Oluto, the Tsaright's champion, looked around confused. His gold-threaded tunic shimmered over his LMS suit, and his sword hung limp, shifting uneasily between his round fingers. "Aren't we supposed to be fighting?"

"No," M'yu said, sitting cross-legged. The back of his exposed neck itched, but he kept his voice even, his posture easy. "No one has to fight today. No one has to die."

"What is this?" the Tsaright bellowed from his throne.

"The Right to Sheath, sir," M'yu called back. "It's our right to put our weapons away."

Over the muttering crowd, the Tsaright's voice boomed. "The Washfall Trial is a sacred tradition. It will not be held hostage like this!"

"But it isn't being held hostage!" Sviya leapt to her feet, and M'yu's eyes danced over the uneasy shifting of the other champions. The girls around her weren't threats; half of them had slid their weapons into the no-man's land between the Housed and Houseless rings. It was the Housless boys M'yu was worried about. Several of them tensed, watching Sviya with a fighter's eye. M'yu watched them the same way, ready to intervene if one of them got spooked and went after her. "This is the original purpose of the Washfall law."

The confusion from the crowd intensified, but the Tsaright chuckled, a nasty, condescending thing that only paraded as humor. "You want to educate us on the original intent of the law, child?" His smile turned on the rest of the room. "Isn't it encouraging to see such enthusiasm in our upcoming generation of lawyers?"

The nobles chuckled and breathed a sigh of relief with him, ready to put the strangeness behind them. The champions shifted, some of them looking to the crowd, where families sat with stiff backs and painted smiles. You've had your fun, the smiles said. Now put away your little rebellion and get back to life as normal.

"Not upcoming," M'yu called out, voice carrying far beyond his seat. "Sviya Tam has passed the Right to Speak and has already been hired on by the Gold House. She is a lawyer in every right." Sviya glanced back at him, and their eyes met. "She's my lawyer."

"As touching as that is," Xten said, "I fail to see what that has to do with the Washfall Trial." He smiled down at the champions. "It is good to see camaraderie in our next generation of Knights. But, let us move on past this gesture. If you all will rise now, we can overlook any disqualifying discretions."

"Disqualifying?" The word hummed from one champion's mouth to another. "Can he really do that?" someone whispered, and someone else whispered back, "He is the Tsaright."

"But he's not the Tsar," M'yu called, and the restlessness stilled some. "The Tsar wrote the laws, and Tsaright Xten is vying for his position just as much as anyone. He serves at the pleasure of Peitros's AI."

Xten's scepter banged on the balcony. "That is quite enough!" 

He stood, his black Capital Knight cloak swirling out behind him. "The Trial will commence now! Those who wish to yield may exit the field and be forgotten." 

He paused as the champion's worried eyes found each other. 

"But if you wish to fight, to honor our ancestors and most ancient of traditions—" Xten scanned over all the champions but lingered on one Houseless child in particular: a dark-haired, wiry boy who was rubbing his dagger hilt. The boy's gaze dropped from the balcony to the ring of the Tsaright's House. There, Oluto shifted from foot to foot like a confused toddler. 

"If you do what you came here to," Xten said, his voice like a blade in the dark, "then you will be remembered well."

For the first time in a decade, thunder cracked in the rainstorm outside. For a moment, time stretched. The surprised cries of the nobles rang like songs; the champion's startled turns slipped so long and smooth as to be a dance. But the thunder held no horror or art to M'yu, because in the Houseless ring, the dark-haired boy leapt to his feet, and M'yu leapt with him.

Houseless girls screamed as the boy hurtled across the ring, sword thrust toward Oluto. The Tsaright's champion stood there, eyes as wide as a sheep's, but M'yu was too far, no matter as he pumped every ounce of energy into his legs, as he hurled himself across the court, the sword was coming and he wasn't going to make it on—

A shoe rocketed across the court. It snapped the dark-haired boy on the back of the head. He twisted at the last moment to look back, missing Oluto. Sviya, hand prepped with a second shoe, panted as M'yu blew past her, and he tackled the would-be assassin to the ground.

"You don't understand!" the boy said, squirming beneath M'yu.

"I understand that this isn't the way," M'yu hissed. "Whatever the Tsaright has promised you, it's not worth killing someone; whatever he's threatened you with, we can protect you. Prince Aevryn will protect you. The Tsaright will use you and throw you away." 

M'yu jerked his chin at Oluto, the Tsaright's supposed chosen one. After his scrape with death, he sat trembling, eyes wide and haunted. Beneath him, the other boy froze.

"What's your name?" M'yu asked.

The boy swallowed. "Tarrin."

"Do you want to help me make a better world, Tarrin?"

