The room trembles with tension.
Her eyes close behind her mask. She draws in a slow, painfully controlled breath, like she's trying to hold herself together. When she opens her eyes, nothing in her gaze resembles the woman who pulled me into the tunnel with confidence.
7
Valentina
Everything inside me lurches sideways, crashing into itself from a wave I never saw coming. My breath backs up into my throat, sharp and thick, and the roar from the crowd ignites hotter.
The chanting starts slowly at first, a few voices pulsing together, low and guttural. Then more join. Soon, the entire room vibrates with a single thundering sound. It's a deep and primal vibration that shakes through the soles of my boots and climbs up my spine.
"Oooommmm. Oooommmm."
Each beat lands against my sternum, squeezing my lungs as the air inside burns. My heart claws viciously against it as if trying to break free.
This can't be happening.
Not the Ritual of the Scarlet Hour.
Not with Brax.
Not when I've done everything right.
I didn't. He should never have been inside.
I didn't know.
It was my responsibility.
My insides twist into a violent knot. I taste iron on my tongue, like the air itself is bleeding. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to reach for Brax, shove him off the platform, and scream that they made a mistake.
But I don't.
Because they didn't.
This is a deliberate, calculated move. A punishment crafted specifically for me, and I assume it was before the night of the fight.
They set me up.
The realization slams into me so hard my knees almost buckle. I swallow the panic, but it scratches its way up my throat mimicking broken glass.
For years, there have been Omnis waiting for me to fail and prove I'm unworthy of the seat my parents died for. I didn't until now. Yet I gave them the opportunity with Brax O'Malley.
I should have found the intel they withheld. I could have dug deeper until every path was exhausted.
Could I?
There wasn't any time.
There are no excuses.
Brax turns his head toward me, the red-skull mask unable to hide the question in his posture. His chest expands like he's about to speak, but I cut him a sharp glare. If he opens his mouth, he'll feed the fire, licking eagerly at the edges of this ritual.
The chanting swells louder, shaking the torches mounted on thewalls. The flames turn into creatures, swaying violently with the shadows.
The judges stare down at us, still as stone.
A sharp clang of the gong echoes as a door behind the stage bursts open.
