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More questions are directed at the prince and Kellyn. Some mercenaries start walking off. Others are arguing among themselves over who the better fighter is.

Some seem to have already forgotten the threat of Kymora and are arguing over nothing relating to the upcoming fight at all.

How quickly their attentions stray. Fighters aren’t always the best listeners.

But as I look at the retreating backs of those who intend to leave the city with their weapons, my feet step forward of their own accord.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Wait!” I shout.

I feel my voice drift up from my throat, but I have no memory of giving it the command to speak. I feel alight with painful electric shocks. My hands are shaking, and all my limbs feel some confusing mixture of lightness and unbearable weightiness at the same time. Like I’m not actually present.

The retreating figures halt in place. They turn around or look over their shoulders.

Kellyn puts what he hopes is a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. I can’t stand to be touched right now. I’m already feeling way too much, and I can barely think.

Start with your name, the little voice encourages. The brave me who is always hidden in the far reaches of my mind.

“I’m Ziva Tellion,” I say, weakly at first. I repeat the words again with volume. “I made your weapons,” I tack on foolishly.

Some of them were made years ago. They might have forgotten whatyou looked like. And some of them only interacted with Temra, so they wouldn’t even know you on sight. It’s okay to introduce yourself.

I still feel like an idiot. Every word out of my mouth burns. I try to mentally validate myself. Assure myself I’m okay.

“I gave each of you a little piece of magic to carry with you through your travels. To keep you safe. I’ve watched you at this tournament over the years. I’ve seen you in action. You are all impressive fighters. The best Ghadra has.”

Good, Ziva. You appealed to their vanity. Now you need to find their consciences.

Consciences? Do half of them even have those? They fight for money.

Stop worrying and keep talking. You don’t know how long their attention spans are.

Just tell them your story.

“Warlord Kymora commissioned a blade from me some three or four months ago.” The time blurs, I can’t actually be sure. But that’s not important to the story. “I made a broadsword that steals secrets from those it cuts, and that’s when I heard Kymora’s thoughts. She’d cut herself on the weapon, you see, and I heard her intentions clearly.

“It won’t be like it is now under the rule of the princes and princesses,” I explain. “It won’t even be like it was with King Arund—for those of you old enough to remember his rule. Kymora is the worst kind of tyrant. She likes her power and doesn’t want anyone else to match it. She doesn’t want anyone to have choices anymore. You think you’d be better off receiving your wages from her? How about when she asks you to slaughter children when their parents don’t hand over food for her soldiers? What about when she demands you do menial grunt work, patrolling her grounds?”

I gain a little courage when I see those who had started leaving return to the mass of fighters.

I clasp my hands together to try to cease my own fidgeting. I can’t look anyone in the eye. Instead, I look above their heads. I hope that gives the illusion that I’m eyeing them all.

“You will have no choices. Whatever she wants of you and your magical weapons, she will demand it. And any resistance will result in immediate execution. She’s a general. She doesn’t have time for insubordination.”

I swallow. “You will be lackeys. Not fierce mercenaries free to take jobs where you will. She doesn’t care about people. She cares about herself. She cares about the land but not the people in it. She wants your weapons for her own. She wanted me to make more for her army. While I was able to render the initial broadsword useless to her, she still wants to get her hands on me and force me to make her and her men unbeatable.”

I’m rambling; I must be. I can’t see an end in sight to this nightmare that is public speaking, but I have to keep going.

“You don’t know me that well. You only know what I’ve done for you. What I can still do. I know the odds aren’t great. Kymora’s numbers outweigh our own.”

More grunts and grumbles. I steal a glance at Skiro, and he blanches. Clearly he hadn’t intended to share that information.

“But!” I hurry to add. “I can magic armor for all of you. You are already fearsome with your skill alone. With my weapons, you’re nearly unbeatable. With armor, you will beuntouchable. I’m not asking you to fight for me or for Ghadra. I’m asking you to fight so you can keep your way of life.”

I suck down heaping gulps of air, as though I hadn’t been breathing during my pathetic little speech. Though I must have.

Do I need to say more? What else do I say?