Just before we pass I let my fingers skim the small of her back, a whisper of contact. She falters. Her shoulders tighten, her breath catches.
Marco’s smirking. “You touched her, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer.
Rosa laughs from behind us.
“Hell’s already hot, Matteo. Don’t light a match inside it,” Marco tells me, and I smile. Maybe he’s right or maybe I’m just tired of pretending I won’t burn for her.
“I’m sure I can play with hell for a bit.” I turn to them.
Marco is shaking his head, disagreeing but won’t say it. Milo tells me to have fun, just don’t get caught, and Rosa stays quiet.
Will I risk the dance with death, just so I can play with my little lamb?
It’s past midnight,and I’m still wired, but by the looks of it, none of us can sleep tonight. The room is dark, except for the low blue light spilling from Marco’s tablet screen and the cigarette burning between my fingers. Milo’s tossing a stress ball against the far wall, the thump of it rhythmic, grounding.
We should be sleeping, but in less than forty-eight hours I enter the first Inner Ring trial: Strength. So, we sit in silence. Until I speak.
“We need a plan,” I say, flicking ash. “Trial One. Run it like war.”
I take it all in. I need to. I’m not losing.
And underneath the structure I have in front of them, the fury simmers.
I think about Aoife, about what she’ll think when she sees me in that ring. Bloodied. Brutal. Built for war.
Will she flinch? Or will she finally understand what I really am?
I stand and flex my fists, cracked knuckles aching. “They want a show.”
“They’ll get it,” Marco smirks.
“They want to see who leads?” Milo grins. “Time to crown a king.”
Forty-eight hoursof training and I am ready. At the tree line and I wait. The Trial of Strength begins in the woods, no ceremony, no countdown. The horn blows and I run.
We start with weight and wits. A weighted vest strapped to me. Fog creeping along the ground, branches clawing at my arms like fingers trying to drag me down. A red flag flaps somewhere deeper in the trees.
It’s a hunt. A hunt I will win.
Behind me, I hear the snap of twigs. The first challenger’s close.
He lunges, and my shoulder meets his stomach, and we both crash to the ground. He’s built like a freight train, Felix. I slam my elbow into his temple, feel the jolt vibrate up to my teeth.
I roll off him and drag myself forward, dirt grinding into the cuts along my ribs. Every crawl scrapes my knees raw, a hot sting with each push. The slope rises ahead, slick with moss, and my palms skid over it, trying to steal my grip. I dig my fingers in until the skin burns, forcing myself higher. Then I see it, red cloth whipping on a branch above the ravine, ten feet out of reach.
Perfect.
I see two of the others coming from different directions.
I stagger backward, lungs rasping for air, then break into a sprint. My boots slam the ground, mud spraying behind me, and I throw myself into the leap. My fingers catch bark rough enough to slice skin. My shoulders wrench as my full weight jerks against them, pain tearing hot down my arms.
The cloth slaps my knuckles, and I rip it free at the same moment my boot loses its hold. My stomach lurches, weight dropping out from under me. I crash down the slope, mud slick against my back, rolling until my shoulder slams into the ground and cold muck splashes up my cheek.
Stage one. Complete, and I win, not seeing anyone else with the flag.
Already, I feel my body burning, and there is still more to come.
