The clock sand spills faster than I expect. How much time has already passed? A quarter? More? The grains don’t slow. And yet the four Champions, holding so many lives in their hands, shove the reaching arms aside without care, especially those of the women from Rust Hollow. Their hair, streaked with shades of red, marks them as the most unworthy of all.
Easy to spot. Easy to ignore.
At least half the gathered souls are Rust Hollow women. My chest tightens as the bitter realization settles in. Even the gods’ magic sees them as disposable.
“What are you waiting for?” Kaelzar’s voice rumbles beside me, so close I can feel the air shift as he speaks.
“The leftovers,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
Because that’s what they are—society’s scraps. Unwanted. Discarded. The other Champions will take their twenty people, leaving more than half behind. The unwanted will be mine to save… or mine to let perish.
And that weight is heavier than any Challenge could ever measure.
Through the pounding in my chest, I notice Zyrel’s movements—deliberate, almost measured. Something in the way he moves keeps my gaze fixed on him.
He weaves through the crowd with intent, stopping before Duke Montague. A flicker of disappointment rises in me at his choice, and I scold myself for it. Even a vile man like the Consul of Trade and Commerce doesn’t deserve to be torn apart by leeches.
Zyrel reaches for him, and the Duke stumbles free the moment their hands connect, sprinting toward his Sanctum.
Once Zyrel frees the Duke, something changes in him. His search becomes looser, almost careless, as if it no longer matters who he saves next.
Why him? Of all the highborn standing frozen in terror, why Montague?
It’s strange, because Lyra Starcrest, Duchess of Aramoor and Consul of Justice and Law, stands right there, yet he pointedly moves around her.
A cold thought slithers through my mind. Is this a calculated choice? Do they have some sort of agreement, something that makes Montague worth saving over the rest?
Zyrel has never struck me as a man who acts without reason, and now his choices feel deliberate in a way that unsettles me.
He’s the first to leave the crowd, selecting three more draped in finery before striding toward his Sanctum as if he’s saving the world itself.
Liona follows next, leading five chosen to safety.
Alaric finishes third.
Seraphina is still moving through the crowd, only two freed so far.
Another metallic click cuts through the air, the leeches' chains tightening. The sound lashes through me, too much like the ones that scarred Kaelzar’s body.
Instinctively, my gaze flicks to him.
He doesn’t react. But he’s not looking at the chains either. His focus stays fixed elsewhere, his expression unreadable, yet I catch the subtle way his shoulders lock, his fingers twitch as if he’s fighting really hard to clench his fists.
Another click.
My attention snaps to the sand clock. Half the sand is gone.
I move.
I launch myself into the crowd, my Godbeast at my heels. What I haven’t told Kaelzar—what I’ve been refusing to admit even to myself—is that I’m going to take more than five.
I slow before the first line of captives, breath caught in my throat as I meet dozens of pleading eyes.
Two rows ahead, Seraphina reaches for a child.
The moment she’s freed, the little girl bolts forward. But instead of running to the Sanctum like the others, she throws her arms around a woman four places away.
“You have to go, my sweet angel,” the woman murmurs, cupping her daughter’s tear-streaked face. “I’ll be fine. Just reach the safe square with the nice Champion. Papa’s waiting at home.”
