A Heart So Fierce and Broken (The Cursebreaker Series) by Brigid Kemmerer Page A

champion, Journ of Everlea!”
    I step into the arena, and the crowd screams so loud that I worry they’ll bring down the roof. After the quiet dimness of the tunnel, the light and sound are overwhelming. I draw my sword the way I’ve seen Journ do a hundred times, then lift it high.
    Worwick stands high in the crowds, and my back is to him, so I have no idea whether he’s noticed me. I hold my breath and wait for his next words.
    “We have a special event for you all tonight,” Worwick croons, his voice carrying to the crowd. “A very special event.”
    He hasn’t noticed. Good.
    “As usual, betting is closed once the second fighter enters the arena,” he calls. “I believe we’re in for a good match. A man of this skill doesn’t often visit Worwick’s Tourney. Place your bets now. I think we’ll see a lot of money change hands tonight. Who feels the kiss of luck on their cheek? Is it you? Is it you ?”
    He’s good at what he does, because there’s always a frantic last-minute scrambling to lay money down on the match.
    “Now,” calls Worwick. “Our second fighter is ready to enter the ring. Champion Journ, to your—” His voice breaks off, and he clears his throat. “Ah, Champion Journ , to your position, please.”
    Silver hell. He noticed.
    Well, he can do nothing about it now. I sheathe my sword and move to the center of the arena.
    “Our opponent hails all the way from Silvermoon Harbor,” Worwick calls. I spot the shadow of a man jogging through the opposite tunnel. My vision narrows down to the entrance. The crowd, the arena, this is all a show.
    The sword at my side, the battle before me—those things are real.
    My hand finds the hilt. I cannot draw until the other man does. If he’s from Silvermoon Harbor, he’s likely a fisherman or a dockworker. Someone dared into this challenge by friends drunk on ale.
    The man’s hair becomes visible: sandy blond. Then his shoulders, the leather of his armor rich and gleaming. Not borrowed tourney armor, then. Each silver buckle sparks with light.
    Gold and red stripes adorn his shoulder, bound together by a crest stamped in gold, a lion entwined with a rose.
    I go still. I know that crest. I know those stripes.
    “From Ironrose Castle,” calls Worwick, “we have the honor to host the Commander of the Royal Guard, Dustan of Silvermoon.” He winks at me from the stands, like we’re in on some joke. “Be sure to keep your head, Journ.”
    The crowd screams with approval.
    I take a few steps back before I can help myself. I know he’s riling the crowd. He has no idea what this means for me.
    I know Dustan. I chose him myself. He was one of the first guards to swear to Rhen under my command. Does that mean the prince is here, watching this match? I want to search the crowd, but there are too many faces. Too much noise. I cannot tear my eyes from my approaching opponent.
    My instincts are screaming at me to take action, but I see no path here.
    Dustan has not drawn his sword. My hand has gone slick on the hilt of my own.
    He slows as he approaches, and his eyes narrow slightly. As he stops in front of me, he frowns and takes his hand off the hilt. “You look anxious,” he says, his tone easy. “Journ, is it?”
    The words take a moment to register in my mind.
    He does not recognize me.
    But of course he doesn’t. It’s been months. We only knew each other for a matter of weeks—and then, I was clean-shaven, with shorter hair and richly adorned armor and the manner of a leader.
    Today, I am little more than a stable hand dressed up like a soldier. I’m Hawk. Or right now, I suppose I’m Journ.
    Dustan leans in as if to share a secret. “The Royal Guard is not so vicious as rumor would have you believe.”
    He believes I am nervous about the match.
    “We’ve been on the road for weeks,” he continues. “My men dared me to enter.”
    Then Rhen must not be with him. The prince would not leave Ironrose for weeks—and his guard commander