The double doors at the far end of the room open, and the noise of the crowd beyond floods the space. A shudder ripples through me, and I can’t tell if it’s fueled by anxiety or the poison weaving its way through my body.
I hand the wine cup to a motionless Nyssa as Titaia steps up to her side, a frown etched on her face. I smile reassuringly at them both, my gaze pleading with Nyssa one last time, before turning to follow the other competitors through the doors.
A blinding white light greets me as I step out onto a stage, but as I move forward, my vision sharpens, revealing the scene before me. Heavy gray clouds hover above an amphitheater, pale light glaring off the carved marble surfaces. The air is thick with anticipation, hundreds of whispers coalescing into a steady thrum of noise. Rows upon rows of seats, carved from the same white stone, circle around the sandy arena in front of the stage, hundreds of tycheroi filling them. The stage is a marvel, every surface adorned with intricate carvings and murals like the ones on the door we entered through.
After so many years of remaining in the shadows and avoiding notice, standing on a stage in front of a teeming crowd has my stomach clenching with anxiety. I feel exposed, as if they are displaying me for all of them to judge and pick apart like vultures.
Master Cyril and a young scribe stand in the center, their forms dwarfed by the royals beside them. Keres looks every bit the prince in shades of crimson that make his eyes all the more vivid, trimmed with a golden brocade to match the circlet resting over his brow. His gaze runs over the contestants, lingering on each of us in a way that makes my skin crawl. I stand still under his perusal, locking my knees even as they weaken and willing my face into a mask of confidence. His eyes meetmine and I bite my lip, looking up at him through my lashes as he turns to the audience with the shadow of a smile on his face.
King Daedalus and Queen Atalana stand slightly off to the side, seemingly content to hand over center stage to their son for the oversight of the trials. I’m uncertain whether it’s the nightshade poisoning my vision, but both look frayed around the edges. Even though they’re adorned in their royal regalia just like their son, they’re faded in comparison—their majesty tarnished.
The thought slips from my mind as a hush descends over the amphitheater, like all the guests are holding their breath.
Please, Notos, make these formalities go swiftly.
I have about an hour before the worst effects of the nightshade take hold. The dose in the cup didn’t taste potent, and I only had the slightest sip, so it shouldn’t be lethal. Still, the longer I go without an antidote, the longer I’ll be incapacitated—and I can’t afford to be taken out before the final trial.
A dull throbbing builds behind my eyes, and I stifle a relieved sigh as Master Cyril speaks.
“Welcome, loyal members of the court, to the second of the Royal Trials.” He pauses as the crowd applauds. “Today, the ladies who stand before you will have their resilience, perception, and capacity for sacrifice in the face of adversity tested. They will enter through the doors you see behind me and must find their way through the mountain’s merciless maze.”
A young tycheroi moves down the line, handing out small auras to each of us. When my turn comes, I accept mine with a grateful smile, clutching it in my hand.
“No one knows what will meet them in the depths of the mountain,” the Master of Ceremonies continues, “but if they do not emerge within two hours, they will be disqualified.”
Another tremor shivers through my limbs as his words send a rush of energy through my veins. The winged men carved into the surface of the door Titaia and I entered through earlier flash to the front of my mind. My eyes dart toward the back of the stage, where six burly tycheroi—each dressed in the supple leather armor of the Royal Guard—stand beside as many doors with similar carvings.
Trepidation creeps through me at the sight of quivers stuffed with wicked bolts.
“Ladies.” Master Cyril’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “If you would each select a door.”
I join the others as we cross the stage, coming to a halt before a door. My gaze shifts cautiously to the guard standing watch beside it.
“Let the trial begin!”
At Master Cyril’s command, my guard opens the door, revealing a gloomy tunnel beyond. I waver and then plunge into the shadows. The door closes behind me, sealing me in. My heart skips a beat at the sudden darkness and silence, the only light coming from the soft glow of the aura in my hand.
I close my eyes, breathing deep as I cast my mind back to the opening ceremony, recalling Leto’s story.
As they raced through the labyrinth, the Anemoi used an age-old trick, keeping their palms on the left wall to ensure they didn’t get lost.
My eyes take a moment to adjust when I reopen them, but when they do, the tunnel walls slowly come into focus. The rough, uneven surface is damp, glistening faintly in the dim light, and I can see cracks running along the jagged stone. I scan the surrounding shadows cautiously, trying to make out any shapes or movements hidden in the darkness, my ears straining for the faintest sound. But there’s nothing beyond the sound of my breathing and the glow of the aura.
Breathing deep, I place my left hand against the wall and settle into a steady jog. The twists and turns of the narrow passageway are utterly disorienting, with each corner blending into the next. The dim lighting and the echo of my own footsteps don’t help, and it doesn’t take long before I find myself standing at a dead end, staring at an unyielding wall and wondering where I went wrong.
“Gods damn it,” I curse under my breath, following the wall. “I never want to see another tunnel after this.”
I exhale sharply, trying to shove the frustration down. I take a stepback and freeze as the ground beneath me shifts, a dull sound echoing in the space. The change is subtle at first—a faint tremor beneath my fingertips, like the pulse of a restless beast stirring in its slumber. The fine hairs on my arms rise in warning, and a shiver races down my spine.
The ground vibrates faintly beneath my feet.
My heart skips. A low thrum sounds deep in the stone, but it grows stronger, more insistent. Then comes a low grinding, like the earth itself is groaning. Panic claws at my chest as I spin toward the tunnel.
The wall behind me moves.
“No,” I whisper, the word barely escaping my lips. The massive slabs of stone scrape loudly, grinding together as the entrance seals itself off. “No, no, no!” I lunge forward, boots scraping against the rough ground. My palms smack against the cool, shifting wall, but it’s too late. With a final, deafening clang, the tunnel closes.
Locking me inside.
