“It is known,” Castle Camp Counselor said, gazing at Bryce with adoration.
Bryce had a point for maybe the first time in his life, but I had to keep my cool if I wanted to convince everyone I was the Chosen One. I narrowed my eyes in a challenge. “Fine. Where did you grow up?”
Bryce placed a hand over his heart. “You’re taking an interest in my childhood? I’m touched. Truly, truly touched.”
Still grasping Bryce’s other hand, Castle Camp Counselor reached for me, his overly happy smile still plastered to his face. “It warms my heart to see such comradery between—”
“Shut up,” Bryce and I said in unison.
“Where did you grow up?” I tried again. “Because I grew up only ten miles from a farm, which means I’m basically a farm child and therefore the Chosen One.”
Bryce’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he recovered quickly. “I have a weird birthmark. I’m sure Amy could relate that back to the prophecy somehow.”
My heart clenched. I couldn’t compete with weird birthmarks.
“Shall we begin?” Castle Camp Counselor started demonstrating fencing positions, movements exaggerated as he transitioned from pose to pose.
“What about parents?” I asked, while Castle Camp Counselor waved his sword around next to us. “Is one or both of your parents dead or dying?”
Bryce averted his eyes. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
Disappointment overcame me. “Mine too.” I kicked at the ground angrily. “Even still married.” Probably because they hadn’t found time to draft their own divorce papers yet. I wished they could see where I was right now. They’d take back all those yearsof telling me to get my nose out of fantasy books and start focusing on real life.
That was when I remembered. “I have a talking animal sidekick.”
“Sure you do. Where?” Bryce glanced at the space around my feet. “I was under the impression sidekicks were supposed to be… by your side.”
I shouldn’t have slammed the door in the mouse’s face. He’d never come back, and I’d never be able to prove he was real unless Bryce saw him.
The only way to claim the Chosen One title was to beat Bryce at the tournament. To do that, I needed to train… which would be a challenge, considering I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded.
We were given phenomenally unimpressive wooden swords and subpar instructions, thanks to Castle Camp Counselor, whose name was actually Cuthbert.
Everyone watched as Cuthbert casually crushed us. They shared how disappointed they were with our performance with grumbled insults like, “Theseare the Chosen Ones?”
We “trained,” which was a loose term for “Cuthbert cheerfully kicking our asses,” for hours. The grime and physical abuse wore me down, but I sought solace in the fact I was marginally better with a sword than Bryce, which I attributed to all those tennis matches I’d pretended to enjoy playing with Will.
Now, I took a break while Bryce and Cuthbert dueled. I stood outside the dirt ring with a few assorted castle employees who should’ve been working but were instead watching Bryce lose on company time. I felt a companionship with them on a spiritual level.
“And thrust, and thrust, and thrust,” Cuthbert said, as I whispered, “That’s what she said,” between each “and thrust.”
Cuthbert unleashed a flurry of attacks that Bryce tried and failed to block. Bryce fell to the dirt. Dust swirled around Cuthbert’s boots as he approached. Bryce dove for Cuthbert, but he dodged, rapping his stick smartly over Bryce’s back and sending him sprawling.
Groaning, Bryce rolled onto his back, limbs spread-eagle, face covered in sweat and dirt. Cuthbert tossed his hair as he sheathed his sword, his blond locks gleaming like he belonged in a Pantene commercial. He went to help Bryce up, but Bryce threw his wooden sword to the side, rocked into a sitting position, and clutched his head. “I’mthe Chosen One, and this ismydream, damn it. I don’t understand why I’m not immediately good at this.”
My own frustration flared in sympathy, aggravated all the more by hunger and pain. Various bruises all over my body throbbed in time to my heart.
Bryce lifted his head. Clean tracks trailed from his eyes, cutting through dust and blood. He quickly swiped his sleeve over his face, smudging mud across his cheek.
I couldn’t look away from the shimmering wetness brimming over his red-rimmed eyes. Guilt seeped into my veins. Maybe I shouldn’t have lied to him about the dream. Then again, if he knew this was real, he’d freak out even more.
“Ancestors above,” a maid said at my elbow. “Is the Chosen One crying?”
Mutters spread through the gathering of castle extras. “We’re doomed!” someone wailed like they were going for their Oscar.
“The gods have sent us a squealing infant,” a gruff guy said, crossing his meaty arms.
I turned in a circle, taking in all the dissatisfied, angry faces. I was the only one allowed to mock Bryce. It was an art form, and other people didn’t do it properly.
