I scanned the arena while the crowd placed their bets.

Weatherboot's crew was still hauling crates and barrels into position, shaping two rough bases at opposite ends of the beach.

The crew had chosen a rougher stretch—where low dunes rolled across the sand and beach grass grew in scattered clumps. Natural terrain mixed with man-made obstacles.

The northern side—the Dockmaster Team's ground—was a maze. Crates stacked three high, barrels forming narrow corridors between the dunes. At first glance the obstacles seemed scattered at random, yet together they formed a crude stronghold rather than a simple barricade. Good for ambush. Bad for us if we got cornered there.

Our side—the southern end—had less cover. Rows of crates and barrels stood in uneven lines, some stacked poorly against the dune slopes, as though they might topple with a hard shove.

Two large sails had been stretched between poles, forming loose canvas walls that rippled in the sea breeze. They'd block line of sight but not bleedstones—the fabric was too thin.

The eastern edge was mostly dunes—low mounds with beach grass clinging to the crests. The western edge met the shallow water.

Between the two sides lay an open kill zone—perhaps over a hundred paces of sand dotted with a few grass clumps. Anyone crossing would be exposed, stumbling over uneven ground.

“Five against two,” I whispered, my mind racing.

Thomas knocked his shoulder into mine, his gaze never leaving the arena. "We'll have to be sneaky, then. What's the move?"

The jolt broke my focus. I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Right. I wasn't alone this time.

I reached out and gripped his shoulder. "Remember their smug looks?" I jerked my chin toward the dockmaster's lot. "Let's show them what our tricks and pranks are worth."

Thomas's eyes gleamed. "Narrow alleys, dark corners, empty barrels," he whispered, a grin spreading across his face. "Hide and ambush—that's the way."

"And the crates," I added, leaning close so my voice wouldn't carry. I nodded toward the rickety stack near the middle. "See those? We shove them hard enough, and they'll be buried before they know what hit them."

Thomas shoved my shoulder, a soft chuckle escaping him. "You're a dirty one, Allen."

"Stop praising me." I cracked a smile, tension finally breaking. "We'd be face-down in the dirt if we didn't play a little dirty."

Thomas's grin soured as he looked past the arena. "That bastard's sitting and drinking again," he muttered. His glare fixed on Weatherboot, who was uncorking a fresh flagon while we prepared for the trial.

"Two silvers on the Dockmaster's lot!" a man bellowed, flashing the coins between his fingers.

"Five silvers here!" another shouted, waving a heavy purse.

Stainer scribbled furiously in his ledger as coins piled atop the crate beside him.

Thomas groaned, nostrils flaring. "Not a single copper for us!"

I sighed and pulled his attention back toward the barrels. "C'mon. Don't let them get in your head."

We were still murmuring over strategy when a high voice chirped from the dunes behind us.

"Thomas!"

A lad about Fiorella's age came skidding through the sand, his tunic stained with salt. Thomas's face transformed—the hard lines vanished, replaced by a wide, boyish grin as he caught the boy in a one-armed hug, ruffling his hair.

"I came to see you win!" Robin chirped, small fists clenched as if holding a sling himself. "My mum's here, too!"

A woman in a simple linen kirtle approached, bundles tucked under her arms. We ducked our heads respectfully. She didn't say much—her eyes scanned the arena of stacked barrels and poles—but she held out a grease-stained sack.

"Eat," she said. The scent of charred moss-hopper meat wafted out, but my stomach was too tight with nerves to accept it. "Robin wouldn't let me hear the end of it until we found you. Keep your wits about you, lads."

She squeezed Robin's shoulder and led him back toward the dunes. The boy waved his small fists in encouragement until they disappeared into the crowd.

The warmth of the encounter faded quickly, replaced by cold, sharp expectation.

I looked at Thomas. He wasn't eating. His hands were clenched tight around his sling, knuckles white against the leather.

"We mustn't lose," he muttered, voice low and jagged. He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the beach where the Dockmaster's lot tested the tension of their slings.

"We have to show Robin..." He swallowed. "Show them all... that we aren't just targets for their practice."

I reached out and gripped his shoulder, feeling the tremor beneath. "We will, Thomas. Tricks and pranks, remember? They won't even know what hit them."

I squeezed once. "We'll give Robin a story to tell."