His whisper reaches me, his words slow as though he’s drunk. “Whatever’s waiting for us down there, we’ve got each other’s backs, right?”
I nod. Declan turns back to look at me and Benjamin and dips his head in acknowledgment as well. As much as I’d like to, I can’t be reassured by their solidarity. The nature of the Trials is to test each recruit individually, not as a group.
The corridor finally ends at a massive iron door, its surface aged and pitted with the marks of time. Two masked and cloakedfigures, faces obscured and silent, stand guard. They push the door open without a word, revealing the dungeon’s entrance.
This part of the castle is a somber, shadowy chamber, hidden deep beneath the ground where the clamor of the outside world fades to a heavy silence. The air carries the musty scent of ancient stone and forgotten secrets. And death.
The guards escort us down a narrow, damp corridor lined with cells, each barred and looking more like a relic of medieval times than part of a fraternity building. The heavy clang of iron doors closing behind my fellow recruits as they’re ushered inside, heightens my adrenaline. When it’s my turn, a guard opens a cell and motions for me to enter.
I step inside and steel myself against the door slamming shut and the lock being engaged. In the center of this confining space stands a large, sturdy wooden table, its surface covered by numerous vials, bottles, and containers, each holding different herbs, minerals, and liquids. These are the tools and ingredients necessary for the crafting and neutralizing of poisons.
The syringe. Fuck.
I briefly close my eyes and inhale a ragged breath, hoping to God that I’m wrong.
“Recruits, welcome to the second Trial.”
My father’s voice echoes, not only in my head but also throughout the cells. I search for the source and find what I’m looking for. The walls are fitted with speakers, cleverly integrated into the crevices where the stone has crumbled slightly with age.
I continue my search, perspiration gathering at my hairline. Mounted inconspicuously in the darker corner of the ceiling, a small, unobtrusive camera peers down at the scene below. These cameras are the eyes of the Order, linking these ancient chambers to a more contemporary security room where our actions can be monitored.
“You are about to begin a test that will demand every bit of your training and knowledge amassed over the past three years,” he continues. “Your task is to correctly identify and neutralize a poison, using only the resources available to you within your cells. You will have two hours to do so before the poison in your bloodstream kills you. Your time starts now.”
I’m really fucking tired of being right all the damn time.
“Looks like they’ve really fucked us this time,” Benjamin calls out, his voice filling the hallway.
With my cell located across from his, I catch his eye through the bars. “Yeah, just another day in paradise.”
He nods at me, the torchlight flickering over his face and highlighting the beads of sweat trailing down his temples. It could be the harsh lighting or my imagination, but his skin has taken on a sickly pallor rather quickly.
I glance at my reflection in a metal bowl. I’m not as ill-looking as Benjamin, but my head is pounding, each throb a stark reminder of the poison’s presence in my system. I try to focus on my breathing, keeping it slow and steady, attempting to mediate the effects so I can think, but it’s difficult. The walls of the cell seem to close in, the air growing thick, almost tangible in its oppressiveness.
The challenge in this Trial is not merely the identification of the poison and creating the correct antidote, but fighting the physical effects of the poison itself while doing so.
I scan the ingredients laid out before me, each vial precisely labeled. After taking a mental inventory of my symptoms—disorientation, a sheen of sweat covering my skin, labored breathing—I start eliminating the most common toxins that don’t match up. Each one I dismiss brings me closer to identifying the venom that’s beginning to undermine my physical and mental capacity.
“Recruits, one more thing.” I grit my teeth at hearing my father’s voice again. “Anything you consumed during the Solstice Ball—every drink, every sip—has reduced your survival time. Each item ingested has taken approximately three to five minutes from the two hours initially granted. Calculate wisely. Mors solum initium.”
My stomach knots, and I glance at Benjamin, whose expression morphs from focused determination to outright horror. The realization hits me hard—he’d been more relaxed at the ball, partaking freely in the festivities.
Benjamin catches my look, the fear in his gaze impactful even from afar. I give him a nod meant to reassure, even as I imagine how his death will affect Delilah. For her sake, he must live.
Turning away from Benjamin, I focus on my own situation. My fingers tremble slightly as I handle the vials, a testament to the poison’s relentless progression. The diagnostic tools beside me blur in and out of focus as I struggle to keep my mind clear.
I mix several components, ignoring the pain slicing through me, indicating tissue death. The room spins slightly around me and I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, taking slow, deep breaths to combat the dizziness. The physical act of creating the antidote becomes a battle in and of itself.
Even from across the hallway, I can hear Benjamin’s labored breathing. How much time has passed? I was maintaining a countdown in my head, but with my brain becoming foggy, I only have the mental capacity to measure and combine different substances. Even that grows more impossible by the minute.
The sharp, shattering noise of glass breaking jolts me out of my focus. My head snaps up, and my gaze immediately lands on Benjamin. He clutches the side of the table to steady himself. A broken beaker lies in pieces at his feet, the remnants of its contents slowly pooling on the cold stone floor.
He slowly lifts his head, giving me a full view of his face. And the blood dripping from his nose. It’s a bright crimson ribbon against his pale skin. He’s losing time faster than I thought.
Benjamin wipes away the blood with an angry swipe of his hand, creating a streak. At seeing this, my mind races, piecing together the fragments of information that had been floating at the edges of my consciousness all evening. They converge in my mind with alarming clarity.
Red, the hue of Delilah’s dress and the color of blood. “Sanguine”—a term not only associated with blood but with optimism. The Sanguine Solstice, held on the blood moon, was supposed to be a celebration for passing the first Trial, giving the recruits hope, or optimism going forward. The play on words ironically marks the night that might lead to our downfall.
The Order loves its symbolism, its rituals embedded with deeper meanings and messages. Everything is too aligned to be coincidental…
