Auren couldn't shake him; he was pinned, smothered by the Jori’s strength. To tap out was to concede, but to pass out was to be vulnerable.

He struck the dirt and Jori let go at once.

Flopping onto his back, Auren drew in a breath that burned his lungs. He ran the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to clear the blood. He could hear anxious whispers. This was not a fight Jori was supposed to win. The Keishi’s Tournament was meant to be a showcase of his strength under duress, and he’d lost to Councilor Osric’s grandson. Something the councilor could hold over his father’s head for the next half-moon.

The council spoke quietly among themselves; representatives of the Bastion’s Four Pillars sat in a row, close enough that Auren caught the shape of their disapproval even when he missed the words. He didn’t just lose, they’d say. He surrendered.   

A simple majority was all it took for the council to bind his future. His father, the Liege, could break the tie, but a tie was its own failure. Auren didn’t want kept by his father’s will. He wanted the faith of those he’d one day rule. One dissenting vote was all it took for the Bastion to keep calling him a ruler by law, but a stranger by blood. And if he lost the vote the law wouldn’t protect him. 

It would send him the ore mines in Togen. An heir who couldn’t lead his people could still provide for them.

No one would humiliate Auren by offering a hand up, so he pulled himself to his feet. His head level, eyes down. He told himself it was only so he could keep his balance.

Jori approached. His tone unsure, “Thank you for a fine match, Heir.”

Auren forced his eyes up. He knew what tradition demanded he say, but the words wouldn’t come. With the Bastion watching, he swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

“Thank you,” he managed. “For the lesson.”

Jori nodded and turned, leaving him in the fighting circle alone. The sun growing warmer and the silence louder. 

Auren scanned the crowd and found his parents. He couldn’t decide which was worse—his mother’s pity or his father’s disappointment.  He looked away from them both, landing on the Cadre soldiers standing near the circle, among them his personal guard—his Varin—Kai. 

Kai’s expression held neither pity nor disappointment but something else that made Auren straighten. He wiped the blood from his forehead as the people began to walk away. But Kai moved closer.

“You hesitated,” he said. “I’ve trained you better than that.”