CHAPTER 40: FORTY

Valka

The screams are deafening, the arena yawning farther than eyes can see, the air crazy with excitement and aggressive cheering with every new arrival. The contenders, my competition, raise their hands above their heads, waving with dazzling smiles, the sigil of their houses stitched to their fur cloaks.

Soraya Vaelthorn steps into the center next and the noise rises like an ocean, roars from the common-folk. Her black and silver body suit stretched tight over her skin, the sigil of a silver moth glittering over her left breast. Crescent shaped daggers are strapped at every point of contact on her person and you would think she came here to hunt prey.

One blown kiss and the commonfolk practically salivate at the sight of her, shrieking. The wager stands go off as the bookkeepers try to collect the coins being shoved in their faces.

"She’s popular, I guess," I mutter as Margot straps the last piece of dagger into a hidden my thigh. "House Vaelthorn wields shadows?"

It is kind of weird, being fussed over by Margot Nythorn. It is the fifteenth time in the last three minutes that she’s rechecked my weapons and the sturdiness of my leather body suit. Behind her, her son, Wyatt pins me with an irritated amber stare and I’ll never get used to how much he looks like her, without all that hair on his face. How much he looks like me, too. We might as well have been siblings, though he doesn’t seem particular thrilled by that concept. He never speaks to me or acknowledges me, unless he needs to.

He hates me. And it’s not hard to guess why. I did kill his sister, after all.

"Yes. Soraya is the best shadow-binder of her time and cuts a mean game, but she is the least cunning of the lot. She could be a great ally in there if you two get along," Margot remarks, lips pursed as she looks over to the next stall where Lilith stands. "That, however, is who you should be most worried about."

I look over at her, a strange twinge in my chest as she walks past in a queenly, graceful prowl, her jade green eyes locking on mine for the briefest seconds. She smiles, flashing pearl white fangs that make me shiver. Margot didn’t need to repeat the warning. Not what I remember what it felt like when she set me on fire and would’ve watched me burn alive if the fire hadn’t been put out.

The ensuing noise is loud enough to rattle the walls. It’s rather easy to guess who the public thinks should be Queen.

As if sensing my thoughts, Margot says, "House Blackspire has great sway in court and far beyond, and Lilith was originally the Council’s and the late King, Vaelor’s choice of a bride for the King. But it was no surprise, with Lucien’s wild streak, that he rode to Blackspire Castle intending to claim one woman and abducted another. Lucien chose Lilith’s younger sister instead, Ilya."

My stomach clenches into unease at the name, but Margot continues. "Lilith didn’t take it well. Fires consumed stone and flesh alike in the east wing of House Blackspire that night. There are still charred bones buried beneath the rubble of those who couldn’t escape."

My face forms into a grimace. "I’m going to die, aren’t I?"

Margot snorts. "Fire cannot burn Iron, girl." A pause. "Not initially, at least."

"Very encouraging."

"She won’t last the first day," Wyatt cuts in dryly, gaze sliding over me like I’m something stuck to his boot. "Everyone knows this. I don’t know why you bother wasting words on the wench."

The world outside roars to live again as the next contender is announced, leaving me contemplating my life choices as I am announced.

"Last to enter..." The commentator seems to pause for a second and when he adds, "Lyra of House Nythorn," there are no claps. No screams. No yells in my name. They don’t know who I am, but by the goddess, it is terribly discouraging.

I turn for the tunnel’s exit, only to have my wrist caught by Margot. Her grip is harsh and the look in her eyes harder. "If all else fails and you cannot summon your powers, tap into that destructive force that brought down the ice. Do not die, Valka. You still owe me a life and as such, yours is mine to take."

I don’t tell her that that thing inside me that lent me her strength hasn’t stirred since that day. I don’t tell her that I try every night in my bedroom to do something as simple as reach between me, for that well of strength and come up with nothing. I don’t tell her, either, of the bargain I made with the devil last night, or the sealing of the blood oath that swears me into secrecy.

I merely nod and walk out, into the light.

The bright glare of the sun hits me first, before the size of the crowd does. The central arena space is huge and the walls and grandstands are taller than I imagined. Rows of occupied seats rise in endless tiers, higher and higher toward the sky. Below the general seating area contains private boxes, separated by balconies, all occupied by the precious members of the sixteen royal houses, more than I’ve seen together in one place.

Hundreds of them, with their house colors and banners setting them apart.

On the very top of the arena are large scrying crystals, embedded into stone walls. I’ve never seen anything like them in my life. Like mirrors that projected the images from all over the arena from time to time.

And my image flashes on the crystal as I make my way across.

It startles me. My face reflecting on more than ten of those crystals, my skin flushed, hair braided back from my face and the wide-eyed look that tells everyone that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. The sigil of House Nythorn, a serpent curled around a lantern, stands out on my dark blue leather with streaks of dark grey, and even if my boots make me appear taller, beside the fiercest women in the Kingdom of Ebonheart, I look like exactly what I am.

A child who has no place in this gathering.

Murmurs steer through the crowd. Who is she? I didn’t know Nythorn had any daughters left to spare. She looks about a handful years. What were they thinking sending her forward? Poor thing, she doesn’t even stand a chance...

I don’t see the first step. When I trip, it isn’t pretty. It is clumsy, my nose smashing hard into the concrete, and for a whole second, I see pretty stars.

The arena swells with noise. Laughter. Disgust. Demands that I be thrown out of the competition if I do not know what I am doing. Boos. More laughter. More and more predictions on how soon I’ll die in there.

My eyes water from the pain radiating from my face as I stare up at the crystals that show my now bleeding nose and my form sprawled on all fours to the world. Before jumping to a different image entirely that makes my breath stutter.

