Chapter Nineteen
Below deck, the wooden walls of The Leviathan creak like old bones as the vessel shifts with the rhythm of the waves. I press my hand against the wall for balance.
My stomach is worse down here, without the sticky ocean breeze to keep me cool. It also doesn’t help that the air here in the competitors’ quarters is damp and pressing, almost suffocating, and the sharp tang of saltwater seems to cling to everything.
I continue down the dim corridor, swallowing the swells of brine at the back of my mouth. I’ve never been on a ship before and, honestly, I don’t see the appeal.
The constant motion beneath my feet is unnerving, as if the floor itself were alive, breathing and pulsing with the waves of the sea.
After Kara read the Competitors’ Brief aloud, the crew vanished below deck, and nobody knew what to do with themselves. Gunther and Gigi quickly sniffed out the cargo hold, and, much to everyone’s delight, it was filled to the brim with wine and cider.
“If we can’t kill each other, we might as well kill the time!” Gunther bellowed atop a barrel.
It was strange, seeing the competitors drink together. With their tight-lipped smiles and hollow chatter about Principal Academies, upcoming exams and the best places to holiday along the Solaran coast.
They made it sound as though we were on a school trip, not sailing towards an island most of us won’t return from.
Perhaps they’re in denial, or perhaps they’re all so egotistic, so entirely confident in their immortality that they haven’t yet realized what they let themselves in for.
When Taron vanished below deck to our cabin, still exhausted from the first trial, I went in search of a washroom. Mostly because my eyes were still stinging with seawater, but also because I wanted to briefly lock myself away to collect my thoughts.
It was a fanciful thought.
We only have two washrooms to share among the lot of us.
They’re cramped, barely large enough to turn around in, and the lanterns flicker weakly, casting long shadows that move like ghosts against the walls.
I could barely splash some water on my face and have a drink before someone hammered on the door.
“Hey, some of us are waiting out here,” Gigi slurred. “If you don’t come out in the next three seconds, I swear I’ll burn the door down!”
An unlikely threat to make good on, although I wouldn’t put it past them. So here I am, with the corridor spinning in front of me. I straighten, taking a slow, shaky breath to calm myself – a mouthful of stale dampness. How do people get used to this?
One foot in front of the other, Talia, I tell myself as I stagger towards the cabin I share with Taron. I practically hurl myself around an incoming corner, gasping when I nearly collide with someone.
He’s tall, towering over me, and he’s shirtless. Cyrus. His eyes have a golden-brown tint to them, appearing even darker now in dim light.
“Slow down, Freckles,” he says, eyes blatantly sweeping over me, lingering a moment too long on the torn hem of my dress where it cuts off at my thighs.
I shift uncomfortably, and his smile only widens. He leans in a little closer, a stray blond hair falling across his forehead.
“Shame about your dress,” he says in a low, almost playful tone. “Though, I have to admit, I wouldn’t have minded being the one to tear it.”
Heat spreads across my face so fast it makes me dizzy.
I’ve never had a guy look at me like this before; never felt this strange, fluttery mix of embarrassment and confusion.
It feels like a layer of me has been peeled back, left bare for the world to see.
I’m not sure how to react. Not sure how I want to react.
My tongue is numb, my thoughts jumbled by the sheer boldness of his words. It’s his confidence, how at ease he is within any space he occupies, that unnerves me.
Cyrus winks and something inside of me snaps. I narrow my eyes. Maybe it’s just arrogance, masquerading as confidence. Wrapped neatly in a handsome package, held together with the bow of his sickly-sweet tongue.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I shoot back. “You’d never get the chance.”
Cyrus chuckles, unfazed. Tiny creases form in the outer corners of his eyes, dancing when he smiles. He’s enjoying the challenge.
“We’ll see about that,” he murmurs, slowly stepping forward to close the distance between us. “I like a little fire. It makes things … interesting.”
I stiffen. This infuriating, cocky, self-centred man, thinking I’ll fall at his princely feet like all the others. And this after he had me by the neck yesterday in the Lucky Fish.
I don’t have the patience for whatever game he’s playing, so, with a final glare in his direction, I brush past him, my heart still pounding in my ears.
“Your boyfriend. He’s a Luna, right?” Cyrus asks, fingers grazing my forearm, sliding gently across my wrist as he pulls me to a stop. “Quite powerful, from what I saw during the trial.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, pulling my wrist away. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh, even better.”
Before I can make another attempt at an exit, he takes two long strides forward, lips parted in a greedy sort of way as he keeps his stare pinned to me.
I back away, but hit the cold wall of the corridor. He corners me, one hand braced against the wood beside my head. The narrow space between us seems to shrink, and his bare chest is inches from mine.
His scent fills the air – something warm, like sandalwood and sea salt, mixed with the faint, musky scent of sweat and the ocean breeze still clinging to his skin.
There’s no denying that, up close, Cyrus is even more striking – everything you’d expect a prince to be.
The sharp line of his jaw perfectly defined, as though sculpted from marble.
His freckles. The fullness of his lips. Their natural curve rests somewhere between a smirk and a challenge, the kind of mouth that draws you in without meaning to.
“Don’t you think we might be of use to each other in the tournament?” he asks. “We could work together, your team and mine.”
“Not a chance.” I’m flustered, despite myself.
“If you say so.” His breath is warm against my skin. “One thing you should know about me is I always get what I want.”
I part my lips, debating a reply, when the door to one of the cabins further down the corridor opens and Taron steps out. I didn’t even realize where we were.
