Hendry was also the only one absent from this spontaneous gathering, though Hendry typically disappeared whenever there were serious discussions to be had. And, judging from each of the Lowes’ somber expressions, the meeting was to be a serious one. Alistair’s mouth went dry as he avoided the scrutiny of his grandmother’s gaze. He wished he had his brother beside him.
“Alistair,” his mother said gravely. “The Blood Moon has almost passed. The tournament starts tomorrow.”
A mixture of thrill and nerves stirred in Alistair’s chest. It no longer mattered how many tests he’d passed or failed, if he’d botched a curse in front of Agent Yoo. All those hours of study were worth it for this moment. Hendry had always been the favorite: more charming, more handsome, more loved. But Alistair had never been suited to that role, which was why he’d worked so tirelessly for his own.
Champion.
He lifted his chin proudly and sat down on the leather armchair across from them. The six other families had already announced their chosen, and now Alistair would officially join their ranks at last.
“Every generation, we present our champion with a gift.” His mother’s cold tone sounded colder than usual.
“So I am the champion?” Alistair tried to sound level, but his voice cracked. Something about this scene was wrong. In his fantasies about this moment, he’d envisioned pride in his mother’s voice. Alistair had worked tirelessly for this. He was the perfect champion, and the perfect Lowe.
This was his moment, yet he couldn’t help thinking her warmth was still reserved only for his brother.
“Don’t interrupt,” his grandmother snapped at him, and Alistair went rigid. Clearly, Alistair had not been entirely forgiven for the spellmaker incident. The only reason he’d escaped an underage assault charge was the tenuous claim of self-defense.
Alistair looked over his shoulder, wondering when the perfect son would arrive. Hendry would understand what this conversation meant to Alistair. Just his presence, just a smile from him would be enough to fix this very wrong moment.
His mother pulled a ring out of her pocket with a stone as dull and colorless as ash.
“It’s a family heirloom,” she explained. “As old as the tournament itself.”
Although there were no nicks or markings on the stone, something about it did look ancient. Alistair had never seen anything like it. He would remember something so mysterious, so seemingly powerful.
“Blood before all,” she murmured, that saying that had followed Alistair and Hendry their whole lives. Even as they slipped outside the manor grounds for entertainment, they knew none of it mattered. Those excursions were ventures into dreams, into a fantasy where they never truly belonged.
Their reality was the golden light of the setting sun splintering between the barren trees of their estate. It was the sound of hearths crackling and people barely breathing. It was hiding among forgotten alcoves, avoiding the cruel, disapproving faces of their family, who were always stealing Alistair away to shaded rooms and towers of books.
Alistair still remembered the moment when he realized he would become champion. He’d been eight years old, and his uncle had just assigned him reading that already exceeded Hendry’s coursework, though Hendry was one year older. After hours spent locked indoors finishing it, Alistair had finally ventured outside, squinting into summer sunlight, to find his brother lying in a bed of overgrown grass and dandelions, his hair as wild as the weeds.
“It’s because you’re better than me,” Hendry had explained, plucking a flower and holding it before his lips. “And they already know it.”
Alistair had noted that Hendry’s words were a little sharp.
“You know what I mean, don’t you?” Hendry had asked. Then Alistair realized it wasn’t bitterness in his voice—it was worry.
Alistair had stared into the forest surrounding their grounds, and thought of Ilvernath beyond it. The city he barely knew. The only horror story that was real.
The tournament.
“I do,” Alistair had murmured. He hadn’t known what to feel in that moment—terror or pride. The tournament was many years away.
“When you’re not studying, you should come outside. Breathe some fresh air.” He’d handed Alistair the flower. “I heard Mum talking about Aunt Alphina. After you win, I don’t want that to happen to you.”
Then Alistair blew the flower’s seeds away—like a wish. Like a promise.
“It won’t.”
In the present, Alistair’s grandmother placed a firm hand on his mother’s shoulder. Somehow it seemed both a comfort and a threat, and his mother stiffened at the touch.