Enchantment of the Bow

Chapter Thirty-Two

Quick A\N

This time last year is the first day I published the first chapter of Runaway Princess! I look back and I see how far this book has gone from then, when it was just a shot in the dark. 80 thousand reads and over 350 comments? Yes, I'll take it gladly! Thank you guys so much, you are all so awesome. I want to you to know that you guys are what make this book worth writing- without my readers a book is hardly a book, just paper filled with words that no one understands. I write the words, but you breathe the life into this book with your inspirational comments and votes. So, here's to you, guys.

Lyra's POV

The wind blows softly, tousling my hair as I stand on the outside of the arena, my arms folded.

Salt and hay is carried on the breeze, and I tear my gaze from the men to look longingly at the stable in the distance. I can feel Lasreal is restless; he has been straining at our bond for my attention all day, singing a sweet psalm to beckon me to him.

I will come when I can. Be still. I tell him and I practically hear his snort of disapproval. He wants to get out of his prison and run.

I know the feeling well.

A grunt calls my attention back to the arena, and I turn my head just in time to see a man land in the dust a few feet from me. That contender lost.

Some were around twenty to thirty men from both the Knights of Nordic, and the subjects as well have come to try their hands for the Guard. Many young men in Nordic grow up playing with their friends, using sticks as swords, taking turns pretending to be the Captain of the Guard or Head Knights of the castle: they are seen as two of the most rewarding occupations and the most sought after.

But rarely do normal subjects and peasants become that high ranked with their skills, and have to settle as blacksmiths or farmers instead to keep food on their tables. Sometimes dreams just aren't enough.

Typically, these men would be faced against Hana for a spot on the Guard, but he hasn't returned, and it is nearing the end of the day. So, being the next top fighter, Camisêal is the one whom they face.

There are few higher ranking men here, as noblemen connot be bothered with the dirty work of swords and daggers, but the occasional peasant has shown to try their luck. So far, they've all been beaten. An older man steps up to go next against Camisêal.

I watch, though my mind finds itself else were; it roams to back when I was a "boy" with the mercenaries. I've never had so much freedom before, filling my very soul with its existence.

It wanders back to Adolin, back to the day that our scores were settled by our fists.

I'd never been one for hand to hand combat, but Lance insisted that I learn it- he insisted I learn sword fighting as well. I can still hear his voice saying, "Those without swords can still die upon them."

I remember the blood and the sweat that I shed to earn my keep as one of them. I remember Syl's fiery red locks, and the freckles on her fierce face. God did well in matching her hair color to her temper.

I think of Kaladin, and the mercy he had on me, when he should have had none- and with him, thoughts of him in my chambers last night. He was acting very strange, but I am grateful that he came to watch over me none the less.

But most of all, I think about Jed- the way his face was always kind, the way the sunshine danced through his golden hair and onto his fair face. He was always there for me, and would not turn my secret over, even to the leader and friend he's trusted for years. In a way, I owe him and Syl my life. I owe them all my life.