Page 97 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

The sand pit poured into the courtyard below explodes without warning. A sudden whirlwind rips through the coarse earth, tearing a statuesque female off her feet and hurling her skyward, her body spinning wildly through the air.

My heart vaults into my throat, and a collective gasp shudders through the crowd gathered along the palace railings.

The ground surges upward, magicked stone and sand rising just in time for the female to land in a graceful crouch.

Cheers erupt.

Then, she charges the man whose power lifted her from the ground, sending pebbles and dirt hurtling toward him with a sharp flick of her fingers.

The magical display is breathtaking.

And utterly terrifying.

I woke this morning to a missive from Augustus, insisting on my attendance at the second event of Jason and Daphne’s wedding celebrations.

After the awkwardness of last night's dinner, I’d braced myself for a tense luncheon or perhaps a chilly afternoon tea, ideas I picked up from elaborate stories I used to read about princesses as a child.

But nothing could have prepared me for the reality.

Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention.

Anders slides up next to me, wearing a light-blue tunic that matches the pale hue in his eyes.

“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” He leans his elbows on top of the railing, his expression neutral as he watches the fight below.

I clear my throat. “It is.”

I’ve only used my power as a weapon a handful of times. Each attempt was a battle in itself, my magic straining against the limits of my body.

But the men and women competing below wield their power like a second limb—an extension of themselves they bend and shape with effortless precision.

“Are any of the contestants Fae?” I ask.

“None who are full-blooded.”

Interesting.

A fire wielder catches my attention before I can ask more.

The handsome man with red-gold highlights threaded through his brown hair rubs his hands together, orange fire rippling in the air between his palms, then he thrusts them outward.

Two blazing bolts shoot from his hands and strike his opponent on both shoulders. Smoke curls upward as the small silver discs pinned to the man’s tunic disintegrate on impact.

Anders whistles low. “Two more to go.”

I lift a brow. “Pardon?”

He gestures to the stocky man now stomping out of the sand pit, joining the first contestant that was eliminated from the competition.

I have no idea why the woman quit fighting after the air-wielder knocked her skyward with a forceful gust of wind. She’d looked more than capable of continuing.

“The goal of the contest is to destroy the five talismans pinned to an opponent’s toga,” Anders explains, giving a name to the unusual garments favored in Virendrell. “And to do so without drawing blood.”

“For what purpose?”

“To demonstrate control.” His voice hardens, his gaze never leaving the arena. “To prove you’re an asset to Virendrell and not a liability.”

I frown. “What happens to liabilities?”