The Kingkiller’s Shadow A Duel for the Throraining yard of Ivory Hold was deathly silent.

  A hundred pairs of eyes watched from the stoerraces above—noble lords, military anders, pace servants—all gathered to withe spectacle: the trial of bat that would determihe fate of a kingdom.

  Cassian stood at the ter of the ring, his hand ched around the hilt of a bde that was not his own.

  The air was thick with tension, heavy with unspoken words.

  Across from him, Evelyn Marrow stood, dressed in the silver and crimson of her house. The sunlight caught the edge of her steel, glinting against her bde as she tested its weight. She was calm, focused—her eyes sharp, watg him not as a noblewoman, not as an old friend, but as an oppo.

  "The duel is to the first blood," the steward announced. "A si, and the victor is named. Death is not permitted."

  Cassian’s grip on the sword tightened. He khe truth.

  "Death is not permitted" meant nothing.

  If he lost, Magnus would cim him unfit to rule—he would be discarded, sent back to exile, or worse.

  If he won?

  He would still be a puppet, a pawn in his father’s hands.

  Unless he found a way to ge the game.

  A Past That Cuts Deeper Than BdesEvelyn raised her sword, and for the first time siheir reunion, she spoke—her voieasured, ced with quiet anger.

  "You shouldn't be here."

  Cassia out a dry ugh. "You think I asked for this?"

  "No," she admitted. "But you’re still standing there, holding a sword, pretending like you deserve it."

  That stung more than he expected.

  They had grown up together—two nobles, side by side in the pace halls, sparring as children, dreaming of a future her of them had reached.

  Cassian took a slow breath. "Do you really think I wao kill him?"

  Evelyn’s grip tightened on her hilt.

  "I don’t know. And that’s the problem."

  She lunged forward.

  Cassian barely raised his sword in time to parry.

  Steel met steel in a sharp, ringing csh.

  The Dance of BdesEvelyn pressed forward with precise, practiced strikes, moving like a shadow. Fast. Elegant. Deadly.

  Cassian barely kept up, stepping back as her bde fshed toward him. She was faster than he remembered, stronger, her movements sharp and trolled.

  She wasn’t the girl from his past.

  She was a warrior. A fighter trained for this very moment.

  Cassian had spent ten years surviving in exile, but he hadn’t trained like this. His fights had been ireets, with daggers, fists, and desperation. This was different—this was noble bat, the art of the sword.

  He had only seds to adjust.

  Evelyn aimed a ssh at his side—he sidestepped, parried, tered—but she was already moving again, f him back.

  A roar erupted from the watg hey wao see blood. They wao see a king fall.

  Cassian gritted his teeth.

  "You’re fighting me like I’m your enemy," he said, breathless.

  Evelyn’s eyes burned. "Aren’t you?"

  She feinted left, then twisted the bde downward—a trap.

  Cassian reized it a sed too te.

  Her bde ripped across his arm—not deep, not fatal, but enough. The first blood had been drawn.

  A sharp silence fell over the crowd.

  The duel was over.

  Cassian had lost.

  A Victory That Feels Like DefeatEvelyn stepped back, l her sword, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

  Cassian stared at the thin line of blood on his sleeve.

  He had failed.

  The steward turo Magnus. "Lady Evelyn is the victor."

  Cassian looked to his father, expeg **disappoi, anger—**anything.

  Instead, Magnus just smiled.

  "Perfect."

  Cassian’s blood ran cold.

  Evelyn frowned. "What?"

  Magnus rose from his seat, desding the stoeps of the viewing terrace, his dark robes sweeping over the ground. His voice was smooth, effortless.

  "You proved your worth, my son."

  Cassian’s heart pounded in his chest.

  "I lost."

  "A, you fought." Magnus spread his arms. "The nobles wao see if the Kingkiller could stand against one of Draythar’s fi swords. You bled, but you did not fall. That is enough."

  Cassian’s fingers curled into fists. "This was never about winning."

  Magnus’s lips barely twitched. "Did you think I would let a single duel determihe fate of a kingdom?"

  Realization smmed into Cassian.

  The trial by bat had been nothing more than a show.

  A game Magnus had already won before Cassiaepped into the ring.

  The nobles had seen him fight, had seen him bleed, had seen him stand. And in their eyes, that was enough—not to respect him, but to tolerate him.

  Cassian’s loss wasn’t a failure.

  It art of the pn.

  His father had never intended for him to win.

  The s of a The steward turned back to the gathered lords.

  "Let it be decred before all that Cassian Valcor has proven his strength before the noble court. By decree of the Kingmaker, he shall take his pce as the rightful ruler of Draythar."

  A murmur spread through the crowd. Some looked uain. Some looked furious.

  Cassian looked to Evelyn, who had gone pale with realization.

  "You were never meant to win," she whispered.

  Cassian swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.

  "No."

  "You’re really going to let them you?"

  Cassian turned away.

  "I don’t have a choice."

  Two guards stepped forward. One held a bck cloak lined with silver. The other held a golden .

  The weight of it settled around his shoulders like iron s.

  Cassian Valcor, the Kingkiller Prince, had been ed.

  But he was no king.

  Not yet.

  End of Chapter 3