“No!” The Payne cousin glared at him. “I thought Grieves could barely even use magick.”
Gavin stepped up between them and leveled his gaze on the Payne boy. “You thought wrong.”
The spell took real effort—neither boy wanted to be restrained—but it was worth it for the reluctant respect that glimmered in their eyes. The knot in Gavin’s chest loosened as Roland Payne took Callista’s hand and murmured something that made her shoulders relax.
Around them, all the wedding attendees seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief, while the cursechasers seemed disappointed. Gavin cast them a disdainful glance. Most looked like typical tourists, but there was one woman among them who stood out. She wore a navy pantsuit, her black hair knotted into a low bun, and she was watching him. Her stare didn’t feel malicious, exactly; it felt like an assessment. Gavin looked away, feeling strangely exposed.
He was about to unfreeze both boys, confident that their fistfight was over, when a member of the Thorburn family hurried over to the brawl—there was no party in Ilvernath the Thorburns weren’t invited to. She was tall and muscular, with pale pink, freckly skin and chestnut brown hair tied in a long braid down her back. Briony Thorburn: a year behind him in Ilvernath’s largest public secondary school. She was the captain of half their sports teams and made a point of being everyone’s friend; just like the rest of her family, her reputation was so polished you could see your reflection in it. The Thorburns hadn’t named their champion yet, but she was the clear favorite.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, her voice syrupy and self-assured.
That was another family trait. Thorburns loved to butt their heads in where they didn’t belong.
Gavin shook his head, glaring at the expensive spellrings adorning her hands. “I have everything under control.”
“Are you sure? I see no guarantee that the boys won’t fight again once they’re released.”
The spellring on her index finger shimmered with power.
A moment later, Gavin hissed with pain as his spell was yanked away. It was a sharp, visceral sensation, like bending back a nail.
The boys shifted from side to side. They could move again, but they weren’t lunging at each other. Instead, they both had the same sheepish expression on their faces.
“Whatever,” muttered Fergus. “I don’t care anymore, anyway.”
“Yeah,” echoed the Payne cousin. “Me neither.”
A moment later, they scampered away to rejoin their families.
Gavin looked at Briony, whose smugness was palpable. “What did you do to them?”
She shrugged, practically yawned. “The Know Your Enemy spell I cast allowed them to see the fight from the other’s perspective. They both realized they were being foolish, so they stopped. If you studied magick more closely, perhaps you’d have a more nuanced roster of spellstones to choose from.”
Gavin felt a surge of irritation, one that only grew as he realized that the crowd’s admiration had shifted from him to Briony.
“I’m the Grieve champion,” Gavin said hotly. “I know how to use magick.”
He’d been hoping for a second flash of respect. But instead, all he saw was pity.
“Well then,” she murmured. “Good luck.”
Gavin turned from Briony’s retreating form and thought of the taunts of his schoolyard bullies, the rage on the Payne cousin’s face, and most of all, the mocking disdain in Osmand Walsh’s voice.
No spellmaker would ever ally with a Grieve.
Gavin couldn’t win this tournament solely on his own merits. But without sponsorships, alliances, or worthwhile instruction, even he knew his prospects were hopeless.
He tilted his head up, stared into the hazy sky.
In less than two weeks, those clouds would turn the crimson color of high magick, like a red-tinged shroud draped over Ilvernath, and the tournament would begin. The Blood Veil would lighten a little bit with every champion’s death, until at last, when only one remained, true day and night would return and seemingly wash all the blood away, just like that.
Gavin needed to believe none of that blood would be his own.
BRIONY THORBURN
The Thorburn family loves nothing as much as they love their own reflections.
A Tradition of Tragedy
The amphitheater at the edge of her family’s estate always made Briony Thorburn feel like she was stepping onto a stage. Cracked stone benches rose in a circle from the mossy ground dotted with wildflowers, ivy twining around the topmost row like a shawl draped around a woman’s shoulders. Normally, the seats would be filled with quarreling families, angry neighbors, and feuding couples, all waiting for the Thorburns to solve their problems.