King Lucien seats at the center of the sixteen, alone, either sides of him flanked by the royals. The crowd halts their booing and come alive in an incendive roar of genuine adoration as the crystals zoom in, giving a close up of the bastard’s face.

My cheeks flare with embarrassment as I notice his face, beautifully haughty, is stretched into an amused grin.

He’s laughing at me.

Swearing under my breath, I push to my feet, resisting the need to check if my nose is broken--it probably is--and close the rest of the distance, joining the line of contenders, vaguely recognizing the nervous looking woman beside me with metallic blue hair as Zyra Duskharrow. Her skin looks pale and clammy, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she takes in the crowd and crystals.

"Are you alright?" I ask, voice low. When she doesn’t respond, instead wobbling on her feet, I add softly, "You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to."

She turns chocolate brown eyes to me. "It is an honor to be here, peasant."

My gaze falls to the sigil she bears on her white and gold leather. A golden mask split in half, one smiling, one weeping. Duskharrow houses enchanters. They wield glamour and charm, reveling in the art of lust and seduction. It is said that one touch is all it takes to make your mind and heart theirs.

Understanding dawns on me as she trembles even harder beside me. If Margot and Lucien aren’t overreacting, and we are to kill each other in there, then her gifts are nearly as useless. Not when there are people like Lilith who can very well turn you to ash with a single thought.

A sudden hush falls over the arena, bringing my attention forward. An elder in red robes stand before the great doors tall enough to blot out he skies. When he speaks, his voice drapes over us all like a spell.

"Denizens of Ebonheart, behold the Tenth Selection! By Thandric’s will, a queen shall rise, By the King’s hand, our future is bound. Glory to Thandric! Glory to the Crown!"

The women on my left repeat his last three sentences as one, forcing me to chew my mouth, and the crowd roars in response, thousands of them, wild with a frenzy that makes the ground underneath our feet shake.

When silence falls, the man speaks again, looking to the center where we stand. "The rules and instructions are simple. This stage battles your strength and resilience, and it will span over the next three dawns."

Three days?! Margot had told me the time varied, but it had never exceeded the span of twenty four hours.

The Elder gestures towards the doors behind him. "At the top of the mountains, embedded into stone is the sword of the first Queen, Sorscha Ironfang. Whoever is in possession of the sword by the rise of the third dawn wins the second stage of the Selection."

My brows rise. That easy?

"The rules follows thus. There is no weapon limit. Use whatever means necessary to steal the sword, protect it and protect yourselves. However, the use of your gifts are prohibited until the sword has been retrieved from it’s place. You are prohibited from attacking a fellow contender at the hour of rest, which lasts three hours from midnight each day. Alliances may be formed, but they are not honored in the eyes of Blessed Thandric. Meaning? There are no penalties for betrayal. Only the one who claims the sword of the sword may hold it. No can carry the sword on your behalf. No food, no water, no aid shall be granted."

I knew I should’ve eaten the damned bread this morning.

Finally, he adds, "This Stage of the Selection may come to an abrupt end if there are less than half the original number of contenders are left standing, with or without the possession of the sword."

Zyra is trembling even harder now beside me. My mouth dries, heart slowing. Less than eight people? They’re practically begging us to kill each other.

"Should you wish to officially withdraw from the Selection, you may step off the stone now, for there will be no evictions, disqualifications or withdrawals once you step past this threshold."

I spare a glance left. None of the women move. Zyra casts a furtive glance towards the leaders of House Duskharrow, a large man with brown eyes like hers and a woman with an even harder expression than the male’s giving her a look that says, "Do not fuck this up," and Zyra stays put, swallowing on a tiny sob.

In the end, no one steps off the stone.

Margot told me it would be unlikely. Withdrawing was considered disgraceful and the punishment to be given was often just as bad as death. But I didn’t get it. What about being Queen and gaining power could be worth throwing one’s life away for? Much more your own child’s life?

"Come forward, contenders," the Elder commands, and we do, as one.

He walks ahead of us and with a heavy breath, he pushes the thick doors open. The crowd is back to screaming again, chanting the names of their favoured contenders. "Li-lith! Li-lith! Black-spire! So-ra-ya! So-ra-ya! E-vad-ne! E-vad-ne!"

The Elder stands by the side of the door and he looks to the skies, palms upturned in prayer to the gods, his loud voice booming over the arena, "By Thandric’s will, let the tenth Selection therefore begin!"

Pretty sure this had nothing to do with Thane’s will.

We take the first steps forward, past that threshold, and the second the last of us crosses, the doors whump shut behind us. The voices of the crowd can still be heard, though, somewhat muted and I look around, I note that we are at the center of the forest.

And just as my heart goes into overdrive, brain freezing, stuttering between the instructions and Margot’s advice to immediately seek shelter, a blood curdling scream rips through the air.

My head whips back and I am grateful I didn’t eat breakfast.

Because Lilith Blackspire has two blades embedded in either eyes of the Mirevane heir, twisting deeper and harder, and she cries, thrashing wildly, claws raking along Lilith’s body, to no avail. The woman is unmoving in her assault, as if cut from stone.

The crowd outside is stunned to silence for all of a second. And I stare in abject terror as she retracts the blade from the woman’s left eye and slashes it across her throat with such force, it takes off her head.

Sweet gods...

Zyra screams, and it mingles with that of the crowd’s. "Li-lith! Li-lith!" they chant with mind boggling frenzy.

When those devilish green eyes turn to take in the rest of our company and land on me, I feel it in the very core of my being. Fear, because there is nothing sane in those eyes. It’s like staring at the darkest abyss in the depths of hell, only to find it staring back at you.

I don’t think.

I run.