Page 19 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Legends say it’s modeled after the Angel’s original design,” Cyren said, appearing behind them.

“Original design?” Emmeline asked.

“The entire tournament is based on one Valyrie held thousands of years ago to select her personal guard, but the location of her original arena has been lost to time. This one was rebuilt based on historical accounts.”

Was Emmeline mistaken, or was there a note of concern in Cyren’s tone?

Before she could question it, the General added, “I retrieved your guards.”

Alana groaned, but Cyren waved over two muscular men dressed in the ivory and silver regalia of Valyn City Guard.

One had to be in his third century, neatly trimmed grey scruff lining his disgruntled expression. The second was decades younger, eyes lighting when they met Alana’s.

“Graves,” Cyren introduced, gesturing to the older man who bobbed his head in a firm nod. “And Eston. This is Emmeline. And I believe you know Alana already.”

“Sure do,” Eston said, stare still on Alana, but she rolled her eyes when he flashed her a charming grin. Graves grumbled beneath his breath and elbowed his partner. Shaking his head, Eston added to Emmeline, “We’re honored to be chosen as your guards.”

“I can see that,” Emmeline answered. Agitation buzzed beneath her skin at being assigned protection, but she gripped the chain looped beneath her sleeve, Roremar’s ring hidden around her wrist since the neckline of her gown drooped too low to conceal it. “Thank you.”

“We’d best all find our seats,” Cyren said, sending the guards to stand in the corridor outside the box as Balmour Rocarri, the soon-to-be Chancellor of the Starsearchers, entered.

His presence sent a ripple through the group, every head turning as he walked up the aisle and greeted his guests.

He didn’t have the polished, attention-demanding appearance of Aldryn Falliare, the Master of the Lyra Temple Academy and Roremar’s uncle, whom Emmeline hadn’t heard from since her arrival in Valyn. Rocarri’s black hair was cropped close to his head, brown eyes warming when they landed on her. Barrel-chested, muscular, and maybe six feet tall, with his white and silver robes, he gave the impression of one of the soft creatures Emmeline met out in the jungle. The ones that never hurt her if she didn’t cross them.

Rocarri stopped before Emmeline and Alana, shaking each of their hands. “Ladies.”

“Chancellor,” they greeted in unison.

“Are you two ready for the excitement?” His eye glinted as it landed on Emmeline. Discomfort had her squirming and her throat drying out, though she wasn’t sure why.

Thankfully, Alana answered, “Yes, I believe we are, sir.”

“Wonderful.” He glanced around the arena, waving a hand decorated in various constellation tattoos. “Seats are filling quickly. Why don’t you two stand in the front row near me, and we’ll begin shortly?”

Emmeline exchanged a questioning glance with Alana. “Why, sir?”

“The view will be best from up there,” Rocarri said as he turned.

Hesitantly, they followed, finding a vacant spot a few feet behind him.

Silver pennants waved at the perimeter of the box and the peaks of the arena’s arches, the material shining like the trim of Rocarri’s robes when he stepped to the podium at the front of the platform.

“How did the Chancellor find out about the races anyway?” Emmeline whispered, taking the sparkling wine Cyren passed her and Alana. The stem was cold in her grip, grounding.

“Through some texts that were recently uncovered.” Alana dropped her voice as she went on. “He and his council have kept a lot of the details quiet, but I overheard them saying the previous Chancellor had hoarded veritable vaults of information.”

Emmeline scoffed. “Powerful men always breed secrets.”

As if on cue, Rocarri’s voice rang out, amplified through a horn atop the podium, “Welcome, all!”

A wave of cheers rolled through the crowd, the Chancellor holding up his hand to quell them.

“I am delighted to inaugurate the first—and hopefully not the last—Tournament of the Angel Valyrie.”

Another raucous bout of cheers. Emmeline scanned the crowd, her stomach turning. Fists pounded in the air and feet stomped hungrily. Even here, in their private box, a feral delight buzzed on every whisper, trickling over her skin like pesky flies. Gleaming eyes continually flicked toward her.

Why was the energy so ravenous, ready to devour?