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Suddenly, the ceiling cracks open. An obsidian disk, carved with the same crescent mark as my hand, hangs in the air. It floats down slowly, moving like a guillotine as it descends. Instinct takes over as I grab Tiernan’s hand and haul myself to shaking legs. Nodding at the others, I let him help get there quickly so we can all join hands in a circle.
Facing the center as we hold one another up, I watch the disk spin faster and faster until it’s a blur of black and silver. As it gets within range, I let go, raising my marked hand with the freshly modified scar glowing. The disk shudders, and I thrust my hand forward as I scream, “Stop!”
The disk is vibrating with power about a foot above our heads, making a sound so loud it makes my teeth rattle. While we’re distracted, the creature lunges, but this time, we’re ready for the ugly son of a bitch. Revelin throws out a net of gold magic, catching the creature midair. Dezi whispers something I can’t make out, and the edge of the disk turns red-hot. I close my eyes and think of my mother’s face as she hurled me through the portal, of her promise that I would be no one’s weapon.
I open my eyes to look at my mates, smirking smugly. “Now!”
The disk slams down, but instead of crushing us, it shatters the tile at our feet in an explosion of pure light. For a moment the world is all energy and power as the forces meet in a chaotic crash. The shadow creature howls, shrivels, and then evaporates into nothingness. We’re left standing in the middle of the dome, every tile around us scorched, but still intact.
I look at my hand reflexively, seeing that the mark has scarred my palm permanently, though this time it’s with a crown on top of the moon.
Tiernan still has his white-knuckled hand around my wrist, and I beam at him. Revelin slumps to the ground, panting but grinning. Khol laughs, and Dezi gives me a look that is almost proud.
I exhale, and it feels like the first breath I’ve ever taken.
The way forward is open because we survived.
The corridor is straight this time, no tricks or loops, but the air is so full of ghosts that I feel them before I see them. At first, they’re just smudges at the edge of my vision, flickering in and out like a channel that won’t come in. Then, with every step, they get bolder—full bodies, faces, even voices, though nothing they say comes out right. It’s all static, all the time.
My basilisk is the first to notice the change in atmosphere. “They’re waiting,” he says, his voice pitched low. “Last time they tried to mob us, now it’s like they’re judging.”
Revelin makes a face, looking annoyed. “That’s worse. At least when they attack, you know what to do. Besides, I’ve had enough bullshit judgment to last me five lifetimes.”
Glancing back at me, Tier has a tightness in his expression that says he’s worried I might collapse again. He doesn’t say it out loud, but his hand hovers close to my arm, ready to catch me if it happens. I’d bitch, but I’m still fairly weak from all the overdoing it. It’s not the time to be too proud to accept help, I fear.
The mark on my palm is so cold it’s numb. It doesn’t pulse or burn; it just sits there like a dead spot in my skin. The magic’s either burned through or is waiting for something bigger, but I don’t trust the lull. My luck is not such that even the end of this stupid trial will allow me to get free without a fight. Our new walkway is bordered on both sides by blue-lit tiles. Every so often, a tile flickers and dies, and when it does, a ghost steps forward and hovers at the edge, arms crossed or eyes locked on me. They don’t attack, just… watch.
I keep walking, because what else am I supposed to do?
At the far end, there’s a single tile different from the rest. This one is bigger, black instead of blue, and has a crescent inlaid in silver. The closer I get, the more the ghosts crowd in, forming a gauntlet on either side of the way forward. Ignoring them, I step up to the black tile, and that’s when the first ghost blocks my way.
She has flaming red hair that’s a wild mane of tangles. Her eyes are all pupil, no color, and her mouth is sewn shut with thread the color of old bruises. She stands, arms at her sides, not moving as she watches me with dead eyes.
My heart stutters. “Is that—?”
Dezi is at my shoulder, his voice clinical but not unkind. “It’s her. The trial is weaponizing your fear, witchling. If you let it, it’ll paralyze you.”
I want to move, but I’m stuck. My dead sister’s presence is so strong it’s like walking into a wall of gravity. I can’t allow myself to believe this illusion is true, yet my mind and heart are filled with icy fear.
This might be the one that gets me.
Tiernan growls, his patience gone. He tries to push past, but the ghost simply turns to face him, and he freezes, too. I know he likes Fer, but his expression is far too upset to only be about my sibling. What is he seeing?
The mark on my palm pulses once, before going still again. I want to reach for her, to apologize for every failure to keep us safe from this shit. But I can’t—my feet won’t move. Behind me, the other ghosts close in. They all have outstretched hands, not clawing but pleading.
Revelin tries to break the tension by speaking, but his voice dies before anything comes out. Khol squares his shoulders and bares his fangs, but the ghosts don’t even react.
We’re all trapped in our own hell again, and I’m so damn tired of it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. Whatever happened, I’m sorry that I failed you.”
The ghost-Fer tilts her head as a single tear rolls down my cheek and falls over her sewn-shut mouth.
That’s when my mark erupts—not with fire, but with cold, blue-white light. It pours out, a hemisphere of moonlight that surrounds us, shoving the ghosts back. They slam against the barrier, leaving frost trails wherever they touch. It’s beautiful, in a way, but also the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
Dezi grabs my arm, muttering urgently in my ear. “Finish it. Put your mark on the tile. It wants your blood, not your regrets. The trial is using the bad feelings to keep you from doing what you must.”
I kneel, the cold biting through my bones, and press my palm to the crescent tile. It burns hot like a forge, but I don’t pull away.