The moment Taron’s eyes land on us huddled closely against the wall, his expression darkens.
“Maeve,” he says, “is everything OK?” His tone is clipped and his gaze flicks between us, settling on Cyrus – his bare chest – with a cold, hard edge. “Is this jerk bothering you?”
I straighten, pushing against Cyrus to create some space between us. He steps back, burrowing his hands in his pockets, and I can finally breathe.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, though my heart is still racing. I can’t bring myself to look at Cyrus. It feels like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t. “We were just … talking.”
“Don’t worry, tough guy,” Cyrus says in Taron’s direction, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I haven’t stolen your girl just yet.”
“She’s not my girl.”
It’s the truth, of course, but the force of Taron’s response – as if the very idea offended him – leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“Sweet dreams, Maeve.” Cyrus blows me a kiss, casting a final glance at Taron before sauntering off down the corridor and disappearing around the corner.
Taron watches him go with his jaw pulled tight. “What was that about?” he asks.
“He proposed that we work together in the tournament.”
“Never. Cyrus is nothing but trouble.”
“You never know. Maybe to win this thing, we’ll need to place our trust in some of the other teams.”
“Not him,” Taron snaps. I’m surprised by the intensity of his reaction. Intrigued more than anything else. “I don’t trust him, Talia. Not for a second.”
My name feels odd on his tongue. It’s the first time he’s said it, I think.
A part of me wants him to say it again. Another part of me wonders where all this hatred for Cyrus is coming from.
For all his gorgeous features, I don’t like the Young Prince either, and I certainly don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. But I can’t shake the feeling that alliances – however temporary – might be our only way to survive this tournament.
Taron retreats into our cabin, and I follow him inside. The door creaks shut behind me as I take in the space.
It’s cramped, barely wide enough for the two narrow beds tucked against opposite walls.
A single circular window lets in a sliver of moonlight, and between the beds sits a solar lantern on a low trunk.
On each bed, neatly folded, are identical uniforms. A deep emerald green woven with delicate golden thread.
The fabric looks almost leathery, but, when I pick mine up, it’s surprisingly light and folds easily between my fingers. I examine each of the garments. The uniform is sleek, consisting of fitted trousers and a tank top.
Taron’s version mirrors mine, though his top has long dark-green sleeves woven with more golden thread.
At the foot of each bed are black boots and a utility belt loaded with slots for weapons and tools – anything we might need in the upcoming trials.
Taron has two extra things on his bed. A map of Aurora Isle and a scroll tied with a red-and-gold ribbon.
A note is scribbled across it.
Open only when the gong sounds.
“Why are both of our uniforms green?” I ask, folding the clothes back up and placing the pile on the edge of the trunk between our beds. “I thought they’d coordinate our colours according to our talents.”
“I guess each team must’ve been allocated a colour or something. Looks like we’re green.”
“Looks like it.” I flop down on my bed, and I must be frowning because Taron tilts his head at me and smirks.
“What? Green’s not your colour?” he asks.
“Not my first choice, no.”
He gives me a quick once-over, something oddly soft in his expression. “I think it would suit you,” he says, almost absentmindedly, as though the words slipped out without him meaning to say them. “Anyway, we should probably talk tactics.”
I blink, processing his compliment. It’s jarring coming from Taron. Unlike Cyrus’s blatant flattery, his words feel different. Unsettling in their warmth. I want to cling to the feeling, burrow it deep in my mind to unpick later.
“Tactics?” I ask.
Taron nods. He grabs the map and spreads it across the foot of his bed. “Rule number one,” he says, suddenly all business, “no fraternizing with the enemy.”
“First of all, a rule isn’t the same as a tactic.” I roll my eyes as I kick off my shoes and scoot across the bed to sit with my back against the wall. “Second of all, I wasn’t fraternizing with anyone.”
“That’s not how I saw it. Cyrus was practically drooling over you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Jealous?”
Taron stiffens. I think I see a flush creeping into his cheeks. “I’m just saying we can’t trust him.”
I can’t help the smirk that creeps on to my face. Even though we haven’t known each other that long, it’s a rare thing to see Taron flustered.
A part of me enjoys it more than I should.
“Right,” I say, dragging out the word playfully. “What’s rule number two?”
His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “From here on out, we’re only allowed to call each other by our fake names. Even when we’re alone, in case the Games Master can somehow hear us.”
“OK. And three?”
Taron gathers the map into his arms and sits down next to me, holding it open between us. “Rule number three,” he says. “We’re not going to bed until we’ve memorized this thing.”
I lean in to get a closer look, and his lilac hair brushes softly against my cheek. I realize if he turned his head now, our faces would be inches apart.
My heart leaps. I let my gaze linger ever so briefly on the scar above his lip. Then I force myself to tear my eyes away before he can notice. I swallow the warmth clawing through my veins.
This is wrong. The first trial took a lot out of me. I nearly drowned, and Taron saved me. I can’t mistake gratitude for something deeper.
Blinking, I eye the map. It’s a detailed sketch of Aurora Isle, sprawling with tropical jungles, steep hills and a winding river that cuts through the terrain.
There are markers for key locations. Arrows pointing our route to the rest camp, and beyond it, an ancient temple that marks the finish line.
The island looks much bigger than I expected. “Memorize it, huh?”
“Down to the smallest detail,” Taron says. “One trial navigating the unknown has been enough. From here on out, we need to be prepared for anything.”