“Huntresses—and, er, Hunter—please make your way onto the stage, so our great city can give you a proper sendoff.”
One by one, we shuffle up the steps onto the circular platform.
Meridna is the first to receive the blessing of the shadows.
“Meridna Nox.” Coraline dips her thumb into a jar of black ink and swipes it beneath both eyes. “May darkness guide your sight and spirit. May it strengthen and protect you from the corrupting sunlight. Your victory is our victory. If the shadows will it . . .” She pauses, glancing towards the audience to signal their cue.
“Let it be,”they proudly respond.
By the time it’s my turn to receive the blessing, Coraline’s words are rushed, my bones ache with the need to be horizontal, and the audience’s echo lacks its earlier vigor. Trickles of the black ink run down my cheek from Coraline’s hastily dipped thumb. Now that the fun part is over, nearly a third of the seats sit empty as spectators trickle out of the stadium. And the glazed glances that remain reaffirm what I knew to be true: these people are here to be entertained. Coraline rushes through the closing script without so much as pausing for a breath, and the silver spotlight flickers off.
While our eyes are still adjusting, I allow myself one last indulgent shudder before clenching my jaw and following the line of soldiers marching dutifully towards our inescapable fate.
CHAPTER TEN
A camera operatorwalks backward in front of Coraline, who escorts us across the inclined bridge that connects the ceremonial arena along the city’s edge back to the hub of Caligo. Onlookers press against either side of the bridge’s iron railing as they point and cheer at our ragtag group of soon-to-be martyrs. Fighting against the instinct to lower my head, I scan their faces, spotting a few familiar ones, yet failing to find Taurance or my parents. Gem cranes her neck, jade eyes lingering on a woman who could be a distant cousin, but not her twin.
With both of our heads turned, we don’t notice that those in front of us have slowed until Gem walks into the backside of a redheaded woman. If my memory is correct, I believe she was the third to be selected, right after Twilynn.
“Oh! Sorry about that, Faron,” Gem says while flinching back.
She waves off the apology. “Don’t be! I was distracted, too. Checking to see if my sister’s here.”
Gem runs her fingers through her close-cropped hair, avoiding the bandage. “Same.”
“They’re probably keeping our loved ones away for now to build tension before filming our final goodbyes,” whispers a willowy brunette on Faron’s left.
My nose scrunches. “You know, I’m not sure why I expected anything else.”
Once we reach the end of the bridge, Coraline guides us away from the swarming crowd into a private stairwell, not stopping until we reach an unmarked door six levels down. She pulls on the longest of her three silver necklaces, producing a key from the neckline of her cloak.
“Welcome to your training facility,” Coraline singsongs while flourishing an arm into the now open doorway. “Uniforms have been provided in the changing stalls on the left. I’ll be back in two hours to escort you to your temporary living quarters before curfew, but don’t fret. You’ll be in good hands. I’m so pleased to announce that your training instructor is one of our highly esteemed Guards of the Gate!”
Boots thud against granite as the instructor in question marches up the steps. We fall back against the limestone wall, giving him space to lead the way into the facility. My shoulders raise as I lock eyes with the man who was lapping at my throat less than twenty-four hours ago—the widower who thought me better to bed than to wed.
At least he has the decency to flush when he averts his gaze and waves at our group to file in.
Coraline prances off before the door clicks back into place, and our instructor clears his throat. “Help yourself to the equipment. Towels are on your left here if you spill any blood.”
Piles of raggedy towels lie haphazardly in a basket to the left of the door. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line the right side of the room, and the reflection from the bioluminescent tube lights casts a dim glow throughout the surprisingly large space.
“If you gotta puke, aim for the buckets. I won’t be cleaning that filth up for you. If you miss, you know where the towels are.” The guard points at the tin pails scattered along the room’s perimeter before putting a sand clock atop a shelf lined with circular weights. “Like Mrs. Lunam said, you got two hours till curfew, and she’ll bring you back here first thing tomorrow evening for another two.”
He turns to claim the metal stool beside the exit.
Kalden strides up to him. “Aren’t you here to oversee their training?”
Theirtraining. Notourtraining. He doesn’t see himself as one of us, and why should he? With his six-foot-plus frame and disciplined muscles, Kalden is years ahead of us in terms of physical proficiency. My stomach flutters as I acknowledge that a handful of hours isn’t enough time to change that, let alone adequately prepare us for what awaits above.
“Training is self-led,” grunts our instructor.
“Self-led? You expect these women to instinctually know how to prepare for battle?”
The guard stiffens at Kalden’s escalating tone. “They’ve all been given basic training. Twice a year, we host an entire week of mandatory combat exercises for Tier Threes. And the chaperone requirement doesn’t apply to the communal fitness facility, so they’ve had plenty of opportunities to practice those skills all year round.”
Kalden folds his arms, and the borrowed brown shirt squeezes against his muscles, stirring a warm flutter within me. “And how has this training worked out so far for past Huntresses?”
Veins protruding from his forehead, our instructor rises from his stool, but Kalden cuts him off.
