“No.”
“Do you have control of your talents? Can you conjure as well as sense?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well then, congratulations. You’re going to compete for me.”
“That’s impossible.” I contest her suggestion. “The competing teams have already been announced in the ballot.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be participating as yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice is sharp. This has to be a joke. Or maybe this woman is simply mad.
The Reckoning isn’t some silly race anyone can infiltrate. The tournament is harsh and unforgiving. All three principalities will have their eyes on it.
The contestants have to be at the top of their game, physically and mentally. Suffice it to say, I am not. I can’t even think about entering a deadly tournament and leaving Elara – her body – behind. I’m all she has.
But if doing this could bring Elara back… I shake my head. Everyone knows competing in the Reckoning leaves you with only three possible outcomes: victory for the winner, and for the rest, death, or something far worse. Returning a broken shell, brain and body destroyed, with your failures immortalized in the Games Master’s Post, laid bare for all to read.
Every stumble, every cowardly flinch, chronicled in excruciating detail for the Accord’s amusement. You wouldn’t only be broken, then. You’d be a public disgrace.
“I know it sounds far-fetched,” says the Soulreaper, “given that most of the participants who were announced in the ballot are students from top Principal Academies, all high-born and well known across the three principalities. They have formidable reputations.”
Formidable is one word for them.
“This does render the possibility of assuming their identities rather futile.” The woman’s words weave through the air with calculation. “But there is one pair…”
And then I remember. Alaric and the others briefly mentioned them earlier. “The privately trained team,” I mutter.
“Exactly. A pair of unknowns, perfect for the taking. And with the roster doubled to twenty-four teams rather than the usual dozen, the odds tilt so nicely in our favour. So many eager little contestants scrambling for glory… Who’s to notice a pair of impostors slipping through the cracks? I do love a good tercentenary-anniversary shake-up.”
“What do you mean, perfect for the taking?” I ask.
“That’s nothing for you to worry about, dear girl. Will you accept?”
“I’ll die.”
“Possibly.”
“You killed my sister. How can I trust you?”
The Soulreaper’s smile fades, replaced by a cold, unyielding expression. She anchors herself in front of the window, bathed in the dwindling afternoon glow that transforms her wavy yellow-blonde hair into dancing flames.
“You don’t have a choice – not if you ever want to see your sister alive again. Those cakes were fantastic, by the way. They really lifted my spirits.” She pauses. “What do you think, Taron? Is she up to the task?”
I frown.Who is she talking to?
Then I see him. At first, he’s a silhouette in the doorway. Then he steps forward, into a beam of light casting in from the window. He’s around the same age as me, with a tangle of lilac hair that falls across his brow. A white vest clings to his lithe chest, and muscular grooves carve into his upper arms.
Taron’s eyes meet mine as he leans against the doorframe. They’re as icy as they are blue, and they have a steely quality, almost glazed over.
It feels like he’s looking right through me when he studies me, his gaze pausing on my collarbone for a split second before finding my eyes.
So, the Soulreaper has an accomplice.I shiver uncomfortably.
“I found you a new playmate,” the woman coos. “She seems much more promising than the last one. What do you think? Can you make use of her?”
Taron looks away and shrugs. “Sure. It’s all the same to me.”
