Eventually, however, I begin to take in the rest of my surroundings. The cold wind of a high mountain peak. The paved platform, possibly the foundations of an ancient watchtower long since crumbled. That abrupt edge, so stark it seems to plunge into another world entirely. I draw a breath only to discover the air is painfully thin.
And below me—beyond the brink of the platform, spread outbeneath that huge vault of starry sky—forest. Black forest, stretching out as far as the eye can see, crowding the slopes of the mountain, enveloping the world.
My knees buckle. I sit down hard, right there in the center of that platform, beneath the shining eye of the moon. I knew all along that Stromin Palace must be in some remote and difficult-to-access location. Alderin couldn’t risk the dracori finding us while the championship took place. But this? The absolute scope of it, the overwhelming miles upon miles of wilderness…No one could survive out there. Not without carefully stocked supplies, a knowledge of the land, and far more luck than I’ve ever imagined myself to enjoy. Even if I could somehow descend the sheer drop of stone below me, I could never hope to make my way through that dense and desolate forest alone.
Unless I sprout wings and learn to fly, I am trapped.
A slow exhale eases from my lungs. The wind catches my air and whirls it away in a sharp, whistling howl. Until this moment, I’d not realized how dire my imprisonment was nor how impossible all my foolish dreams of freedom.
A figure stands off to my right, not quite out of sight. I don’t bother turning to look at him—I already know it’s Valtar. The largeness of his presence is unmistakable, solid and powerful and warm in this cold space. We are both silent for some while, taking in the sweeping view before us. Why did he bring me here? Was it simply to prove a point? To convince me it’s time to give in to the inevitable, to accept my role as prize in this championship? To submit?
My burnt hand clenches into a fist.
“You should release the gremler.”
I blink several times. Then, rather than look at him, I turn my gaze down to the little creature in the globe, resting in my lap. Itis turning in circles, jumping, searching for a way out but blocked by the smooth, sloped walls of its prison.
Valtar takes a few steps toward me, then crouches, leaving a space of three feet between us. I feel his dark eyes on me but won’t look his way.
“Is it healed?” he asks after a moment.
I hesitate. Then nod. The wound on the gremler’s head is scabbed over, and while it will probably carry a scar for the rest of its short life, it’s none the worse for wear after its little misadventure with the spider.
“In that case, you should release it.”
“Why?” I whisper, my breath puffing in the cold air. “So it can die on this mountaintop? Or be devoured by monsters in the forest?”
Valtar tips his head to one side, his gaze shifting from me to the creature. “And if you keep it, it will die in captivity. Which death do you think the gremler would prefer?”
I don’t answer. I draw a long breath then release it slowly through quivering lips. The forest below seems to mock me with its very existence, so vast and impenetrable. It makes a fool of me and all my futile rebellions.
Finally, with a firm set of my chin, I lean forward and tip thescintilglobe, allowing the little ball of fluff inside to slide out the opening. It lands with a plop on the paving stones, shakes its whole self in a poof of tricolored fur. Then, with a squeak of joy, it skitters away, vanishing over the edge of the platform and out of sight.
I sit for some while, staring at the place where it disappeared. How long will it last out there? Days? Hours? I suppose in the grand scheme of things, it matters little; gremlers are not born to lead long or fulfilling lives. So why is my heart so heavy?
“I’m never getting out of here,” I say at last, my words soft. Slowly, I turn to Valtar, meeting his gaze. “Am I?”
Moonlight plays across his hard features, deepening the shadow of his brow, emphasizing the cut of his jaw. His eyes are like two pools of oblivion, but starlight reflects in their depths as he gazes at me in that solemn, silent way of his. For a moment, I wonder if he does not mean to answer at all. At last, however, he says, “There is no way out. None save the way King Alderin has declared.”
A champion. I’m not leaving here without a champion. That’s what he means. Alderin has taken pains to construct a truly effective prison.
I rub both hands down my face. Then, sitting up a little straighter, I face the forest once more. “I won’t do it,” I say. “I won’t let him force me into this. He cannot make me into something I am not.”
Valtar eases himself out of a crouch into a sitting position, one long leg extended before him, the other bent at the knee so that his elbow may rest upon it. It is a strangely easy and relaxed posture, not at all what I’ve come to expect from him. He regards the view before us, and when I sneak a sideways glance at his face, I cannot tell what he makes of it. His expression is so hard, so unreadable.
“All of us have the same potential,” he says at last. His voice is low, as though he means the words for himself alone, not for my listening ears. “The potential to be warped by powerful forces into creatures we no longer recognize.”
I tip my head. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”
He nods.
A lump lodges in my throat. I swallow it with an effort but cannot dislodge the memory of that scar on his breast or theblackness of his words when he spoke of his father’s death and the burning of his kingdom. What sort of man would Valtar be were it not for those defining moments in his life? It’s hard to imagine him as anything other than this dark, brooding version of himself, but…
But then I think of how he climbed the wall to save a gremler kit. For me.
“I don’t think you’ve been warped,” I say softly. “I think perhaps whatever happened to you didn’t warp you so much as…as allow you tobecome. To become the man you are today. A good man. A brave man.”
Valtar is very still. He does not speak, does not move. Does not seem to breathe. Even his spirit seems to have turned to stone, like my words were a spell, sapping vitality from his blood. Have I offended him? Does he think I’m making light of his suffering? Gods above, why do I always have to go speaking whatever thought happens to appear in my head? Perhaps I should apologize. Perhaps I should reassure him that no, actually he is just as warped and irredeemably damaged as he believes, I was presumptuous to think otherwise, and—
