“If only,” Leona repeated, sneering.
Gael rolled her eyes. “And anyway, our wings are not part of our magic, they’re part ofus. Taking them would be like chopping off one of your arms, human. Is it our fault the Crucible did not hinder our natural capabilities during the trial? We were still without our powers, same as you.”
Zephyr let out a squeak of agreement. “Felt like part of myself was missing.”
Elyria couldn’t disagree with that. It had been disconcerting not to feel the magic that constantly simmered in her veins. Downright dangerous. But if she was being honest, it was also...peaceful? That shadowy presence in the pit of her belly was quiet for the first time since...
“So, whatarewe supposed to do now?” Paelin asked.
“What we’re already doing, asshole,” muttered one of the other pot-stirring humans from earlier. The redheaded brother—Belien. “We wait. We heal. We wait for the rest.” While Leona sat nearby, chuckling at his response, Elyria realized his sister was nowhere to be seen. And she wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Speaking of the rest, where’s your other half, ginger prince?” quipped Gael, limping slightly as she moved to a nearby bench.
“We were separated in the arena,” he said darkly.
“She didn’t make it? You have my deepest sympathies,” Gael said, sounding anything but sympathetic.
The murderous look on Belien’s face had Elyria bracing for the human to lob another ill-fated attack at Gael. The Arbiter said the rule barring violence against one another was no longer in effect, but they were all injured, all exhausted. Elyria had hoped they’d get at least a little reprieve before the fighting started anew.
To her great surprise, the humans seemed to agree. With a sigh, Belien leaned back and scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Belis will come through any minute,” said Leona, placing a reassuring hand on his knee.
“We will pray it is so.” An irritatingly earnest voice came from behind Elyria, so close it made her shiver. That charred sandalwood scent drifted over her as Cedric Thorne walked past, Zephyr close on his heels, and took a seat with the other humans—Belien and Leona on one side, Alden on the other. He shook hands with the saint before turning to engage the other two in conversation, gesticulating animatedly.
Elyria bit back a huff of annoyance. So much for whatever shamble of an alliance they had formed during those last moments in the arena. If Cedric wanted to associate himself with human trash who handed out slurs against Arcanians like they were candy, so be it.
But as Elyria wandered back to the other side of the room, taking her own seat beside Kit, a pang of pity ran through her on Zephyr’s behalf. The sylvan stood awkwardly behind Cedric, shifting on her feet as Leona, Belien, and Alden vacillated between exchanging knowing looks with one another and shooting highly obvious sneers at Zephyr.
Elyria didn’t know if Cedric didn’t realize his compatriotswerebeing openly derisive toward the sylvan, or if he didn’t care. And she didn’t know which was worse. She also didn’t know why Zephyr was subjecting herself to this. Whatever reasons the sylvan had for aligning herself with Cedric, she couldn’t possibly have known Leona and Belien would be part of the deal.
Elyria’s irritation rose, starting to meld with a rage that, logically, she knew didn’t belong to this situation. It’s not as if anything had happened yet, after all. But “yet” was, in fact, the key. Elyria had heard too many stories over the ages of what humans did to the innocent Arcanians found in their lands. Did the knight not realize what he was potentially subjecting Zephyr to by association?
Thoughtless fool.
“You all right, Ellie?” Kit’s voice broke through Elyria’s indignation, her casual use of the nickname calming the thrumming shadow that had started to stir in her core.
“Sure,” Elyria replied, tearing her glare from Cedric as she leaned back. “Just anxious for whatever comes next.”
Kit nodded. “Aren’t we all.”
In the end,only one more champion came through the archway. It was not Belis. And the keening cry that came from Belien when a bloodied and battered Cyren Tenrider stepped through the archway and it finally stopped glowing, the magic inside stilling, was haunting. The quiet sobbing that followed as the archway disappeared entirely, leaving only a blank expanse of stone along the wall in its wake, was worse.
Elyria might have felt bad for the man, had he and his sister not proven themselves to be terrible people. She would be lying if she said she felt the world of Arcanis was worse off with one less prejudiced asshole in it. And thankfully, she didn’t have to listen to his wailing for long. Not when a sudden, booming voice resounded through the chamber.
Many voices, speaking as one, in fact.
“Congratulations, champions,” said the Arbiter’s voice. “You have bested the Trial of Strength.”
Elyria searched for the source of the sound but there was no sign of the white-hooded figure.
“Only those willing to bleed for the crown dare dream to hold it. You have fought. You have bled. You have experienced loss,” the voice echoed in her head. A strangled sob escaped from Belien. “You have proven your strength. Now you will take the time to heal.”
Murmurs rippled through the champions.
“Welcome to the Celestial Sanctum. The doors before you lead to rooms where you may rest, bathe, and continue tending your injuries. Use this time wisely. Tomorrow, the second trial begins.”
The voice faded, uneasy glances suddenly replacing the unfocused wonder that adorned most of the champions’ faces. They might be receiving a night of respite, but that did nothing to relieve the palpable tension stretching throughout the chamber.
