Chapter Eighteen
The Leviathan sways, and my stomach lurches. The deck stretches out, its polished wood gleaming wet in the moonlight. The ship is undeniably grand, but it feels claustrophobic with the weight of exhaustion pressing down on my shoulders.
Competitors can barely stay on their feet around me, their bodies broken from the surprise first trial. Some are gagging, others crying. The air thickens with emotions, the lingering aftertaste of anger, betrayal and fear hanging like a fog.
Two more competitors tumble on to the deck with a victorious scream – a copper-haired guy and a girl with a shiny black ponytail, the pair who had asked Fritz and Harry for their autographs. I remember their names from the Introduction. Troy and Selene.
Taron sits on the floor beside me, his arms looped around his legs. His chest rises and falls heavily, and his dress shirt is soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin.
“It’s been a minute,” I tell him. “And you don’t look any better.”
“I said I’m fine,” he heaves. “I’ve experienced worse.”
I don’t doubt that one bit. But I also can’t ignore how his fingers flex weakly at his sides, trembling from overexerting his talents.
“You’re scum, the both of you!”
An argument has erupted on the far-left side of the ship. Troy and Selene, still dripping with sweat and saltwater, are squaring off against the twins, Gigi and Gunther.
“Tried to feed us to that beast like we were bait!” Troy shouts, shoving Gunther in the chest.
“Better you than us,” comes Gigi’s biting reply. “Next time, we’ll make sure the beast gets its fill.”
I wince at the venom in their voices, the brutality in the way they’re looking at one another. It’s cold and cruel and ruthless, even for the tournament.
My stomach churns once more. Not only at the thought of what’s still to come, but of what we – I – might have to do to survive.
Across the deck, Cyrus stands with his back to the rail, wringing out his soaked dress shirt. Muscles flex beneath his sun-kissed skin, and tiny water droplets cascade down his bare chest. His champagne-blond hair is slicked back, with a few strands brushing his jawline.
I hate to admit it, but he looks every bit the warrior, effortlessly handsome in his dishevelled state.
Taron’s eyes are on me when I glance down. His gaze is unwavering, despite the exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. I feel an unexplained thickness at the back of my throat.
“Tired?” is all I can think to ask.
“Beyond tired,” he says, letting out a soft breath. “You?”
“I’ve definitely been better.” I suppress the urge to swallow when his eyes search mine. “But … I’m glad you’re all right.”
“I thought you were supposed to be mad at me.”
Oh, right. But how can I be, after what we’ve just been through?
“Maybe later.”
He attempts a smile, and I’m taken aback. Mostly because it suits him. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re all right, too.”
I cling to the sincerity in his words. For the first time since this chaos began, a sliver of warmth burgeons beneath the icy fear.
I momentarily let my guard down, allowing my eyes to wander. To take in the crisp symmetry and quiet strength of his features. To really see him.
Taron runs a hand through his damp hair. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You were staring.”
“I was thinking, actually.”
“About what?”
Before I can respond, a loud crash draws our attention back to the fray. Another team stumbles on to the deck, barely managing to stand, and a deep resonant gong echoes through the evening air.
Movement erupts below deck before a dozen figures in matching grey uniforms emerge from the shadows. The ship’s crew. Fast, nimble and eerily synchronized, they swarm the deck, moving through the competitors like liquid.
A wiry woman with silver hair darts to the helm. She extends her hand at the rigging, her fingers parted, and the ropes unravel themselves, snapping to life as they obey her silent command. The dark sails unfurl, perfectly catching the wind.
I step aside as a broad-shouldered man with tattoos running up his arms marches to the anchor.
He borrows the light from a solar lantern swinging from a mast, and his palms glow as he transfers the energy to the electric winch, which immediately lifts the anchor.
One of the younger crew members approaches the wheel.
He runs his hand along the polished wood and, as he does, tiny seedlings sprout from the grooves, quickly growing and unfurling into vines that wrap around the wheel like a pair of hands to steer.
The Leviathan groans in response. It stirs beneath my feet, some form of engine humming to life below deck. The entire vessel shivers, and then we’re moving, slowly crawling forward across the water.
For all the churning in my stomach, The Leviathan is an amazing thing. I’ve never experienced anything like it – but, then again, I’ve never been at sea before.
“Trimming the sails!” shouts the wiry woman with silvery hair. She rolls her wrists, and several winches move furiously on their own, adjusting the tension of the sails until they’re full of wind and the ship’s speed increases.
We’re gliding across the Sea of Storms like a predator through the depths. My pulse quickens – whether we’re ready or not, we’re on our way. Aurora Isle lies ahead, somewhere beyond the dark horizon, and, with it, the promise of another trial.
“Look!” shouts Mei.
The gathered competitors mob to the side of the ship, where four remaining teams are chasing after The Leviathan in their dinghies. I can only vaguely hear their screams in the wind. Helpless pleas. Angry curses.
The sea begins to churn. Two barnacled tentacles pull two of the dinghies under. Then the monster’s head erupts from below, a show of jagged, razor-sharp teeth that opens like a crack in the sea and swallows the remaining two dinghies whole.
“Thalassa’s mercy,” Rhius breathes.
“That’s the nature of the game,” Savannah murmurs. “Only twelve teams were ever going to board this ship.”
The tension that simmered on the surface after the first trial begins to boil again, and it gives off a sour taste, like an unripe citrus fruit. I try not to breathe it in. Try to look past the murky cloud of energy gathering overhead the competitors.
High Prince Seraphius’s words echo in the sudden silence. Some of you will not return from Aurora Isle. My throat knots. This is truly a fight to the death, and failure means Elara will be lost for ever.
I glance at Taron for his reaction. He leans forward on the rail and stares quietly across the murky waters. If he’s as appalled as I am, he’s hiding it well.
At least his face is less blanched now, and the veins clawing around his neck and lower jaw are subsiding – he’s slowly regaining his energy.
“What do we do now?” I wonder aloud.
Cyrus spreads his arms over his head. “I say we find out which of these deck scrubbers has the key to the cargo hold. There’s bound to be something to drink on this floating coffin.”
“Later.” It’s the voice of the silver-haired woman, low and grating. She approaches our gathering with a scroll in her hand. “First, you’ve got a letter from the Games Master.”