But under no circumstance did he practice Lore. It didn’t matter that he and Root had saved each other in the Woods or that Root had chosen Barclay, the orphan no one else wanted. It didn’t matter that Barclay got a sick, guilty feeling in his stomach whenever he thought of Root cooped up in his Mark. It didn’t matter that Lore felt natural, freeing, and not at all terrible. Barclay had decided. He would perform the best he could, and then he would go home. No matter what.

The snow from the blizzard had melted within the week. For the third exam, Erhart gathered the two hundred students and sixty-two Masters in a park in Sycomore’s center, the only spot in town where the trees had been cleared away, with nothing to block the sunshine. A number of spectators had joined as well. They sat on wooden chairs and quilts along the dead grass. Some even sold food and drinks—the air smelled sweetly of pear cider.

A large chalk rectangle had been drawn on the field.

“Soren Reiker and I will be the proctors of the final exam,” Erhart declared, and Barclay stiffened as Soren joined Erhart in the front the crowd. Tucked beneath his arm, Soren carried a wicker basket. “The last exam of the Exhibition is simple. It is also the longest of all the exams, and it will take the entire week.”

Barclay’s heart pounded, trying to imagine what sort of test could take so long. Would they ask them to cross the Woods to Dullshire and back? To go searching once again for something rare and powerful, with even more dangers to face? Knowing Soren, he’d likely concocted something horrible.

“In this basket,” Soren explained, “are two hundred slips of paper with each of your names. When your name is drawn, you will face another randomly selected student in a battle of power and skill. The objective is to be the first to capture your opponent’s flag, which ties around your arm.”

He held up two black strips of fraying fabric.

“The match will also finish if either Keeper or Beast are unable to continue, if one of the Keepers surrenders, or if either Keeper steps out-of-bounds. You may win by any means necessary.”

A buzz of excitement swept across the crowd, with more than one mention of Dooling and champions—Abel loudest among them. The conversations quieted quickly as Erhart drew two pieces of parchment from Soren’s basket.

“Fergus Maciver! Ethel Zader!”

Ethel jolted at hearing her name called.

“Good luck!” Viola told her brightly.

“Be careful,” warned Barclay.

“Go for the eyes!” Abel said. “Or the—”

Abel’s advice was cut off as the other students hurried to the edges of the field to claim the best viewing spot. The three of them sat at one of the corners, and Barclay wished they’d brought blankets like the other attendees. The grass was quite damp, and out in the open, there was nothing to stave off the Winter chill.