

​“Probably,” Banjo muttered down to me, his dark eyes sparkling with a dark, thrill-seeking light under the golden torchfire. “Now prove you belong at this academy, little bird, or we both lose a month’s wages and a couple of fingers.”

​The crowd pressed in closer, sensing blood. The air grew impossibly thick, smelling of ozone, stale sweat, and the faint metallic tang of old blood dried into the cellar floor. The pressure built in my chest until I could barely draw air. Every nerve ending in my body felt raw, exposed to the subterranean chill and the terrifying, magnetic heat of the boy standing right beside me.

​Vane sneered, tossing a purse of coin onto the filthy wagering table. “Fifty it is. Let the soft-handed pup throw.”

​Banjo stepped back, but not far. He remained right at my elbow, a looming shadow of bronze skin and dangerous confidence. “Center ring, Kael. Right through his steel. Don't think. Just let it fly.”

​I raised the knife. The iron was heavy, cold, and cruel. My reflection stared back at me in the dull sheen of the blade darkened eyes, smudged cheeks, a girl playing a dead boy’s game. If I missed, I was a laughingstock, exposed to the brutal hierarchy of the academy’s lowest depths. If I hit… I bought another day inside the suit of armor I was condemned to wear.

I took a deep breath, just as Banjo had taught me, and fixed my eyes on the small piece of metal sticking out of the wood in the distance.

I pulled my arm back, moved my body into position, and threw the blade.

The blade flew from my hand with a sharp sound. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down. The cellar went quiet, and I could hear nothing as the blade flew through the dim light from the torches.

​The steel struck. Wood splintered violently. Vane’s dagger vibrated violently as my blade wedged itself deep into the ironwood right beside it, shearing off a sliver of his knife's bone handle.

​A beat of stunned silence fell over the pit.

​Then, Banjo threw his head back and let out a booming, triumphant roar of laughter, clapping a heavy, burning hand onto my shoulder and yanking me into his side. “Look at that! The pup’s got fangs!”

​The crowd erupted into chaotic noise, but the brief surge of relief in my stomach died instantly.

​From the far dark corner of the cellar, beyond the flickering reach of the wall torches, a slow, deliberate clapping began.

​The rowdy men fell quiet, stepping backward one by one, cleared out of the path of the shadowed figure stepping forward from the archway. The air in the room suddenly turned freezing cold, heavy with a suffocating, ancient magic that made the torch flames sputter and turn a pale, sickly violet.

​A tall figure clad in the silver-and-black velvet of the High Inquisitors stepped into the dim light. His eyes, cold and milky white, locked directly onto me.

​“Impressive marksmanship,” the Inquisitor rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves dragging across a grave. He held up a small, glowing crystal orb—a Truth-Glass. The magical stone within was pulsing with a harsh, glaring crimson light, pointed straight at my heart.

​“A fine throw for a boy,” the Inquisitor whispered, a terrible, cruel smile spreading across his pale lips. “Too bad the glass only bleeds red when a woman wears the heir’s ring.”