Grayson nodded to the arm that hung lower than the other. “You might need that.”
His brother snarled. He brought his dagger to his mouth, holding the hilt between his teeth. He then grasped his limp arm with his good hand and, in a practiced motion, snapped his shoulder back into place.
Murmuring broke out among the soldiers surrounding them. Yes, the Kaelins really did dislocate each other’s shoulders, and yes, they knew how to fix themselves. Physicians had been ordered to stop tending that particular injury after the first few times,and, honestly, it got easier to pop back in place. But Tyrell’s shoulder would still be tender and weak; Grayson knew that from personal experience.
Chest rising and falling, Tyrell pulled the dagger out of his mouth before launching at Grayson again.
Grayson parried the blow with his dagger, the two blades meeting in a jarring crash. He delivered a punch to Tyrell’s side and his brother hit back. The fight became grittier, and Grayson knew it couldn’t last much longer. One of them was going to make a mistake.
He prayed it wouldn’t be him.
Grayson took a glancing blow to his jaw but he slipped past Tyrell’s guard and slammed the dagger’s hilt into Tyrell’s gut.
His older brother choked, doubling over, and Grayson’s knee came up to Tyrell’s chin. He flew back, crashing to the ground. Grayson crouched over him, both daggers now in his grip and poised over Tyrell’s bobbing throat.
“You’re dead,” Grayson hissed, lungs straining against his ribs, the adrenaline of the fight rattling through him.
Tyrell glared, a vein popping in his forehead. His face was red and his body shook with pain or rage—or both.
“Yield,” Grayson demanded.
When Tyrell didn’t reply, Grayson pressed both knifepoints to his neck. “Yield,” he repeated. “Or you’ll find out what poison Mother used to coat these blades.”
The crowd of soldiers had gone silent. The only sound was the distant barking of dogs somewhere in the castle yard.
Tyrell’s breath huffed hotly in Grayson’s face. “I yield,” he gritted out.
Grayson straightened. He tossed the daggers to the dirt on either side of Tyrell and turned, stalking back toward his things. The gathered soldiers shied back, even though he wasn’t close to them yet. He tried to ignore the pang of loathing he suddenly felt—for Tyrell, for Henri, and for himself.
He was nearly to his sword when one of the spectators sucked in a breath. Instinct flared and Grayson whirled, but too late. Tyrell was already there, throwing dirt into his eyes.
Grayson closed his eyes reflexively, but the damage was done. The gritty dirt burned, and though he managed to peel open his watering eyes, he couldn’t see Tyrell as his brother kicked him in the gut. His back hit the ground and his head slammed twice. The back of his skull pulsed with pain and he jerked in a breath a second before Tyrell boot stomped onto his bare chest.
Grayson gasped at the shattering impact and grabbed Tyrell’s ankle, but before he could break it, a blade sliced into his forearm. He hissed at the familiar burn—a knife slicing flesh wasn’t new—but he tensed when the pain turned sharper. Hotter.
Syalla.
A non-fatal poison, but the pain was immediate and debilitating once it touched blood.
Grayson’s back arched and he tried to scream past the crushing weight on his chest. He grabbed for his cut arm but Tyrell used his other foot to pin his wrist to the ground. With his brotherstanding completely on him, breathing was nearly impossible and his ribs creaked.
Tyrell bent low, his voice throbbing with promise. “One day, I will kill you.”
Grayson’s body shook so badly he didn’t know how Tyrell didn’t lose his balance. The scorching Syalla spread through him, burning up his arm, his chest—his entire body. His heart seized, but he wasn’t able to do anything as Tyrell’s other blade flashed over Grayson’s cheek.
Agony ripped across his face and this time he did find the air to scream, though the ragged sound shredded his throat.
Tyrell stepped off him, clutching the bloody daggers as he walked away. The soldiers melted from the field, leaving Grayson to bleed in the dirt as the poison consumed him.
Chapter 31
Clare
Clare wandered the rose garden, keeping to the narrow pebbled paths that wound through the well-groomed hedges and blooms. The nobles preferred the more fashionable king’s garden, making this a perfect place to disappear for an hour or so in the afternoon. Clare had been making regular use of it over the past few days.
It had been four days since she’d seen Bennick. Four days since she’d learned the truth about her brother’s flogging. She didn’t blame Bennick for what he’d done; all she felt was gratitude that Bennick hadn’t executed her brother for his mistakes. His horrible, tragic mistakes.
She’d started a letter to Eliot, but words wouldn’t come. Frustration and hurt blotted out everything. He’d been cruel, and he hadn’t told her the truth. He’d been drinking while on duty and he’d killed his partner; she couldn’t imagine his guilt. But instead of facing the truth, he’d evaded it. Twisted it, so Clare believed he’d been punished for no reason—that his captain had tortured Eliot simply because he could. Maybe that’s what he believed now, too.
Her slippers scuffed against the pebbles beneath her feet, the lonely sound standing out against a backdrop of birdsong and the gentle rustling of the leaves. She craved the steadiness and comfort of Bennick’s presence, but couldn’t bring herself to seek him out. Her emotions were too chaotic and she was nervous of how much damage she’d done by attacking him in the corridor.
For the last four days, he had been avoiding her.
Clare neared a bend in the path and instinct slowed her steps. In the silence
