Slowly regaining his composure, Tristan forced himself upright despite the dull ache spreading through his head. Blood pooled in his mouth, dripping from his split lips and broken teeth, but he lifted his chin, desperate to show dignity before the king and the watchful eyes above. If the rules permitted any knight of their choosing, then the answer was obvious.
There was no one in Ravenshade more fearsome than Etienne since Alaric's death. With Etienne, victory was certain. A clean, decisive blow to silence every whisper of weakness.
But even as the name burned on his tongue, Tristan's thoughts twisted uneasily. Their opponent was not merely a boy—he was the son of a sorceress. To face him without caution was folly. So Tristan straightened, ignoring the iron taste of blood, and forced words past his swollen lips.
