Idress quickly. Each piece of clothing feels like armor, a barrier against the uncertainty of what’s to come. The Order calls, you answer. You just don’t know what you’ve agreed to.
After checking the monitor next to the door, I open it. The crow waiting for me on the other side nods once. “It’s time.”
I resist the urge to look back at Delilah one more time. I can’t risk it. No one can know what she means to me, and a single glance could give me away.
I step into the hallway and shut the door. It locks with a soft click and I take solace in the fact that Delilah’s safe. As we walk through the quiet halls of the dormitory, my thoughts are with her. I make myself suppress the memories of her, along with the feelings she evokes.
If I’m to pass whatever test lies before me, I can’t be distracted.
The chill of the early morning air pricks my skin as we ascend the winding staircase to the roof of the castle. The stone beneath is smooth, its texture refined by countless soldiers climbing these very steps in preparation for battle. We emerge at the top,and the expanse of the night sky greets me, the moon hanging overhead like a silent witness, providing the only light available.
The roof itself is a large, flat space, designed with functionality in mind instead of aesthetics. Battlements rise like teeth against the skyline, offering protection and a panoramic view of the surrounding area. This high up, the air is crisper, carrying the scent of pine and oak. Below, the castle walls stretch out like a maze of stone and shadow, a fortress guarding its secrets.
And the Obsidian Order.
In a straight line are the ten leaders. They wear their ceremonial black robes and masks, as well as silence. Like their clothing, it’s meant to create mystery and unease.
I catch my father’s eye, but it’s only for a moment. He said they’d be watching, and he was right. The atmosphere is thick with tension, the quiet only disturbed by my arrival and the occasional shuffle of feet or the soft rustle of fabric.
Everyone’s attention is on the platform in the middle of the rooftop. My adrenaline kicks up a notch at the sight. It’s reminiscent of a gallows, constructed from wood, now weathered and aged. It rises a few feet from the ground, supported by sturdy beams that ensure its stability.
It’s a fucking stage.
An ominous presence lingers in the air, combining with the anticipation of the men nearby. In the center of this platform is a wooden board. It’s fashioned from tight-grain wood, mounted to a stand and positioned at an optimal height for knife-throwing practice.
Then there’s the blood, fresh and wet, still traveling along the wood in rivulets that look black in the night.
I scan the area, my veins icing over at the tarp-covered bodies scattered about. Three of them to be exact. My guess is they’re recruits who failed to pass the test.
That won’t be me.
One of the leaders, Leonard Gage, ruler of the drug empire, raises his hand. My father goes taut beside him, but I keep my gaze on my rival’s predecessor.
“Xavier Donovan,” he says, “you stand before us at the threshold of your first Trial. This is not merely a test of skill, but a measure of your resolve, your dedication to the principles that bind this Order together.”
The group of them nod, their minute movements reflecting the solemnity of this event. Gage gestures toward the wooden target. “This right of passage will transform you from recruit to crow, from soldier to leader. You are granted but a single attempt. The knife you throw must not only reach the target, but it must imbed itself in the wood, a symbol of your deep commitment to this brotherhood. Miss and you fail. If the knife doesn’t remain secure in the wood, and falls to the ground, you fail. Succeed, and you affirm your spot in the remaining Trials.”
He retrieves a knife from his cloak and hands it to me. I take it, familiarizing the weight of it before I run out of time. My focus narrows, but he interrupts my concentration with a simple wave of the hand.
“Hold. Your target arrives.”
I look from the wooden target to the woman being dragged onto the rooftop. Delilah’s blindfolded, her movements hindered by restraints, and a gag stifles any protest she might have. The moon bathes her in an ethereal glow, her bridal gown bright in the darkness.
Inside, I’m an accumulation of fury, rage, and wrath all combined into one tempest threatening to combust. Outside, I remain stoic, my expression bored. The leaders watch me, their gazes scrutinizing behind their masks.
This isn’t merely a test of skill. It’s one of loyalty.
The sick and twisted pieces connect to form a clear picture of what’s expected of me. They’re searching for a reaction to me seeing her vulnerable. And harmed.
The wooden platform is now something sinister, a stage that’s become an altar. One I must sacrifice her on. Even at a distance, her confusion and fear are heavy, her body tense.
A crow shoves her against the board, wetting her skin with blood and staining her dress with red. They rip the blindfold from her eyes and the gag from her mouth.
“Xavier!”
Hearing the longing in her voice nearly fucking breaks me. The visceral reaction within me has my skin vibrating. My hands shake as I fiddle with the knife, disguising my fury by tossing the weapon casually.
“Don’t move, bride,” I say.
