Chapter 20
ISANDOR REARRANGED his cloak on his shoulders for what had to be the tenth time, ignoring the gazes of hundreds—no—thousands of people who were waiting for this ceremonial part of the festival to begin. The eagles in their pens at his back squawked and hissed, two of the Outer City’s butchers talked to each other, their conversation accompanied by hand gestures towards the animal pens, and a young boy was sweeping the dull layer of sand off the snow-covered ground so it was again white.
Every time he put down his broom, golden sparks flew along the handle, but the boy gave no sign of having seen them.
To Isandor’s eyes, the atmosphere in the arena thrummed with tension. Icefire sizzled and crackled through the air like he had never seen it before. Isandor couldn’t believe he
