I spend the next few days practically locked in the library, desperate to uncover any history surrounding the curse—or to make sense of the vision that’s been replaying in my mind like a recurring nightmare ever since the night of the first Trial.
By lunchtime on the second day, I finally think I’m making progress, buried in a book about the founding of Abrellia. I’m so focused, so determined to keep reading, that I skip lunch entirely. Even when the growls of my stomach become too loud to ignore, I don’t move.
Instead, plates of food begin appearing in the library, first lunch, then dinner, then every meal the following day. I’m grateful I don’t have to leave, grateful I can keep reading without interruption.
The books the shelves offer now are different. Older. Stranger. Some don’t even have titles, only symbols burned into their spines. I devour them in silence, chasing any sliver of lore that might help me survive the second Trial… or break the curse entirely.
But on Saturday morning, there is no plate waiting for me. The shelves refuse to yield anything new—only a thin children’s story about the benefits of playing outside.
“You’re right,” I mutter, returning the book to its place. “I could use some fresh air.”
I wander down to the kitchens, where a swarm of sprites is bustling about, preparing an evening feast. I try not to think about the next time I’ll be forced to sit at a banquet table and smile, wondering what kind of poison lingers behind each sweet word. I snag a plate from the buffet, piling it with assorted fruits and biscuits, then step outside into the cool morning light.
My feet carry me toward the one place that still feels real.
The stables.
The earthy scent of hay and leather fills my lungs like a balm. Soft snorts and shifting hooves echo inside the long wooden hall. I pass the stalls. Most are occupied, though not all with horses. Some contain strange horned beasts I don’t yet have words for. Some hold only empty saddles and air thick with anticipation.
Then I hear it—the unmistakablesnapof a whip.
I spin toward the sound. Outside, in the sun-drenched training pen, a black stallion rears high on his hind legs, eyes wild, foam flecking his mouth. One of the goblin guards—a short, thick-bodied oark, his tusked mouth twisted in a sneer—lashes again, his mottled face contorted with rage.
The horse lets out a shrill, panicked cry.
“Stop!” Without thinking, I shove past the stable hands and scramble over the fence, landing hard in the mud. Good thing I wore boots and trousers today.
The oark turns, whip still raised. “Stay out of this, girl,” he snarls.
The lash cracks again. The stallion rears, a distressed whinny ripping from his chest as his hooves strike the air.
“Enough!” I cry.
I throw myself at the guard, grabbing the whip and attempting to wrench it from his hand—but oarks are far stronger than mortals. He hurls me aside with ease.
I hit the ground with a wet thud.
Pain blooms through my shoulder, but I force myself up and dart between him and the stallion, planting myself squarely in the path of the next strike.
His lip curls. “Move,” he growls, “or taste my whip.”
I don’t flinch. “Go ahead,” I dare him.
A low snarl rumbles in his throat.
The whip cracks.
Heat explodes across my thigh as the lash tears through fabric. I gasp, but the skin holds—welts already rising beneath the cloth.
The second strike comes faster. Higher.
Fire streaks across my arm, cloth shredding as I stagger a step, mud sucking at my boots. Still, I don’t move aside.
He steps closer, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air, eyes gleaming.
He’s toying with me.
Behind me, the stallion screams—wild and panicked, hooves striking the earth.
