“Maybe, or maybe you’re more useful to me with your mind on the Mortalis.” I let the words dangle, half a taunt, half a shield. “But I’d bet my last crown you not only sleep, you snore louder than a troll after an all-nighter.”
Tiberius’s voice cut through whatever response Wither might have mustered, as well as whatever Wickett wanted to say.
“Teams are chosen. Let the first trial reveal who is worthy to become Venatori.”
The arena floor cracked, and not subtly. A fissure opened like a wound, spreading outward until the grass became a spiderweb. Between the newly formed gaps, what looked like black water gleamed.
The crowd gasped collectively, some pressing forward for a better view, others backing away as if the cracks might pull them inward. A child screamed. Someone shouted about refunds. Allthe usual crowd responses to impending death, it seemed. Just fascination wrapped in denial that it could happen to them.
Tiberius continued. “The Drowning Maze. Each team must race to retrieve the rune from the heart and make it back to the entrance. The team that wins will be granted a boon for the next trial. The water rises continuously and burns magic. The stronger the power, the worse the pain.”
Wickett’s eyes flicked to me. Hunters carried magic in their weapons and runes. Witches carried it in blood and bone. We’d burn from the inside out.
“Only one team member needs to survive with the stone.” Tiberius paused, savoring the weight of that statement. Then his smile widened, theatrical and cold. “Though statistically speaking, most teams won’t produce even one survivor. The water is quite efficient at sorting the worthy from the... expendable.” He leaned forward slightly, as if sharing a secret with us while the crowd listened in. “Do try to make it interesting though. There’s nothing quite as disappointing as watching potential champions drown in the first five minutes. At least give us a show before you fail.” He clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “Begin.”
The floor collapsed.
The water stung like acid. Even expecting it, the pain was excruciating. But pain was just data, and I’d learned to file it away young.
The landing chamber had three passages, filled to my knees and rising fast. Above, the ceilings were made of glass so the crowd could still see our misery.
I jumped right into strategy, thinking as fast as I could. The water came from somewhere. It had to. The arena didn’t have infinite stores. So they were cycling it. Pumping it upward, letting it fall through the maze before collecting it again below. Which meant the water would rise faster as it collected in deadends, but slower in passages with an outlet. The champion’s rune would likely be in the slowest filling chamber because they’d want to allow time for teams to reach it—to fight over it.
Drama over drowning.
“Left passage slopes up,” Wickett said.
“And leads to a dead end.” I was already moving right, not just reading the current. I touched the wall, felt the temperature difference. “Feel the stone. It’s warmer here. That means air on the other side, probably a larger chamber. The center chamber would need to be the largest to accommodate multiple teams fighting.”
He studied me for exactly two heartbeats, then followed. “You think like prey that learned to hunt.”
“Careful, now. That almost sounded like respect.”
“Recognition. I save respect for the living.”
The passage narrowed until we were single file. Wickett led because he’d shouldered past me, and I let him because he’d hit the traps first.
Arrogant fool.
Wither flew closely behind me, though his wings flapped erratically.
“Chamber ahead,” the Ripper called over his shoulder.
The glass ceiling was seven feet high, but the water was already at four. Three passages led out, one already submerged. I read the room instantly—not just the layout, but the purpose.
“This is an elimination chamber,” I announced, desperately trying to hide my wince at the pain from the water.
Wickett nodded. “Correct. It’s too small for real fighting. It’s designed to make teams panic and force them to make mistakes.”
That’s when Wither broke.
“Can’t breathe, can’t—I need?—”
He dipped low in his hysteria, his wings grazing the poisonous water. The effect was instantaneous. His wings began to smoke and dissolve where they’d touched. He shrieked, the sound piercing despite his small size, and the weight of his damaged wings pulled him into the water.
I dove immediately, ignoring the absolute agony that surged through me. My hands found his small form in the black water, but his wings were mostly gone, the delicate membrane dissolving like sugar in rain. The water burned against my skin, but for him? Those wings were all magic, no real physical substance. He was literally coming apart.
I surfaced with him clutched in my hands, his body convulsing. “Stay still, just?—”
