The moment his fingers touched the hilt, he screamed.
The blade had burned him.
Actuallyburned, I realized as his skin sizzled where metal had met flesh. He jerked back, staring at a blistered palm with growing panic.
“It won’t—why won’t it?—”
Understanding hit me. “The items were never meant for each team. They don’t care who we entered with. There’s one for each race. This is the final trial.”
Felix’s face went white. “No. That’s not—I’m a hunter. I belong.”
“You belong to what will take you,” Wickett said, moving toward the chalice. “And that one just told you to fuck off.”
“If that’s true, then—” Felix lunged for the crown but his tether to Lucette Varrow jerked him backward. Good. She was still alive.
My fingers closed around gold, avoiding the black thorns just as he reached for it. The moment I touched the artifact, magic shot through my system, butwrong.
Muffled.
Like someone had thrown a blanket over my connection to Silas. Furies fucking help me, I had to resist the urge to throw the damn thing.
“No!” Felix spun toward the chalice, arm out behind him as he fought the magical tether. The other teams had always seemed to have far more space than Wickett and I, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough for him to get any closer.
Sitting on its own pedestal, silver and ancient, the chalice was covered in runes woven with blood magic. Old blood magic, the kind that required sacrifice to activate. Blood magic that was supposed to be banned.
Wickett examined it for less than a second before drawing his knife across his palm. Blood welled up, dark and rich, dripping onto the chalice’s rim. The runes flared to life, accepting his offering, binding themselves to his blood.
“Wait!” Felix’s voice cracked, all his earlier bravado dissolving. “Wait, we can negotiate. Wickett, you need an ally. I’m valuable. I know people. We could both win. Fuck the rules, we’re hunters.”
Wickett didn’t even look at him.
“Please.” The word came out strangled, pathetic. Felix dropped to his knees, the magical tether dragging him backward even as he clawed at the ground trying to stay close. “I’ll tellthem whatever you want. About the witch. About the plan. I’ll say it was all her, that she manipulated us.”
“Stop talking,” Wickett said quietly.
But Felix couldn’t stop. The man who’d spent the entire trial posturing and threatening had completely unraveled, reduced to bargaining and begging. “My father is on the council. He’ll owe you. Wickett, please, we trained together. We’re both hunters. We’re supposed to?—”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.” Wickett’s tone held no emotion. Just flat disgust. “And the name hunter.”
Branches rustled. Lucette appeared from one of the passages, covered in Marcus’s blood, her eyes immediately taking in the scene. Wickett with the claimed chalice. Me holding the crown. Felix on his knees, tears actually streaming down his face now as the reality of his situation finally broke through whatever delusions had been holding him together.
“Lucette!” Felix twisted toward her, desperate. “We can share. Work together. You need me. I can help you. I know tactics, I know?—”
She walked past him without breaking stride, heading straight for the blade.
“Wait!” His voice went high, frantic. “I’ll give you anything. Money. Information. My family has resources.”
The blade sang as she lifted it. In perfect acceptance. No hint of burning. No sign of rejection.
She tested its weight, smiled with cold satisfaction, then looked at Felix with casual disdain.
“Please,” Felix whispered one last time, all the force that had defined him completely gone. He was nothing now, just a man who’d built his entire identity on being stronger, more brutal, more feared, discovering that none of it mattered when the magic chose someone else.
“Only one of each race walks out,” Lucette said.
She cut him down before he could respond.
Felix hit the ground with a wet sound, his blood already staining the earth. His eyes stayed open, still wide with disbelief, as if even in death he couldn’t accept that he’d been reduced to begging and still found worthless.
