KYMON'S POV
"Brother," Zade calls from behind as I step into the archery field. I twist my neck to see him walking towards me, his face twisted into a fading scowl.
My eyes drop to his arm. There seems to be something beneath the cloth covering it. I look back at his face—his twitching lips, his eyes flashing with too many emotions, like he is struggling to look fine. He is.
Someone must have ruined his mood.
I look back ahead and frown.
Very possible, Lyra. It must be her. That's her biggest trait.
"Hm?" I hum, mounting myself in front of eleven frail, lean, sixteen-year-old commoners.
The sight of each one of them tells me they must be suffering from malnutrition or some sort of flesh-eating disease. I remember too quickly Lyra's protest at the cliff, and I clench my fist.
