“Meryn? Talk to me.”
I’m shivering as his hands close around my shoulders. The realization hits me like icy water. It wasn’t real. He didn’t hear it. None of it was real. Not the voices my mother hears. Not the blood I saw during training. Not this.
“I thought I heard something,” I explain weakly.
Killian’s shoulders relax. He misunderstands my fear. “If someone finds you here, I’ll protect you. I’ll keep it from getting out, if you still want that.”
I swallow and let myself fall back against the plush pillows. He settles in beside me. “Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t tell him that I don’t think he’ll be able to protect me. Not from this.
“Sleep. You need your strength,” he breathes, already giving himself back over to his dreams.
I curl closer to him. Close enough that I can almost convince myself that the horror of tomorrow won’t reach me. That the horror of the rest of my life won’t, either.
Because there’s a terrible truth reverberating in my skull alongside the phantom screams.
Even if I survive the Purge, that won’t keep me from following my mother into madness.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ispent the rest of the night in and out of sleep, never able to return to the deep rest I’d been enjoying. When I wasn’t mulling over the phantom screams, my mind returned to the Trial ahead of me—back and forth, a vicious cycle. Finally, I dragged myself back to my own room around dawn and fell back into another few hours of dreamless yet fitful slumber.
We arrive at the arena in the late afternoon. The other Strategos are cheerless and quiet as we reach the center of the field—twenty-three wolves and riders arranged in a perfect circle.
The arena looms massive in the slanted sunlight, its tiered rows already packed with chattering spectators. There are more people here now than there were for the Voice Trial. I wonder if the promise of certain bloodshed has drawn them in. Nobles in their finery crowd the upper levels while the other packs fill the lower seats.
Since the Purge is done pack by pack, the three others wait in the stands during each Purging. Of course we drew the short straw.
Strategos is going first.
The king’s elevated platform dominates the western wall, draped in lush fabrics of royal purple and gold. King Cyril sits with deceptive nonchalance on his ornate throne, that infamous wolf-pommeled sword at his hip.
Audelie, a Phylax Rawbond, is perched on the older man’s lap. She’s the… companion… he’s chosen for the Trials. It’s no wonder why; she’s stunningly beautiful with long, dark hair and glittering emerald eyes. He gropes her chest over her clothes while she smiles widely and placidly, and my stomach twists in disgust.
She’s a visceral reminder that, to the king, we’re merely objects for his entertainment and pleasure.
But even Audelie is dressed in her fighting leathers today. She might be the king’s chosen one, but she’s still part of a pack, and will still have to participate in the Purge when it’s her turn.
Killian stands at his father’s right hand. My eyes are drawn to him despite myself. His presence is both a comfort and a worry. I don’t want him to see me die today, but if things go wrong, at least the last thing I get to see will be his face.
Stark is also on the king’s balcony in his place of honor, dressed in unbroken black, his dark hair slicked neatly back. Our eyes meet, as usual, and the malicious smugness in his gaze says it all.
Today is the day you die, princess.
An avalanche of violence unleashes inside me, the shadows around the arena growing long and strange. For once, I’m almost glad the bastard is here. I needed that extra bit of motivation to prove the fucker wrong.
Hopefully.
I grit my teeth and stiffen my spine. If I die today, I’m sure as shit not going to go down without a fight.
I turn to Anassa, feeling her predatory focus grow sharper.
She meets my gaze when I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Stay on my back, no matter what.”
I don’t have time to answer.
All at once, the wolves look up toward the king, responding to some silent signal. He has theDiren Blædsword in his hands, and like he did at Presentation, King Cyril thrusts it into the platform floor at his feet.
