My heart stumbles when I see where I am.
A cage.
Suspended high in the air, it’s made of some kind of black metal. I rush to the edge and wrap my hands around the bars, only to jerk them back with a hiss. Whatever this material is, it’s freezing. To touch it is like placing my skin against a block of ice. So cold it burns.
I turn in a slow circle.
The cage floor is round. The bars arch high over my head, curving inward like a bird cage built for something just my size.
There are no doors. No windows.
“Nora!” Sorren’s voice calls out, echoing up to me, tight with fear.
I rush to the edge again, careful not to touch the bars.
He’s down below, standing in a rounded pit with a dirt floor. It looks like the place where gladiators once fought beasts both real and mythical. Walls of compacted earth rise high over his head. In the dirt, roots twist in dark, knotted veins, some as wide as Sorren’s arm. Gnarled. Twisted. Coiled tight beneath the surface, as though held in place by something stronger than soil.
The upper third of the wall, far out of Sorren’s reach, holds a mounted ring of weapons, containers, and locked chests. They hang from iron brackets driven deep into the stone, suspendedlike offerings. Each one is old-fashioned, almost medieval in design. Blades with crossguards wrapped in tarnished silver. Axes with crescent heads etched in curling runes. Shields rimmed in gold leaf gone dull with age.
Between them hang heavy caskets and narrow, jewel-encrusted boxes, their lids studded with garnets, emeralds, and opals. Some are decorated with filigree so fine it looks like ivy turned to metal. Others are bound shut with iron clasps and locks, thick with rust or darkened by something that might not be rust at all. One chest hangs slightly open where the lid has warped, revealing the glint of coins, the flash of gemstones nestled in velvet long since faded to gray.
Treasures.
Relics.
Prizes set on display.
Thornreaper must be there among them. The Amulet of Springtide too.
Above that, lost mostly to shadow, are tiered rows of seating carved into the stone. Like an amphitheater, the Colosseum in Rome. Figures sit along those steps, arranged in neat rows. Watching. Still as statues. I can’t tell if they are real beings or props set in place for whatever strange theater we’ve landed in. Either way, there’s a stillness to them. Like they’re sitting there, waiting for the show to begin.
“I see you, Heir of Spring and the Heir’s Mate. What do you seek, that you come to me in this place? My domain?” a disembodied voice says, deep and resonant.
Sorren spins in a circle below me, searching. “Nora! Where are you?”
“I’m here!” I call out to him.
His eyes whip up to meet mine, and his shoulders slump in visible relief. Then he sees where I am. Immediately, his posture goes rigid. Rage vibrates beneath his skin, barely contained.
“Let her go,” he says, his voice deepening as his chin lifts and his eyes flash. His words are not a request. They are a demand. A royal order.
His shoulders hunch slightly. Not with fear.
Something far more dangerous.
The protective posture of an animal guarding its mate.
My cage shudders in answer. The floor tilts violently, and I lose my balance. I fall to my knees and slide backward, windmilling my arms. I only come to a halt when my body slams into the wall of bars. Ice sears across my upper arm. Pain brands through me at the contact, shooting and intense. I scream as I jerk away, looking down to see the bloody imprint of the bars scored across my skin. The floor snaps level again, and I scramble to my feet, shaking, one hand clutched over my bleeding arm.
And suddenly I understand.
This trial isn’t just testing him.
It’s testing what he’s willing to risk for me.
“That’s winter magic!” Sorren roars, outrage cracking through his voice. “Blasphemy to use it on my mate!”
“I am not constrained by the petty borders of your courts,” the voice replies, deep and echoing. “I have watched empires rise. I have watched them decay.”
