Finally, it’s the night before the Voice Trial, the first major test we have to pass. I went to my room early to try to get a good night’s sleep, but I’ve been tossing and turning for hours.
When I eventually doze off, I plummet into a nightmare.
I’m at the medic’s office with my mom, except the medic is treatingme. He stands in front of me, raising his hands to myface, tightening his fingers into my hair until my head is locked in his grip.
“The delusions will start soon,” he says calmly, staring straight into my eyes. “Are you ready?”
Suddenly he’s gone, and I’m looking at my mother. She looks lucid, nothing like the fuzzy, clouded version of the past decade. She’s wearing her nicest clothing, and standing in a dark, viscous pool of blood. On her head is a twisting crown, and it’s bloody too. Streaks of blood run down from its peaks and into her fine, wavy hair.
“Meryn,” she calls. “Meryn! It’s time for you to join me.”
I take an unwilling step toward her, unable to look away.
The light changes until mother is shrouded in darkness, and the whites of her eyes turn a deep black. When she next opens her mouth, the voice that comes out is nothing like my mother’s.
It’s deep and otherworldly, resonant in a way that sets my teeth on edge, makes my bones ache.
“MERYN. Come, now. Nocturn commands it!”
I’m walking closer and closer. I can’t control my own body, as if I’m paralyzed inside my skull, watching someone else move my limbs. I draw closer and closer, my eyes locked on hers until I’m drowning in the dark pools of her irises.
With a gasp, I wake up, sitting straight up in bed. My layered blankets fall off my chest, letting in the cold air, soothing against my flushed and sweaty limbs. I breathe heavily, trying to center myself.
Just a dream.
But I can’t fall back asleep the rest of the night.
In the morning,I stride into the arena, heart pounding so hard that it pulses in my fingertips and trying to not feel bleary-eyed after last night. The other Rawbonds look just as tense as we move together deeper into the arena.
Leader Aldrich gave us some menacing statistics to prepare us for what’s coming during the Voice Trial. Apparently, this first test is specifically designed to challenge our communication skills, and it’s estimated that an eighth of us won’t survive this.
I’m not optimistic about my chances. My communication with Anassa hasn’t improved. We keep shoving each other out of the way.
I can ride her without falling off. Generally. Butnot falling offisn’t really good enough when there’s an elaborate, terrifying obstacle course laid out before you complete with fiery braziers strategically arranged to force precise navigation.
It’s…a lot. The arena’s been transformed overnight into this nightmarish maze.
And as with the Presentation, the stands are filled with nobles who have come in to watch us succeed—or die. The king sits on his dais, cold amusement clear on his face. Once again, our misery is their entertainment.
Killian is at his side and I ignore the way my stomach flips when I catch sight of him. I need to stay fully focused on Anassa if I’m going to make it through.
Standing next to her, I study the course before us, trying to figure out which part of it my corpse is going to end up draped over.
The series of ascending platforms at the start? Probably not. If I hold on tight enough, I should be able to stay mounted as Anassa leaps across them.
That narrow bridge suspended over a sea of flames, though? Yeah, that one’s not looking so promising.
For a sickening moment, I can already smell my flesh and hair cooking.
My eyes catch on a flash of dark. Stark is standing near the other instructors by the king’s dais, his huge arms crossed over his wide chest. I catch his malevolent gaze and I swear I almost see a malicious smile flicker across his stupid lips.
This is it, then. The payback for the spit.
I know the obstacle course is meant to be a general test of coordination between the rider and their wolf, but it feels like a deliberate attack against me. Like Stark snuck into the arena in the night, laughing to himself as he set up the targets, probably imagining my crispy corpse just like I am right now.
At least the targets are set up somewhat close to the obstacles. We were allowed to choose our weapons for this portion, and I picked daggers, confident in my aim from my training with Igor. It shouldn’t be too hard to hit the targets, assuming they don’t spontaneously shrink or one of the braziers doesn’t flash brightly in my eyes right as I ready my throw.
The sickly twisting in my gut worsens when the other pairs start to traverse the course before me. It’s like I can see the mental connection shimmering between their bodies as they move fluidly through the course.
