No, our trial has to do with what’s standing on the stretch of sand in front of the shoreline.
‘Are those…?’ I trail off, gaping.
‘Jötnar,’ Benny answers, as he rubs at the back of his neck. ‘Those are jötnar.’
Of course, I’ve heard of jötnar before. The thirty-foot-tall giants fill the storybooks my parents would read to me as a child. They’re said to roam the frozen islands beyond the Torailian territory, eating everything in their path, from whole cattle and humans to boulders and icebergs. But I never believed they werereal.And Goddess bless, some of them are definitely over thirty feet. My mind can hardly accept that they’re real. Perhaps they’re not. Maybe they’re nothing more than an illusion, like the type Seiren creates … but something tells me that isn’t the case.
‘Did you know jötunns were real?’ Llinos’s words echo my own thoughts.
‘Jötnar,’ Jonas corrects. ‘Jötunn is only used for the singular. It’s like you’re asking, “Did you know mouses are real”, instead of “mice”.’
‘Honestly?’ My jaw drops slightly. ‘You think now is the best time for a grammar lesson?’
This time Jonas has the sense to stay quiet.
As we stand there in collective awe, several questions roll through my head. First, where did the priestesses get them and how did they wrangle them onto the mainland? And more importantly, how are we going to survive this?
It’s clear from the pained expressions, gritted jaws, and bulging eyes of the gargantuan jötnar that they are bound by some kind of magic. Held in place, I’m guessing, until the Rettlings have been told exactly what we need to do. Despite their visible pain, not a sound rolls from their drool-covered lips. Is that what Loch was talking about? Are the jötnar what he couldn’t hear?
I swallow the lump sticking in my throat and squeeze Jonas’s hand.
He squeezes back. ‘Remember what I said,’ he whispers.
People have already begun to cluster together with their allies, creating coloured pools of shell-shocked Rettlings. There’s something almost prophetic about the colours, the way the Wrohelm black mirrors the grey clouds above us, while the Galreckians in their emerald green remind me of the tufts of sea grass that break through the dunes. But it’s the red my eyes linger on the most. With both the knights and Rowell Rettlings in different shades of the colour red, I can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign that by the time this trial is over, the sand will be soaked in blood.
As my group stands wide-eyed with panic, it’s almost a relief to see that even the knights look shocked. No preferential treatment there, then. That’s something. I scrutinise the other contestants and don’t find a single face that looks anything but terrified.
Until I spothim.
I’m sure, being the prince and commander of the army, he could have his choice of allies, and yet the way he stands apart from the other Rettlings implies he’s decided against making any. Rather than fear, a crinkle of mild confusion is all that clouds Kyor’s expression as he stares at the creatures one by one. Then, without explanation, he shifts hisattention up to the sky, kicks off his shoes, and digs his toes into the earth. It’s the oddest battle preparation I’ve seen.
‘Fingers crossed one of them’ll crush that lying, vindictive bastard.’ I turn to my side to see Estel standing there, her jaw locked. From the way her eyes are trained on the prince, there’s no doubt as to who she’s talking about. Clearly there’s something in the rumour I heard about Kyor and her sister.
‘It’s her,’ Llinos murmurs as she stiffens beside me, drawing my attention away from Estel.
The High Priestess Mila strides across the sand, her robe billowing in the salt-filled breeze as her amethyst stone reflects the midday sun. As she stops directly in front of three of the jötnar, I release Jonas’s hand and feel for the dagger at my side. I’m not sure what good a blade like this will do against a giant, but daggers are all I have.
‘Rettlings, welcome to your first trial.’
Mila’s voice booms around us and several of the jötnar snarl at the sound, their lips curling back from their sharp, pointed, yellow teeth.
Somewhere across the way, I hear a whimper from one of the other Rettlings, and I can’t say I blame them.
‘This trial will be timed.’ She waves her hand and a platform, complete with a priestess and a ten-foot hourglass sand timer, appears to the left of us. A simple cloaking spell, I assume, and though it looks good, I can’t help but wonder if Etta really asked for such dramatics at the first honouring of her name.
‘Your task is straightforward. Those of you who survive the next thirty minutes will live to see another day.’
Thirty minutes. One thousand and eight hundred seconds. That’s all I have to stay alive for. Easy.
‘The time will begin when each of you sets foot on the sand,’ she continues. ‘But there is another caveat. Any of you who bring down a jötunn permanently will immediately be removed from the trial and excused from the second trial as a reward.’
Gasps, mutters, and murmurs ripple around us.
‘Is that even something she can do?’ I whisper. ‘Can she excuse Rettlings from one of the trials?’
‘She’s the High Priestess of Etta.’ Jonas shrugs. ‘She’s the one who hears what the Goddess wants.’
‘Rettlings, take your places.’ The High Priestess lifts her hand to beckon us forward and then moves to the platform.
