Elionor, the Payne champion, posed for a throng of reporters and photographers who clamored for her attention. She was a study in contrasts, with her dyed-black hair against paper-white skin and deep blue eyes. “Elionor!” called a man on her left. “Is it true you can craft class six curses?” “Of course I can,” she said. “As can any true competitor in the tournament.” Resentment built in Gavin’s throat. He could only manage class five.
