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“We need to leave the room. Now.” I grab Poppy’s arm and pull her toward the door.

But before I take two steps, Lonan appears in its frame. His sword is out and glowing scarlet. He looks breathless as he scans the space, the ceiling from where the disembodied voice emanates.

Lonan’s eyes meet mine. He marches toward me, every step like a sentencing. “I told you to stay put,” he seethes, towering over me.

“You shoved me into a haunted tower. Don’t be peeved I found a way out.”

“This isn’t safe.”

“We weren’t trained to be safe, Lonan.”

“To the loyal,” the voice continues, “we offer solace. You have nothing to fear, should you remain faithful. To the treacherous, we offer a warning. The Ridding will reveal you. The Darkness will be found out. And no power can save you from your fate.

“This is the first trial,” the voice calls out. “An assessment of your loyalty to the Light. The first of three. You know the Light and its principles—order, revelation, creation. The first trial is a test of order. Can you wield it against chaos? The second trial will begin at midnight. Survive till dawn. May the Light prevail. Begin.”

Silence.

We are all afraid to move. And then the doors begin to close. Panic erupts. Students flood toward the exits. I yank at the collar of an older student running ahead of the young ones. But there’s confusion—some in the hallways seem to think it’s safer inside the Founders Hall. There’s scrambling, stampeding, fighting as the doors swing shut, everyone guessing where is safest. My cohort stands planted in the Founders Hall, instinctively moving back together. Lonan has forgotten our argument, bearing his sword with two hands and watching the walls.

And then there is screaming.

It comes from the other side of the doors, and my stomach drops.

Students pound on the doors. Hugo runs forward, yanks at the handle—locked. The cries are horrible—screaming, begging . . . And then a new sound.

A roar, an echo of the one I heard in the forest when Poppy was attacked. It chills my very bones. I meet Lonan’s eyes, and for the first time in our long history at Gossemort, I see fear in them. Then there are sick sounds, wet ripping, crying, whimpering. Hugo slams his shoulders against the doors desperately.

“Don’t let it in, you idiot!” Orla screams. “It’s a fiendling!”

“There are people . . .” Hugo can’t finish. He leans against the doors desperately. And then a small flow of blood seeps beneath them, edging toward the sole of his shoe. He stumbles away from the doors as though drunk.

This is a nightmare.

And a nightmare calls for nightmares. I make eye contact with Lonan—there’s a question there. All bets are off. This is when we fight, reputations be damned. But then he shakes his head. The voice said the Ridding is meant to test our loyalties. Neither of us can show our proclivity toward the Dark now.

The sounds on the other side of the doors die slowly. Roaring and screaming turn to the satisfied sounds of something eating. I actually am sick then. Poppy holds my waist as I retch on the floor. I’m shaking. I can barely hold my scythe.

But thank the Saints for my blessed heartlessness. A cool calm passes over me. My mind sharpens. I feel nothing.

Lonan scans the terrified faces, the scattered meigas remaining in the room, their weapons alight and their expressions grim.

“You trained for this,” he whispers harshly enough that his voice carries around the silent room. “This is why we fight. This is why we were born. Don’t lose your backbone now.”

I see more than one fellow student straighten their spine.

The growling of whatever monster lies behind the walls falls to silence. I didn’t hear it retreat, but fiendlings can be tricksters. Sweat covers my palms as I grip my scythe. I don’t dare move. I hardly breathe.

It’s like the school is waiting for us to flinch, to exhale. But the most difficult part of battle is often the waiting, the constant vigilance. My eyes do not tire. My grip does not waver. I can hear only my own breathing.

The silence is broken by the slightest, softest clinking. Our eyes lift as one. The chandelier overhead trembles, its crystals clinking. And then the walls move.

From every side, the walls glide toward us. The ceiling too—above us, it begins to drop. The shadowed faces of the baroque mural painted on it slowly fall toward us. The chandelier sways, its gilded spikes jingling over our heads.

Lonan’s hand grasps my arm, and I don’t have time to wonder at the strangeness of that as students instinctively start shouting and moving to the center of the room, away from the walls. One girl has already broken—on her knees, she cries and wraps her arms around her chest. Two boys are yelling at one another like a pair of stags locking horns. Still, the walls move closer.

A boy I sit near in Civics class, Roland, strides into the center of the room and stops beneath the opulent chandelier overhead. There’s a determined set to his shoulders. He raises his voice above the crowd. “I say we break down the doors,” he hollers above the noise. He points to a student near the back of the crowd. “You—aren’t you a pyromancer?”

She’s in her third year—a tall, raven-haired girl. I think her name is Faustine. She nods reluctantly.