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The Queen of Swords steps forward, a tall and broad woman with deep, dark brown skin and tight curls going gray. She wears the distinctive Swords style of ornate armor crafted around her shoulders almost like waves cresting, and seems like she could fight her way to becoming a champion with ease. She looks around the arena, commanding silence without lifting her hands. In the new quiet, she simply says, “Chariot.”

I had wondered if people would be willing to fight past champions. Apparently the answer is yes, though fewer people leap forward than for the previous gods. The Chariot bellows out a laugh, easily leaps the short wall around the sand, and starts running. Even knowing how his magic works, I’m not prepared for how he seems to grow with each step, easily topping seven feet by the time he’s in a full sprint.

The other hopefuls don’t stand a chance. It’s clear the Chariot has gained speed and could make it to the dais before the others easily. He doesn’t. Instead, he runs loops around the dais, trampling each of his competitors with the sound of crunching bones I swear I can hear over the shrieks and hoots of the crowd around me. Some of the people, seeing the writing on the wall, attempt to retreat. He runs them down, laughing all the while. Enjoying the slaughter.

“Do you understand better now?” Mouse says in my ear. “The Cinque have had twenty-two years to become comfortable with their gods’ gifts. You must avoid fighting them at all costs.”

No wonder my mother brought the Chariot into her alliance. Having him on her side had been instrumental in winning the Trials last time. Beating him is going to be … I don’t even know if it’s possible. My concept of a trap was a thin one, especially after seeing the Wands District. There are fewer places to hide and flee than I’m used to, and even if the roads were mud instead of flagstone, the idea of digging a pit to contain him is an impossible one. He’s going to be a problem.

The champions for Strength and the Hermit slaughter their way to the dais with efficiency. The Wheel of Fortune takes a note from the Magician and sneaks their way onto the dais. The ornate armor covering their narrow shoulders makes me raise my eyebrows. It’s all silver, which indicates they’re a high-ranking Sword, one of the nobles. What are they doing here? They also have a cane, likely related to the brace I can see peeking from beneath the hem on their left leg.

Despite the Trials specifically being held during the year of the Wheel of Fortune, Mouse couldn’t find records of the last time one of Their champions ascended to the Cinque. It seems a strange choice for someone who clearly has every privilege afforded to the Minor Court.

Justice and the Hanged Man slip past the other contenders. Then it’s Death’s turn. I hold my breath as the King of Wands—a short, older woman with beige skin and long, straight gray hair pulled back tightly from her face—announces Death.

There’s a rustling among the crowd and a few people look like they might jump the half wall and charge the dais, but everyone falls still as Death walks calmly forward from his seat. He doesn’t look at the crowd, doesn’t seem to be worried about the possibility of an attack. And why would he? Everyone knows what he’s capable of. Still, I thought at least someone would attempt to take his position as Death’s champion.

Even the crowd is near silent as he steps over bodies on his way across the bloody sand. He nods to the King of Wands, cold and polite, and steps onto the dais to stand next to the Hanged Man.

It takes several beats for the gong to sound, as if whoever’s responsible for it is as taken aback as the rest of us. I thought the Chariot would be the scariest foe I’d face, but this is so much worse. I can feel the fear of those around me and, no matter how I try to resist, I share that emotion. He’s terrifying … and he holds the answers I’ve been seeking my entire life. I dig my nails into my palms in an attempt to center myself. Death was always going to be a problem. I knew that. It changes nothing.

Temperance takes the stealthy route. I don’t even see them until they appear on the dais. The Devil seems to be from the Wands District, dressed in purple and black, and he uses a massive sword to slice his way to victory. The Tower does the same, though his clothing is strange enough that I have a moment of wondering where he’s from because I don’t recognize the style of armor, one shoulder oversized in a way that looks designed to protect his neck. Why only one?

The Star is next, announced by the King of Pentacles, a frail-looking person with gray hair and pale skin. Unlike with Death, several people appear to take her delicate stature as evidence of a lack of danger. They learn quickly how wrong they are. She moves through them, easily shifting away from attacks, and brushes her gloved hands over their bare skin. One by one, they go down, bleeding from their mouths and eyes and ears. I shudder. A horrible way to die. She steps daintily onto the dais and curtsies. The crowd loves it.

“It’s time, Kestrel.” Mouse squeezes my hand. “Make me proud. Win. I’ll be waiting on the other side.”

Guild Master Fortuo of the Peridot Guild steps forward. He’s a grizzled old bastard with a reputation for being as fair as he is difficult. He’s tall and built like a barrel—all chest and a gut I wouldn’t want to break my fist against—with light brown skin and a rapidly receding hairline of gray curls. He clears his throat and barks out, “The Moon.”

I surge to my feet, ready to sprint down the stairway and vault over the half wall to beat the other prospective champions to the dais. I’ll kill if I have to, but clearly stealth and speed work just as well as anything else, so that’s my preferred choice if I have a choice at all. It takes three steps before I register the stillness of the arena.

None of the other prospective champions move. They don’t even shift the way they did when Death was called.

“Cursed,” a man next to me mutters as I take the steps down toward the sand.

“Bad luck for sure,” another says.

“Liar.”

“Betrayer.”

“Dishonorable.”

“Definitely cursed.”

One by one, the murmurs of individuals become something so much larger. Not a roar for violence the way I’ve gotten used to through the process of the Culling. This is stranger, quieter, and yet no less insistent. A buzz that climbs behind my skin and makes me want to scream.

The sensation gets worse when people realize someone is descending to become the Moon’s champion. Heads turn in my direction as the whispers reach a crescendo that makes me want to turn and flee. It feels like every eye in this place is pinned to me; it’s every thief’s nightmare to be so perceived without a single place to hide. I make myself continue, head held high, and use one hand to leap over the half wall and into the oval.

The Sun is no longer directly overhead, but it still feels too damned bright out on the sand. The scent of death is so much worse now that I’m here; the blood almost immediately soaks through my thin boots. I step around and over body after body. Looking at their pained expressions won’t do anything but give me nightmares, but somehow staring down the champions and the Concilium is worse. Some of the kings and queens actually seem shocked. Most of the champions are mildly curious, but the three members of the Cinque standing on the dais watch me far more closely than I like. Death, in particular, has a strange look on his face, his already pale skin going ghostlike.

I nod at Guild Master Fortuo, and he gets over his shock to give me what appears to be a genuine smile, his weathered face creasing and eyes practically disappearing. “Well, girl, get up there.” The words are brusque, but not unkind.

I climb onto the dais and claim my destiny.

While it is the deaths of the champions that serve the Trials’ purpose, if we are to welcome five voting members into the Concilium, it is vital we have the opportunity to know them and understand their motivations, goals, and vices. It was wise for the original founders to create such a structure as to allow that knowing. By night, the champions ensure their gods’ needs are met. By day, we in the Minor Court will take their measure … and prepare accordingly.

—EXCERPT FROM THE MAJOR ARCANA: A TREATISE ON THE HISTORY OF THE OLD GODS