The city itself was laid out in a circular maze pattern, but the narrow, twisting roads and alleys of the ground level had one purpose: killing horses.

The streets had been meant to trap Khorsal’s invaders, funneling centaurs and horses both into canyons where boiling oil, heavy stones, or barbed arrows might be rained down on them from above.

The city’s livable areas started on the second floor or higher, all accessed through narrow stairs—twisting and curving in ways impossible for horses to navigate. Brother Qown had asked why we spent so little time in a usable city, but that answer should have been obvious. How could any Joratese worth her mane stand to spend so long removed from our herds?

The city’s center played host to several notable buildings: the duke’s palace, a cathedral dedicated to the Eight, and a much larger cathedral dedicated to Khored, Emperor Kandor’s patron deity. A grass ocean lapped in front of those buildings, the only land large enough to support horses, firebloods, and even elephants. Thus, it was the only spot where the Great Tournament of Challenges could be held.

The Green swarmed with activity as carpenters finished buildings and raised azhocks. Tournament participants set about last-minute practice sessions, while they still had the opportunity. Despite the Green’s size, most of it fell under someone’s watchful eye. Dorna had every reason to be concerned.

But I thought this might work to our advantage. The crowded field was also a chaotic, distracting field.

So I’d believed.

We’d traveled all the way to the palace’s shadow before Arasgon’s scream set me straight.

“It’s intolerable!” Arasgon shouted. When I realized who he shouted at, I put a warning hand before Dorna and Qown. Sir Baramon had already stopped in place, looking like he’d just come around the corner to see lions feasting.

“Janel Danorak isn’t chattel to be sold at whim! Her lineage goes back five hundred years!” Arasgon’s jaws snapped forward as he choked out the words; I felt his anger in every tensed muscle. He hadn’t yet raised up on his hind legs, but the moment was coming.

“That’s the Markreev Stavira,” Sir Baramon said. “Aroth Malkoessian.”

“Yes,” I agreed, feeling the bowels in my gut twist.

Next to me, Dorna cursed under her breath.

Although an older man, the Markreev still looked in his prime. Like his sons Ilvar and Oreth, he was golden-maned and dark-skinned. I had never in my life seen the man smile. And I hadn’t seen him in person since the day I’d marched into the Markreev’s bedroom and presented him with his youngest son’s crimes.

Of all my enemies, I considered him the worst; he was my Markreev. I owed him my thudajé.