It was during Sylene's two years living with Mavis, in the heat of summer. The potion shop's shutters were halfway closed, and Mavis was dragging himself through the last of the work. Hilda had caught a cold last night, leaving Mavis to brew through the night alone. The mountain herb collector they'd hired couldn't come—his younger brother had fallen sick.
Sylene carried in the last herb sack and dropped it with a dull thud, then sank onto the bench beside Mavis, wiping sweat from his face. Outside, the cicadas screamed against the blistering summer dusk.
Tonight was fight night, his name already drawing in larger crowds.
The champion. Undefeated. He brought in rivers of money for Zirron. Sponsors clamored for him, whispering his contradictions with awe—so frail in appearance, yet devastating in strength. A mystery cloaked in youth, secretive yet undeniable.
But Sylene had only one sponsor: Alistair. Every other hand that reached for him, he rejected.
