Candidate (The Black Mage #3)

The fifth and fourth-rank candidates were called away to begin.

The judge came to escort the contestants with a pair of guards. Their expressions were equal terror and excitement. I noted that neither looked more than two years past Darren and me.

The loud rumblings of the audience quieted to a hush. It was as if everyone had taken a collective breath at once. The hazy sky—still unbearably hot—mirrored the abrupt mood, dark and light clouds dancing against the hazy morning sun.

Darren’s gaze flitted to mine, and I swallowed hard.

And so it begins. My stomach coiled, and the little food I’d managed to force down threatened to rise. I pulled my feet onto the bench and rested my forehead on my knees, arms wrapped around my legs.

A hand pulled my clamped fingers apart. I didn’t need to look up to register the sudden weight beside me, or whose thumb was now pressing against my palm. The heavy pounding of his pulse matched my own.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. We just watched the stadium. And we waited.

****

Twenty-five minutes. That was how long it took me to outlast my fifth-rank opponent in the arena.

I didn’t even have to resort to pain casting. Gwyn had been overconfident after winning two matches against the fourth-rank, Argus, and the third-rank, Rowan. She was good. Much more deserving than her fifth-rank status Master Byron had so cruelly proclaimed. She’d advanced two ranks—more than any Combat candidate had ever managed to do in the Candidacy—but she lost to me.

My match the day before had made me more aware of my surroundings. Toward the end of our duel it had started to sprinkle—just a light misting of rain, but one I had embraced in my castings. I’d funneled enough to evoke a quicksand-like patch in the ground, and Gwyn hadn’t noticed it until it was too late.

While she had struggled to free herself, I’d managed to break through her defenses with an onslaught of magic—essentially forcing her hand. She’d surrendered—the both of us bleeding heavily from our injuries in the arena.

I’d endured a broken arm, a burn down the side of my stomach—so intense that the slightest wind had me convinced someone had taken a tray of hot coals and thrust them against my ribs, and a deep wound at the shoulder thanks to a throwing knife I had failed to deflect.

Gwyn’s injuries had been worse.

“Is she fully well?” The judge pushed through my crowd of healers and his sharp eyes bore into my own. “How are those injuries, Mage Ryiah? Have you already tested your magic? Full stamina?”

I nodded. My fingers were trembling, and I thrust them in my lap. There was no point delaying the inevitable. The team of Restoration mages had put me through a complete recovery both physically and magically—all within the course of three hours.

The burly man turned to the healers, and they affirmed I was ready.

“Good. I don’t want anyone saying a prince of the kingdom won because his opponent wasn’t up to potential.” I cringed. Clearly the judge had already placed his bet. “Brenner, tell Godwin to bring His Highness around to the second entrance, I’ll have Rhett escort her to the first. Make sure the announcer knows we are ready.”

With the flap of his long black mage’s robe he was gone. The healers handed me a new set of fighting garments to change into out of my clean shift. When I had finished, I stared out at my reflection in the mirror.

Supple deerskin boots that rose to my knees, skintight breeches of some stretchy material that allowed me the same freedom as my sleeveless top, a fitted leather vest that showed more skin than it hid, and arm guards that tied around my wrists. All candidates were given the same garb for our final day—no armor was allowed in these rounds. The only difference was the men went shirtless: something the women couldn’t quite replicate on the battlefield.

I quickly braided my hair down the side. The plait I’d had the day before at the top of my head had come loose too easily, a down braid would hopefully be much easier to keep.

Gwyn walked up behind me—she was still in her shift and there was still a slight limp to her step. I swallowed, wondering whether she would wish me luck or misfortune after I had robbed her of the second-rank title.

“If it can’t be me, I hope it’s you.”

I whirled around to thank her and her eyes crinkled. “Don’t let the men get all the glory. It’s our time to wear the robe.”

I started to speak but Rhett—who had arrived and noticed I was finished dressing—took my arm and led me away before I had a chance to properly thank the mage.

I had to jog to keep up with the tall guard whose normal gait seemed to be a sprint, and by the time we had reached the primary tunnel blood was soaring through my veins—almost enough to distract me from the crippling anxiety that was beating at my chest.

Up until now I had managed to all but ignore who was waiting for me at the other side of the stadium. But then the announcer bellowed his name.

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