The last thing I see is Mael stepping in front of the king, arm outstretched, signaling the guards forward, as if to shield him.
From me.
Ihit the ground hard, sand scraping my palms as the force that hurled me through space leaves my senses spinning. The world tilts, my stomach lurching in protest. For a breath, I can’t tell which way is up.
My fingers dig into the grit, searching for balance, but the ground itself seems to shudder, unwilling to hold me. Before I can steady myself, strong hands clamp onto my shoulders.
“No time to rest,” Kaelzar grunts, hauling me upright as if I weigh nothing.
Rest? My head still reels from the brutal shift between spaces. I barely have time to breathe before his cheek brushes mine, his chest solid and unyielding against my back. Heat seeps through the thin layers between us. Then, in one smooth, commanding motion, Kaelzar turns us both toward something.
A shock runs through me at the sudden closeness, a shiver following unbidden. The pressure of him is grounding, infuriatingly steady, when I feel anything but.
My eyes lift, sweeping the space. It’s the Torey Arena again. Gone are the stone walls that formed the maze in the previous Challenge.
Now the arena stretches wide, blazing with light despite the night sky above. Along its perimeter, towering torches rise— each as tall as three men, their flames roaring high and bright.
The fires burn so fiercely that the sand glows pale, and their flicker casts restless shadows dancing across the space. Between the torches,the Divinity Gazes glow faintly along the walls like watchful eyes.
A few dozen paces ahead, a sand hill rises to a half-buried stone platform. An hourglass towers there—bronze frame, glass twice my height—its sand held still.
“This is how much time we’ll have before the Fleshleeches reach the people,” Kaelzar says, his voice low and urgent, vibrating against my ear.
His breath grazes my skin. The sensation jolts me fully alert. Then he steps back, releasing me now that my focus has returned.
In each of the four corners, massive forms loom—monsters bound in heavy chains that groan and clatter as they fight against their bonds.
They are aberrations: bloated, segmented bodies sheathed in slick, mottled skin that shifts between sickly brown and putrid green.
Their lengths coil and stretch unnervingly, twenty, maybe thirty feet long. At their front ends, cavernous mouths gape open, spirals of razor-sharp teeth glinting within fleshy, circular maws. The teeth clatter together in an unnatural rhythm, like bones snapping in quick succession. There’s no mistaking their purpose: to tear through flesh.
As the leeches jerk against their chains, their mouths distend farther, unfurling like obscene flowers blooming in reverse. The mere wrongness of their movement turns my stomach.
Along their underbellies, rows of sucker-like appendages writhe, searching for something to latch onto. A thick, viscous secretion trails behind them, pooling in the sand.
“Fleshleeches,” I breathe, the word leaving my lips like a curse.
“They’re one of the monsters from the forest I told you about, native to Elysium,” Kaelzar says, as if their origin might somehow make them less nightmarish. “The Sphere must have plucked them from their burrows and brought them here for the second challenge.”
The sickening sight grips my stomach, but I force my gaze toward the center of the arena. A cluster of people huddles together there, their eyes darting between the Champions and the monsters looming in the shadows.
There are dozens of them. Nobles from the dinner, the two consuls standing rigid, their dread barely contained. Some of the womenfrom the dining hall are there too. Most, though, wear only their nightclothes, dragged from their beds by the gods’ sentient magic that knows no limits to its cruelty.
Even the privileged citizens of Calcatra are not immune to the gods’ games. Somehow, that thought makes my magic stir with a dark, gleeful appreciation.
The chains squeal, grinding against their mechanisms as they unspool, releasing more length for each Fleshleech. The sound scrapes through the air, and the creatures lurch forward, dragging themselves a few feet closer to the trembling crowd.
And just like that, I understand the rules.
The second Challenge isn’t simply about surviving or fighting. It’s about proving the Champions’ worthiness to the people of Calcatra. It’s about saving them.
The Sibyls’ collective voices boom across the arena, reverberating off the towering perimeter walls, amplified, no doubt, by the Sphere’s magic. “Champions of the Trial,” the Sibyls proclaim, “hear the decree.”
I snap my gaze toward the sound, where trickles of people begin to fill the seats beyond the barrier. They must have been roused by the sudden flare of the mirrors across the city. Those living close enough rushed in, eager to take a seat before the rest and witness the spectacle firsthand.
“You stand not as mere mortals, but as the chosen of your gods,” they continue, “vessels of their will and defenders of their people.”
My pulse beats hard beneath my skin as their voices roll on.
