Page 67 of A War of Crowns

A discordant melody of cheers and boos heralded his victory.

Aldric basked in both equally.

Shouldering his glaive, he turned to face the Elmorian royal box yet again. When his one-eyed gaze locked with the queen’s, he greeted her tense expression with a mocking bow.

Better luck next time, perhaps.

“Aldric!”

That scream came from somewhere behind him and it came a split second too late. Before he could react, something hard and heavy thwacked against the side of his head.

Aldric reeled. His helmet careened free.

Far away, a triumphant roar swelled. The muffled sound mingled with the pounding of blood in his ears and the ringing of his skull. Aldric staggered. His vision was a haze of dark spots and dry earth.

The latter approached too swiftly.

No.

He refused to lose. Everyone always expected the little man to lose.

Gritting his teeth, Aldric caught himself by bracing the butt of his polearm against the ground. Dark spots still swam across his one good eye. His breath hitched. His stomach churned. His head throbbed.

But he ignored it all in favor of shifting his weight to his back foot. His body twisted. He faced the now upright knight.

And he punched the foolish boy straight in the gut with his glaive, hitting that soft spot beneath his breastplate again.

Dacre leaned into the blow, pain written on his features. And Aldric misjudged the swing that followed.

He meant to crack the boy’s shoulder and drive him to his knees. He just wanted the Elmorian to submit. He wanted him to concede defeat.

Instead, he hit Dacre with all of his might across the side of the knight’s unprotected head. He crumpled instantly.

“Tristan!” a woman screamed while the boy thrashed on the ground like a person possessed. His limbs shook. His eyes rolled back into his head.

Aldric stood there, dumbfounded.

Where was Kyn? Kyn would know what to do.

He turned to call for his Son to help when the Queen of Elmoria herself suddenly shoved him out of the way. He stumbled and nearly fell all over again, the ground pitching dangerously beneath him.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” the queen snarled, as protective as a mother usuru with a hatchling. She dropped to her knees next to her fallen champion and pleaded, “Tristan? Tristan, answer me.”

But the boy didn’t answer. He said nothing at all, not even once he ceased his thrashing. In the wake of that spasm, the young knight lay there between them. Silent.

Still.

Aldric drew in a ragged breath and looked away. Kyn and Calix raced toward him. His Sons would be there any moment.

In what time he had left alone with the queen, he managed a hoarse, “I’m sorry.” But when he looked back her way, he found her gazing at him with such hatred, the sheer heat of it made him take a full step backward.

“You killed him,” the queen accused through trembling lips.

Aldric shook his head. “No.” He hadn’t meant to kill the boy. He hadn’t wanted to kill the boy. Dacre couldn’t be dead.

“Your Highness,” Kyn gasped when his men reached him, breathless in the sweltering heat. “Your Highness, you’re bleeding.”

He barely registered the words. His attention was still wholly devoted to the Queen of Elmoria—the woman who glared at him and uttered the word he hated most in all the world: “Monster.”

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