Before I can blink, I’m chest to chest with Raiden. He twists my arm behind my back so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from shouting.
The pressure on my wrist causes my fingers to lose their grip on the blade, and it falls to the ground. From the corner of my eye, a black blur holding a serving tray disappears into the crowd.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Raiden’s voice is pure irritation, and his jaw ticks. Heat pulses in the gap between us.
When I don’t respond, he speculates, “Let me guess. You thought you’d disguise yourself as a servant, get close enough to the queen to warn her about the impending assassination, and win yourself a little glory?” Hate oozes out of him, and I try to unwind myself from his grasp, but lack the leverage required.
I don’t bother to deny his accusation.
“I thought I made it clear what would happen should you not follow through on our arrangement. Do you need a reminder?”
Fucking hells. I hadn’t considered failing at all. I shake my head, fighting the tears flooding my eyes.
“I’m going to need you to use your words, little snake.” His face scrunches into a sneer.
“I do not need a reminder. It won’t happen again,” I say, and to my surprise, he releases me.
The movement is unexpected, and I stumble back, landing on my ass in the dirt. My fingers hit the end of my dagger, and it takes all I have not to scramble for it.
“You’d better run off to your tent and get some rest. Tomorrow is inevitable,” he dismisses me, and I run backward, keeping my eyes on him.
“And cut your godsdamned hair!”
I roll my braid around with one hand. He might be right, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of doing what he tells me.
Arina
Acrowd is starting to gather behind us. I know because their cheerful chattering grows louder as I imagine them laying out blankets and what few snacks they may have to observe our final task. The task that determines whether I will be invited into the Queen’s Guard.
The task that threatens to turn me into a murderer.
For once, I’m grateful the heat of the sun is blocked out by the Smog. I’m already dripping sweat from the pressure. Everything hinges on today.
The other competitors and I wait at the base of the curtain wall surrounding the castle for instructions. It seems like hours have passed when a herald finally stands before us.
“Welcome to your final contest!” the herald shouts, as if he didn’t already have our undivided attention. “For today’s challenge, you will simply be required to scale the curtain wall of Her Majesty’s castle. Accomplish this, and you have earned your place in the Queen’s Guard.”
Scale the wall. I can do that.
My confidence is devoured whole when the herald adds, “There are no rules aside from this: The last person to have both feet on the wall walk, marks the end of the competition. However, should you be last, you will not be given a position.”
No rules. Don’t be last.
“You have a few minutes to prepare. The task begins when the trumpets sound,” the herald finishes, and steps off his platform with a cough into his handkerchief.
Thirty grappling hooks are set out before us. Thirty. There are definitely more than thirty of us.
A test to see how many of us are willing to do whatever it takes to earn this. They’ve just given us permission to weed out the weakest links.
My heart is already thundering in my chest as I talk myself out of panic.
You are fast. And strong. You won’t be last. Make it to the top. Don’t be last. And gods, whatever you do, do not let them kill you.
I study the wall, looking for spots where it may be weak or there could be a foothold. It’s slanted slightly outward, making things even more difficult. My inspection brings me to the wall walk, where I’m surprised to find Queen Daphne, her blonde hair blowing in the wind as she watches, waiting to greet the newest members of her guard.
The Smog becomes denser, as if it has gathered to observe us too. As it rolls in my head clears. My focus is fixed on thismoment. Soon, the castle is a mere shadow behind the curtain of smoky grays and browns.
If I allow myself to search the crowd, I know I may lose my nerve. I can’t afford to see Phillipa’s hopeful face. Can’t risk meeting Eryk’s encouraging eyes. Refuse to look for Raiden’s hate-scorched glare.
