He looks worn at the edges—dark hair mussed, faint shadows beneath his eyes—but it does nothing to blunt the sharpness of him. If anything, the fatigue makes him more unreadable, like a statue carved in darker stone, dangerous and impenetrable no matter the cracks beneath.
“So you survived the men’s quarters,” I say, tugging on my first boot. “Was it everything you dreamed?”
He drops his cloak onto the chair. “Consider yourself lucky,” he mutters.
“Lucky isn’t the word I’d use,” I murmur, pulling on my other boot. “You vanished without warning, hogged the bed previously, and now suddenly you’re playing martyr. Hard to keep track of which version of you I’m dealing with.”
He pauses, studying me with that unsettling focus of his. “Maybe that’s the point.”
The words land harder than they should, and I’m not sure what he means, only that the air thickens with it. I search his eyesfor some flicker of intent as he watches—something I can recognize. There’s nothing. Just that calm, unreadable dark.
Then he turns, adjusting his blade with what seems like unnecessary precision. I watch him a moment longer, before forcing my gaze back to my boots, pretending I’m not still frowning… or caught in the silence he left.
The next day and a half dissolve into a haze of sweat and pain. The skill Byron showed me proves useful, but Selen drives us harder still, pushing each of us to the edge. We’re thrown at more than dragons; there are punishing obstacle courses, mock combat bouts, and endurance drills that drag the air from even Zeriel’s lungs.
The worst strain isn’t physical, though. It’s the constant effort to coax at the edges of our gifts, to test the beginnings of what we’ve barely uncovered, and use them without letting anyone notice.
By our final session, Zeriel and I have reached an obvious but unspoken agreement: we’re both still too raw, too unpracticed, to hide it for long. We can mask it briefly, but sustained concealment? Not a chance. So we’ll have to hold it back, use it only when absolutely necessary, and only in quick, discreet bursts.
“Do you even need this to win?” I ask, panting as I drop onto the bench beside him—careful not to brush against him—while the others wind down. “You seem to manage fine without it.”
His eyes cut to me, dark and pointed. “You think the others won’t have their own tricks up their sleeves?”
The thought lands harder than I expect. I hadn’t really considered it—that the other champions might twist their magic too, hidden advantages honed in secret. Maybe Blaise has his own Selen lurking in the wings. Suddenly Zeriel’s desire for a weapon no one else can see doesn’t feel quite like arrogance. Perhaps it’s survival.
As Selen predicted, we’re due to leave late afternoon, so our last training session is cut short.
Before we split for our quarters to prepare, Lira catches my arm. Her grip is firm, her gray eyes steady on mine.
“Don’t die out there,” she says, quiet but unflinching.
My throat constricts. “You either,” I reply, forcing the words out.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she pulls me into a fierce hug, the kind meant to speak for everything words can’t. I blink hard, refusing to let the sting in my eyes spill over.
The other women gather around us, forming a loose circle of cautious solidarity.
“Don’t forget what we drilled,” Nyx says, her voice carrying a rough warmth, her hand landing heavy on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I manage. “Let’s… all get through this in one piece.” I still feel a claw of guilt at the fact Selen gave Zeriel and me significantly more training attention than them.
Selen clears her throat from her office doorway. “Time,” she says simply.
The women disperse, each with a final nod or touch. As they file out, I catch glimpses of their faces—determined, fearful, resolute. I try not to think about how many of them will make it back.
Ellis lingers in the corner, watching me. He’ll be staying out of sight, of course. I pull him in for a quick hug, just in case this is where our paths split for good. “Stay smart,” I murmur.
When I turn, Byron’s already watching. His gaze holds mine, steady, intent. Something passes between us, quiet and close, like the brush of fingertips in a crowd. He gives me a brief nod, his mouth softening into a half-smile, and I mirror his expression, the understanding between us feeling deeper than words.
Then I finally follow Zeriel out through the door.
Chapter 40
“So, you got what you wanted,” I mutter to Zeriel as we step into his quarters.
Neither of us spoke on the way back, too locked in our own heads, each turning over the same truth: we still don’t have anything resembling a strategy. The tournament’s built to make that impossible. Which means we’ll be improvising every step of the way… and I’ll be back to relying on him with my life. Only this time, the trust might have to run both ways.
He casts me a look as he shuts the door. “Meaning?”
