We need to be our story’s hero.

We all imagine we must be. No one ever judges themselves a fool or a knave. I suppose if they do, they invent some plausible fiction to justify their deeds. We all see the world thus. We all interpret our every act as an epic tale’s culmination, centered on ourselves. Is it arrogance or our limited ability to perceive the universe through eyes other than our own? If ours is the only perception we can experience, does it not follow that ours is the only perception that matters?

The result is the same. We bend the rules, break them, and ignore them. We put our own needs before others. That’s what a hero does, is it not? Are we not entitled to be special exceptions? Just this once? And the next time too?

This time is different. This time it’s important.

I was reflecting on the bandits, of course. Not myself.

They deemed themselves heroes. And as I was raised to believe myself entrusted with protecting these lands, it followed I must judge them criminals, yes? Robbing strangers on the road doesn’t define courageous action.

And yet …

Kalazan’s words burned at my edges like a curse waiting to flare incandescent.

They were waiting for the demon-claimed child, he’d said.

Damn him.

Worse, how could I miss the way Tamin had stocked his troops? Soldiers who didn’t understand the language of firebloods. Soldiers who treated me as a mare despite my stallion attire. The joyful gleam in Tamin’s eyes when he’d ordered his men to shoot through me.

Baron Tamin’s plan to execute Kalazan proved the final point against him. One didn’t protect the herd by killing the saelen, the strays. And if Kalazan, his father, and others had conspired to assassinate the former baron, then it meant they had tried Censure. Tried and failed to remove an unworthy ruler.

I couldn’t believe the old baron so dishonorable that he wouldn’t have stepped down before the situation ever became so dire.

Tension stifled dinner. Under normal circumstances, I would have expected the castle to be packed to overflowing with friends and guests eager to partake in the feast. Instead, the main hall seemed nearly empty. While I was the only one who’d brought my own game (only proper by the requirements of idorrá), the baron had bought or hunted a great deal of his own. Unnecessarily, as it turned out. Most of the fresh meat slaughtered for the tournament celebration—prepared in any of the several proscribed tamarane styles—went uneaten.

I knew why.

The guards still hadn’t located Kalazan. Tamin was polite enough to me at dinner. After all, was I not an old friend? (Not to mention higher ranked.) But his temper encouraged most guests to avoid the dining hall.