We climb in a rough knot, Raine taking the lead with an uncanny instinct for the rock. She calls out handholds as she goes—“Left, above the green lichen! There’s a fissure!”—her voice steady despite the slick stone. Several of the men guard the rear and front, driving back any reavers that stray too near with quick, brutal thrusts. I can’t force the creatures entirely docile without drawing suspicion, but I nudge at them just enough to keep our ascent swift, telling myself it could be mistaken for the reavers’ own caution before a coordinated group.
We move as a unit, a pack of wolves that have temporarily agreed not to eat each other. Zeriel and I climb side-by-side, wordless but acutely aware.
When a section of rock crumbles beneath my boot, his hand is there, grabbing my belt and hauling me back against the wall. When a reaver dives for his head from above, I nudge a loose rock free with my boot. It crashes into the creature’s skull, sending it sideways. Or at least, that’s what I want anyone watching to believe. A convenient mask for what I truly did.
Nice aim,Zeriel mutters through the link.
I have my moments.
Slowly, painfully, we ascend from the abyss. The air grows warmer, the oppressive gloom of the gorge giving way to the eerie light of trees above.
I haul myself over the final ledge, collapsing onto a bed of moss, my body screaming with exhaustion and pain. Zeriel is right behind me, standing with a more graceful weariness.
Still steady on his feet,I can’t help thinking, and accidentally project the thought.
Would it disappoint you if I weren’t?
I catch his eyes for a moment, trying to read what I see glimmering in their dark brown depths. A faint hint of curiosity, yes, but I also sense… a strong barrier of control.
I exhale, too drained to play this game at the moment.Maybe.
The others emerge, including Blaise. He vaults onto the ledge, landing as lightly as a cat, his crimson and gold attire soaked and torn but his arrogance utterly unscathed. He brushes a piece of dirt from his shoulder, and the temporary truce dissolves like mist in the sun.
I gaze up at the ancient archway looming before us. A gateway to a past the empire tried to bury.
We stand on a wide stone path, facing the entrance to the old fae temple.
Chapter 49
Ahorn blast rips through the air. From hidden slats in the gorge walls, a colossal metal grate shoots out, slamming shut over the chasm. It seals the abyss’s bony inhabitants inside, the clicks and hisses of the reavers abruptly muffled.
The distant roar of the crowd crashes back into existence.
“Congratulations, champions!” Pellvorn’s voice booms down from the imperial caravan circling lazily overhead. “You have completed the opening task and reached the Rootbound Temple. A commendable feat of survival.” His tone is laced with the condescending praise of a man watching insects navigate a maze. “But that was merely the overture. Now, the First Round of the Emperor’s Tournament truly begins!”
As he speaks, the great archway of the temple groans, ancient gates pulling apart to reveal a yawning, shadowed interior.
“The true test awaits within,” Pellvorn continues, his voice carrying across the clearing. “Enter. Show us your worth.”
The ten surviving champions exchange quick glances. The alliance that carried us from the abyss has already fractured, replaced by the cold calculation of predators assessing each other's weaknesses. Blaise’s gaze lingers on Zeriel, his jaw tightening, the faintest curl of anticipation tugging at his mouth.
My hand clamps onto Zeriel’s arm, vise-tight.Game plan?
First through that arch,he fires back, taut beneath my grip.Whatever’s waiting, I’d rather face it before the others do.
Our eyes lock for a beat—enough. I release him, and together we break for the archway, moving as one. Blaise chases us, the others close behind, no one willing to be left back. As we pass under the stone arch, I feel a strange vibration, like crossing an invisible threshold. The air inside tastes different. Older, charged with something that makes the hair on my arms rise.
The entrance hall unfolds before us, a cavernous space of weathered stone and towering pillars. Ancient fae symbols are carved into almost every surface, their edges softened by centuries but still unmistakable. Crowns threaded with runes, thrones flanked by wings, circles of stars locked in endless orbit.
Then I see the imperial banners hanging from the rafters, crimson and gold desecrating the ancient stone. Torches burn in brackets, their smoke staining ceilings that once probably glowed with fae light. The empire's stamp of ownership, crude and deliberate.
But the silence of the temple is a lie. Beneath the surface, it hums with a violated power, like a sacred song muted and twisted. My gaze sweeps over the hall, landing on a series of crystalline spheres, each the size of a man’s head, hanging near the high, vaulted ceiling. They’re dark, inert, but they weren’t carved by old fae hands. They reek of the empire.
As the last champion, Damiar Korren, clears the threshold, the great stone gates grind shut behind us with a boom that shakes the floor. We’re sealed in.
“Let the First Round begin!” Pellvorn’s voice spills through the cracks in the walls and ceiling. The crystalline spheres ignite, pulsing with a brilliant white light that projects our images onto their multifaceted surfaces. “Every moment, every choice, every drop of blood will be witnessed by the loyal subjects of Thalyris! A lesson in courage, and a warning against weakness!
“This temple, a relic of a chaotic past, festers with a wild,untamed energy.” His voice drips with theatrical sanctimony. “It is your duty to purge it. To cleanse the heart of this corruption. The first champion to strike the final blow upon the source will win this round and gain an advantage in the second. Good luck to you all.”
