judgment by Brullo. Whoever had performed the worst would be sent packing.
To his credit, Grave held up well against Cain, even though she saw how his knees trembled from the effort. Nox, standing beside her, hissed as Cain shoved into Grave and sent him staggering back.
Cain smiled throughout the entire thing, barely panting. Celaena clenched her hands into fists, pushing them hard against her ribs. In a flash of steel, Cain had his blade at Grave’s throat, and the pockmarked assassin bared his rotting teeth at him. “Excellent, Cain,” Brullo said, clapping. Celaena struggled to control her breathing.
“Look out, Cain,” Verin said from beside her. The curly-headed thief grinned at her. She hadn’t been thrilled when it had been announced she was to spar against Verin. But at least it wasn’t Nox. “Little lady wants a piece of you.”
“Watch yourself, Verin,” Nox warned, his gray eyes burning.
“What?” Verin said. Now the other Champions—and everyone else—were turning to them. Pelor, who had been lingering nearby, retreated a few steps. Smart move. “Defending her, are you?” Verin taunted. “Is that the bargain? She opens her legs, and you keep an eye on her during practice?”
“Shut your mouth, you damned pig,” Celaena snapped. Chaol and Dorian pushed off from where they both leaned against the wall, coming closer to the ring.
“Or what?” Verin said, nearing her. Nox stiffened, his hand drifting to his sword.
But Celaena refused to back down. “Or I’ll rip out your tongue.”
“That’s enough!” Brullo barked. “Take it out in the ring. Verin. Lillian. Now.”
Verin gave her a snakelike smile, and Cain clapped him on the back as he entered the chalk-etched circle, drawing his sword.
Nox put a hand on her shoulder, and out of the corner of her eye, she spied Chaol and Dorian watching them closely. She ignored them.
It was enough. Enough of the pretending and the meekness. Enough of Cain.
Verin raised his sword, shaking his blond curls out of his eyes. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She stalked toward him, keeping her sword sheathed at her side. Verin’s grin widened as he lifted his blade.
He swung, but Celaena struck, ramming her fist into his arm, sending the blade soaring through the air. In the same breath, her palm hit his left arm, knocking it aside, too. As he staggered back, her leg came up, and Verin’s eyes bulged as her foot slammed into his chest. The kick sent him flying, and his body crunched as it hit the floor and slid out of the ring, instantly eliminating him. The hall was utterly silent.
“Mock me again,” she spat at Verin, “and I’ll do that with my sword the next time.” She turned from him, and found Brullo’s face slack. “Here’s a lesson for you, Weapons Master,” she said, stalking past him. “Give me real men to fight. Then maybe I’ll bother trying.”
She strode away, past the grinning Nox, and stopped before Cain. She stared up at his face—a face that might have been handsome had he not been a bastard—and smiled with sweet venom. “Here I am,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Just a little lapdog.”
Cain’s black eyes gleamed. “All I hear is yapping.”
Her hand itched toward her sword, but she kept it at her side. “Let’s see if you still hear yapping when I win this competition.” Before he could say more, she stalked to the water table.
Only Nox dared speak to her after that. Surprisingly, Chaol didn’t reprimand her, either.
•
When she was safely back in her rooms after the Test, Celaena watched the snowflakes drift from the hills beyond Rifthold. They swept toward her, harbingers of the storm that was to come. The late afternoon sun, trapped beneath a wall of pewter, stained the clouds a yellowish gray, making the sky unusually bright. It felt surreal, as if the horizon had disappeared beyond the hills. She was stranded in a world of glass.
Celaena left the window, but stopped before the tapestry and its depiction of Queen Elena. She had often wished for adventure, for old spells and wicked kings. But she hadn’t realized it would be like this—a fight for her freedom. And she’d always imagined that there’d be someone to help her—a loyal friend or a one-armed soldier or something. She hadn’t imagined she would be so . . . alone.
She wished Sam were with her. He’d always known what to do, always had her back, whether she wanted him to or not. She would give anything—anything in the world—to have him still with her.
Her eyes burned,