It whispers to me, almost begging me to let go of my worries. I refuse its siren call. How did that tiny blemish in the steel come to be? I’m safe, but how? A shadow nicked that steel, but who could have done it? No one else was in the room.
I move to the crossed steel bars that had held me. The leather cords lay on the ground where they’d fallen, the rough cuts apparent. I focus on the bar I’d rubbed the leather against. The metal is smooth enough that I’d never have been able to cut through them, except for that tiny notch that had saved me. The edges of the cut have curled outward, and when I run my finger over it, it feels no different from my dagger edge, sharp as any razor.
I pick up the leather that lies on the ground, and look from the leather to the notch in the steel. I know what I saw, but I don’t understand how it happened. Is it possible that I was so terrified of being discovered that my mind played tricks on me?
No. A shadow cut through that metal. Whatever else I find doesn’t matter. That tiny blade of shadow freed me. But how?
Azric.He’s the only reasonable answer I can come up with. He told me he needs me to win, to survive. If anyone was going to help me, it’d be him, and it was a shadow that made that notch which saved my life. I don’t understand how he did it, but then again, I don’t know how Ainslee caught lightning either. The powers of the champions aren’t clear to me.
I feel my shoulders hunch, but I don’t say a word. Nyxthos may know my secrets, but something tells me I shouldn’t let him know what I saw. Ainslee said she couldn’t protect me, so I reallydoubt Azric should be helping me to survive a trial or keep my secrets—secrets I’m sure Nyxthos wants exposed.
“Well, I guess all there is to do now is sit and wait until morning.” I glance down at my tunic flapping with every movement and exposing my armor to the world. “That just isn’t acceptable,” I mutter.
I sit on the floor in front of Corentin’s body and unlace his boot. I pull my tunic over my head and use my dagger as a terrible awl to make small holes on either side of the cut the bastard made in it. Then I slip my arms back into it and lace it up no differently than I would a boot.
“Now, there’s nothing else to do. Too bad Darian’s not here to play a few rounds of Khorra,” I mutter.
The truth of the matter is that I know I wasn’t supposed to kill Corentin. Every other competitor will be tortured for the entire night, and by the time I arrive in the Great Hall, my wounds will be mostly healed. They’re going to be furious. I won’t complain about missing a night of excruciating pain, but if word gets out that I somehow cheated my way through this trial, I doubt anyone will be happy about it. It’s going to put a target on my back.
What else was I supposed to do, though? I know I haven’t broken any rules, and officially, no one will be able to do anything about it. But I just did the one thing that Darian told me not to do.
Maybe we can use it to our advantage, though. I hope so, at least. I begin preparing a story for when I’m inevitably asked how I managed to escape my torture. The last thing I need is to becaught in questions by other competitors or champions that I don’t have acceptable answers to.
Chapter 18
Draeven and Rivena instilled their Godforged with unnatural strength and speed rather than magic. This is not surprising given their own particular abilities. Infusions will be of little use against them. Use your Marks instead.
~Cedric Penrose, A Treatise on the Gods and Their Powers
Fiona
I appear in the middle of the Great Hall after at least five hours of waiting. All the people who had gathered to cheer on their favorite competitors are here, but so are all the competitors, most of whom are wearing torn or completely missing clothes.
I don’t think I’ve seen so many nearly naked people in all my life. Most of them are bleeding or bruised. Their varying gear falls to the ground next to them in a cacophony of clinks, clunks, and bams, sending a ringing through the Great Hall loud enough that nearly all of us put our hands over our ears.
After the echoes fade, I look around at the crowd. There are so few of us left. I’d estimate only about thirty have survived.
I pick out Darian, who doesn’t seem bothered at all that he’s completely naked in the middle of the crowd with his fighting leathers in a pile at his feet. The long gash across his chest that’s torn through muscles doesn’t seem to bother him either. He’s laughing at something that one of Rivena’s Wind Riders said.
I move toward him, and with each step, I realize just how bad he had it. The wounds are already slowly healing, but his fingernails are gone. The entire left side of his head is covered in a bruise, like he was hit with a mace. I wonder how he survived a hit that hard. Smaller bruises dot his body, no doubt already partly healed.
“How Nyxthos thought that a bit of pain would keep any of us from surviving that trial is insane. After all we’ve been through?” the woman says with a grin. She doesn’t look much better than Darian. Her gleaming silver armor lays in a pile at her feet, and the wool arming coat she wore underneath it sits on top. Her breasts are black and blue from what look like bite marks, and she does nothing to hide them. Thin cuts crisscross every other bit of skin from her waist to her neck. Somehow, after that abuse, she’s still smiling.
Blood from a freshly healed cut drips over Darian’s lip as his smile widens, his eyes never straying from her face to look her over. “I think he just wanted an excuse to strip us down. If that was the case, he could have just asked.”
She gives him a sly smile, and her eyesdoroam over his body. “Maybe he likes it when chains are involved. I heard Echo had a…” Then she sees me approaching and stops talking.
“Are you the human?” she asks, turning toward me.
I nod to her. “I’m Fiona from Selithar.”
The woman looks me over before asking, “You weren’t tortured like the rest of us?” I knew this would happen. I’m fully dressed, and all my wounds are healed. There’s a bit of blood on me, but I don’t compare to what the others look like.
I’m about to give my rehearsed explanation for what happened, but Darian interrupts. “How rude of me. Fiona, this is Elara Vantrel, one of Rivena’s favored Wind Riders, the ones who were given winged horses as mounts. We’ve known each other for…” He pauses for a moment to think.
“Since that battle for Highland Castle,” she responds. Just as I’ve done so many times to Bram, he’s trying to draw her attention to “the good old days”. Her eyes don’t leave me, though. “I commanded my troops to change position to protect one of the villages from the Burning Ones. They were the perfect bait, and you wereveryconvincing.”
He gives her a wide grin and keeps her talking about the safe topic. “That’s right. That was a long time ago. Seventy years?”
