Page 162 of Shadows in Bloom

Confidence.

Their glares met once more, molton jade between thick curly lashes.

“Final round!” The herald called. “Two points for House Novar to zero points for House Damaryan. Will our champion extend his reputation of golden boy?”

The crowd cheered and Astor called out in a wild cry, his lance high in the air.

“Come on, baby girl, one last round then you can rest,” he muttered to the horse, rubbing her cheek, before clacking his usual command to advance. Fast. They rode as if being caught in a whirlwind, advancing in a flash, and Astor’s ears rushed with the sound of waves—with the sound of the thrill. His lance struck forward only to be met with Illias’s shield for the very first time. The audience erupted as the horses lowered their speed and Astor pulled back swiftly, only to attack again. He held out his shield, eyes widening in surprise as he felt the tip of the lance bouncing off against his wooden armour. So the Damaryan had finally shown his teeth.

“Oh, you really are looking for entertainment then, are you?” He growled, amusement replaced by annoyance in a snap as he realized that he was about to lose face in front of the entire nobility.

Illias said nothing, his lips tightly pressed together as he kept his eyes on the lance he had collided with Astor’s shield. The tip stuck in the wood. He had attacked at last, but now it was stuck and unable to retrieve it since Astor forced his horse closer to the enclosure, shrinking their distance. From this close, he could see the terror in the Damarayan’s green eyes—he must have known what was about to happen, and Astor smiled while showing off the irony, the amusement in the situation.

Too bad the pretty thing was no match to him.

Holding up his lance, Astor kept his gaze fixed on Illias. “In case it wasn’t clear,” he rasped, smirking at the way the Damaryan frantically tried to pull his lance free. It was useless. “I will make your life hell.” Then he struck his lance against the boy’s shield, the blow enough to make the board clatter out of the boy’s hand and onto the ground. Then, just because he could, he tapped both shoulders of his opponent—who was still yanking on the lance, plush lips pursed into a fine line of concentration—enjoying the ringing sound of victory.

“We have a winner!” Called out the herald, and the people cheered. They raised their glasses, requesting more—always requesting more—because they were noble and so they would. Around them horses galloped, Novarian novitiates calling out a battle cry.

Péthane gia ména, o polemistí.

In the heart of the arena, by the roped-off enclosure, Astor and Illias were still caught staring at each other, Illias’s lance stuck in Astor’s shield.

The Damaryan glared at him, fear having been replaced by hatred, his lips pinched and his cheeks flushed as he finally managed to pull the tip free.

“The games have come to an end,” the herald declared. “It’s now time for all our contestants to come out and receive the massive applause they deserve. We’ll hand out prizes and then, ladies and gentlemen, Nethyr wishes to invite you all to the celebrations the Academy has organized to officially open the new school year.”

Everywhere around them, people applauded. Astor looked up, searched, then found his brother. But Fabiano wasn’t looking at him. No, his eyes were focused on the tunnel behind him, on the approaching riders in their effortless formation of two. They wore that same green and metallic warrior gear Illias did, every inch of skin covered from their necks down to their ankles. As they entered the arena they split up and formed a single, tight circle around Basil, effectively enclosing him beneath their presence.

“Aww, how noble of you to come out and protect your friend,” Cosmo taunted as he rode by on his black mare. “And you, Lyssipos, are a true friend.”

Astor grimaced absentmindedly. He was tired. And fascinated, he couldn’t help it. He stared at the Damaryan’s lances that had those similar unreadable curls imprinted in steel. He listened to their silence, because they hadn’t uttered a single word ever since they made their appearance today. He admired their serene beauty, those lush, golden sweeps of hair as they now lined up following the example of the other novitiates, and their strange courage despite them not having partaken at the games. The girl was clearly shaken, her chest was heaving and her face was flushed with shed tears.

Cosmo looked victorious, his dark eyes shining with devilish delight.

You can’t pick my rider, it rang through Astor. “You can’t—” He shook his head. The words were stuck in his throat, held down by pride. Still, he regretted having given away the honour of the Nomos Doulos, even if it was to his best friend.

Oreon led the Novarians as they made their round on horseback and, standing on their stirrups, and waved at the crowd.

Around them, flowers were thrown at their feet, and the dynamic rhythm of drum rolls made their appearance, bringing the party directly to the elated crowd.

Astor lifted his hand when he caught Cosmo’s eyes. “Sisto,” he said. “We line up like the others, show them the respect they deserve.”

For a good show was all about traditions.

Lined up in a straight line of matching colours, accompanied by their nation’s flag, stood the representatives of all five nations, 52 novitiates in total.

“The Novarian Leopard officially requested to respect the Nomos Doulos,” the herald said. He stood in front of the empty flag poles with the leaders of each nation at his back. “And the board has granted that request. The claiming will be valid for 48 hours, until classes officially start.” He gestured for Astor to come forward. “May the champion choose carefully.”

Someone whispered softly, but aside from that, it was quiet. This was, without a doubt, the part everyone feared the most. It was the first proof of human cruelty that was waiting for them at the Academiae Scientia, mostly because of its misinterpretation by the families that stood around and watched.

Originally used as punishment in the ancient days, the Nomos Doulos had been meant to acknowledge—and correct. Today, it was meant to disgrace those who had not come for help in times of need.

Astor slowly made his way past the row of novitiates, taking his time to look each and every one of them in the eye. Each nation seemed to defend their position with a different expression. Their neighbours in the west, House Akotan, had nothing to fear, and they knew it. There was calm wariness, accompanied with trust. When the barbarians had come, they had fought a similar battle. Their warriors had proven to uphold relentless determination, and had used their strong fleet to their advantage.

House Staljord. Astor faced their hero, Agmundr, who scowled at him, and his lips ticked up in amusement. Oh, he remembered.

“It would be so easy to choose you as my dog,” Astor’s voice was barely a whisper, but Agmundr’s hand shot up in reflex and he let out a growl, only to be reassured in their own northern tongue by his right-hand, Agnar.

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