M'yu cautiously rose and offered his hand. Tarrin's eyes flicked to the crowd, then to the Tsaright, and M'yu stepped in his way. "This isn't about them, Tarrin. It's about you. It's about doing what's right." M'yu offered him his hand again. "Compromise never buys you the world you think it's going to." M'yu leaned down. "Buy into a different world, with us."

Tarrin eyed him warily. Hesitantly, he clasped M'yu's hand. M'yu pulled him to his feet and raised Tarrin's arm above his head. To the crowd, he called, "We stand unanimous!"

Sviya cheered, and the others joined.

"You cannot make us fight today!" he called up to the Tsaright's throne. "We want to be judged by Prince Aevryn!"

"Long live the Prince!" Ruslan called, and the other champions took up the cry: Sviya first, then a handful of others before Tarrin shocked M'yu by calling out as well. "Long live the Prince!" the courtroom floor sang. And in the stands, Ashya's voice twined high and exuberant. "Long live the Prince!" The bass of some men in the crowd—servants of Aevryn's, other Knights, nobles and merchants and all those who had been terrorized by Xten—rose loud and full: "Long live the Prince!"

From the hall behind the throne, Aevryn emerged out of darkness. The cheers ran wild even as Xten, unable to see Aevryn, stamped his scepter again and again for order that wouldn't come for him. And then Aevryn rose his arms, and the room slowly quieted.

Xten opened his mouth to speak but was reduced to gaping as Aevryn appeared beside him. The Prince's voice was quiet, but it rippled out over the whole waiting crowd. "You hold the right to rule no longer."

And the room combust once more into exultation. Hats flew into the air; nobles clapped and whistled; Sviya jumped up and down, clinging to M'yu's arm. "We did it!" she shouted in his ear. "We did it!"

The cheering turned to screaming as Xten flung his scepter out at Aevryn. The stone head broke across the Prince's face, and he stumbled back against the railing. 

"Aevryn!" M'yu called out, pulling away from Svi and dashing across the court.

Xten pulled witchcandy from his cloak and dropped it down his throat. Blood streamed from Aevyn's nose and a cut above his eye. He shook his head as though to clear it while Xten rose, robes cascading down behind him. A ripple ran across Xten's face and hangs; his muscles bulged beneath his skin. The old man raised his scepter high like a mace. His hands hung as steady and strong as any of the young champions' down on the floor, and he brought it down toward the Prince's head.

"No!" M'yu shouted as he surged up the stands, pushing past the gawking nobles.

Aevryn ducked at the last second, swiping blood from his eyes. He danced a step away before stumbling and landing against another railing.

"Submit or die," Xten growled. The scepter rose high before crashing down in a deadly arc. M'yu threw his arm out, still impossibly far away.

But Aevryn caught the staff. The head stopped mere inches from his face as he took hold with a second hand, trying to wrest the weapon away. Xten leaned in, bearing down on the Prince with the strength of a man a third his age. M'yu clambered closer to the balcony as Aevryn was pushed backward. Xten leaned until Aevryn's back curved over the top of the railing and his head hung over the courtroom floor. 

"Submit," Xten gritted out. 

Aevryn's lip curled, neck muscles bunching and twisting as he lost one inch, then another. With a wicked smile, Xten hurled himself against the staff.

Except Aevryn's bad hand slipped. He screamed as the staff tilted unexpectedly, and the momentum carried both him and Xten over the balcony's edge.

M'yu threw himself onto the balcony, reaching desperately as he slid across. Aevryn's fingers slipped off the edge right as M'yu latched onto his wrist. M'yu lurched forward, face pressed against the railing. A great thud echoed through the chamber as Xten slammed into the floor, robes flared around him. Gasps and screams filled the air. Aevryn dangled, face red, and reached with his good hand. His fingers caught the edge of the balcony just as other Knights rushed onto the platform. With their help, Aevryn clambered back to his feet, hair askew, face bloody, eyes unfocused.

M'yu threw his arms around him, pounding him across the back. The Prince staggered back a step, but then wrapped his arms around M'yu as well. The Knights who'd come to help clapped Aevryn on the shoulder, and M'yu pulled back. "You did it," he said, incredulous.

"We did it, boy," Aevryn said, the tiniest hint of a smile breaking through his stern face. "We did."

One of the Knights offered Aevryn a handkerchief, and he wiped the blood from his brow before turning to the crowd. The shouting shook the building and rattled through M'yu's chest. Warmth spread through his face even as his ears pounded. The cheering grew so loud, M'yu half-thought it might just end the world. 

As Aevryn took his seat on the throne, M'yu's voice joined the rest. "Long live the Prince!" he cried. "Long live the Prince!"