A gust of dust lifts behind him as his boots hit the earth, racing for the base of the course. The first incline is a cruel mess of wooden slats unevenly jammed into the mountain’s surface—meant to mimic steps but spaced like a snare. He climbs fast, barely slowing as he leaps from one to the next. A slat cracks beneath him, but he’s already moving, catching a higher ledge.
He reaches for the next grip—his fingers land, hold, swing. The crowd murmurs. A sharp breath leaves me as he narrowly avoids another collapsing beam. But when he grabs hold of the stone grip above him, the mountain shakes and the grip disappears into the cliff face.
I gasp as Dante’s body swings down, almost slipping from the first grip, but he holds fast and manages to grasp the edge of a plank to his right. Using his upper body strength, Dante pulls himself up onto the platform.
The first split in the course looms ahead. There are only two options: left or right. From our vantage, I see the flaw—the central beam of the right platform is cracked at the root. The moment he steps on it, it will break away.
My heart slams against my ribs. I lean forward, fingers clawing into the edge of my seat. He stretches out his right arm.
No. No, not that one.
“Go left,” I whisper.
But my mind isn’t whispering. It’s screaming.
“Go left. Go left, Dante—”
A flash of pain lances behind my eyes, hot and piercing. I wince, clutching my temples. The world wavers slightly around me, my breath catching.
Dante pauses mid-motion. His head turns—just afraction—toward me.
A strange sensation zips across my skin, like static, or a hum, or… awareness. As though something in him absorbed my words.
Then he moves.
He jumps left.
The right platform collapses a breath later, exploding in a rain of splintered wood and stone.
Nadya’s hand tightens on mine.
My stomach twists. Did I… help him?
I shake my head, but the pressure behind my eyes grows sharper, blooming into something deeper, heavier. My vision swims for a second, but I blink it away.
He keeps climbing.
The next section demands a leap toward a dangling rope. He doesn’t hesitate—just leaps, catches, swings. His boots skim the air as he ascends, each pull of his arms drawing him higher, the rope swinging violently from his momentum.
Then comes the wall. A slick stretch of rock, sheer and cruel. The final ascent. Dante grabs the lowest crevice, hauls himself upward. His muscles strain, neck corded, sweat glistening along his jaw.
The fae by the king waves his hand through the air, and the mountainside shudders.
Dante slips.
“No,” I gasp, rising slightly in my seat.
I don’t think. I just feel.
Raw energy rises inside me, clawing for release. I shove it forward.
A pulse bursts out—vibrating through my bones and through my skin. And Dante’s body shifts, swinging upward so that his hand catches hold of the crevice. I let out a breath, knowing the pulse I sent was enough. Just enough.
He strains to pull himself up. As I focus on his efforts, a sharp, wet sting blooms in my nostrils. I swipe at my upper lip—and come away with blood. I stare at it, stunned.
“Celeste,” Nadya whispers beside me, her eyes widening. “Your nose—”
“I’m fine,” I mutter. But I’m not.
