Chapter 38
There’s something wrong with the corridor leading to the Cardinal assembly.
Our footsteps echo too loudly in the silence, bouncing off stone walls that should be lined with guards.
The page is nowhere in sight. The usual bustle of servants, the quiet conversations of people preparing for sessions, the general hum of activity that marks the heart of political power – all of it absent.
“Where is everyone?” Lady Tavia whispers, unsettled by the emptiness.
Zevran moves ahead of our group, checking corners and sight lines with tactical precision. “Stay together. Something’s not right.”
I scan the corridor, looking for Ren’s familiar silhouette. She should be here, posted outside the holding chamber and ready to help escort us through to the next trial.
But she’s not here.
The wrongness of that settles in my stomach like ice.
“Where’s Ren?” I ask, my voice too loud in the empty corridor.
“And the other guards,” Lord Castor adds. “There should be security everywhere.”
We reach the massive doors to the assembly chamber. The ancient wood is carved with symbols that predate the Conclave itself, dark with age and polished by centuries of hands.
Lord Castor steps forward and pushes. The doors groan open.
The sight that greets us stops us all in our tracks.
Blood.
So much blood that the ancient stone floors look like they’ve been painted crimson.
Bodies lie scattered across the chamber – some slumped over the tiered benches, others collapsed on the floor in positions that suggest they tried to run.
White Cardinal robes are stained dark, the silver threading dulled by gore.
The metallic scent of death hangs heavy in the air, thick enough to taste.
Near the far wall, I see drag marks. Long smears of blood leading toward a side exit, as if someone pulled the injured to safety. The exit door hangs open, emergency lighting flickering beyond it.
“Stars above,” Lord Castor breathes.
Lady Nerida whimpers, pressing her hands to her temples. Her oceanic eyes go unfocused, overwhelmed by whatever psychic echoes linger in this place.
Commander Kaelix goes completely still, their electric blue eyes scanning the carnage with clinical detachment. “Recent. Within the last hour. Some of them were moved.”
“Evacuated,” Zevran says, noting the same drag marks I did. “Some got out.”
“We need to check for survivors,” I say, forcing my legs to move despite every instinct screaming at me to run.
We spread out carefully, stepping around pools of blood that are still warm. The stone is slippery beneath my boots.
I’m halfway across the chamber when I hear it.
A wet, rattling breath.
I change direction immediately, following the sound to where a Cardinal lies bleeding out. He’s maybe thirty, his white robes torn and soaked through with blood.
“Here!” I drop to my knees beside him, my hands already moving to assess the damage. “I’ve got a survivor!”
The others converge quickly. The Cardinal’s eyes flutter open. They’re glassy with shock and pain, pupils blown wide. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
“Stay with me,” I say, pressing my hands to his chest where the worst bleeding seems to be coming from. “I can help.”
I call the power forward, not caring about the withdrawal or the cost. The cool magic flows from my core through my palms and into his failing body. I feel his injuries – sliced organs, internal bleeding – and I pour healing into the worst of it.
The familiar euphoria rises, but I push it down as I focus on keeping him alive. Just enough to stabilize. Just enough for him to speak.
His breathing eases slightly. The blood at his mouth slows.
“What happened?” Zevran asks, kneeling beside me. “Who did this?”
The Cardinal’s eyes focus on me with desperate intensity. “Benedict evacuated – just before...” He coughs, more blood.
“Who’s responsible?” I ask urgently.
“D-don’t know … hidden network … inside...” His hand grabs my wrist with surprising strength. “Everywhere...”
Lord Evander moves toward the centre of the room, his analytical mind already working through implications. He looks at the drag marks again. “They let specific people escape while ensuring others died.”
The Cardinal tries to speak again, but his eyes go wide with sudden terror.
He’s looking past me. At something behind us.
“MOVE!” Zevran shouts.
An explosion tears through the chamber with devastating force.
The world becomes thunder and flying stone. I’m thrown backward by the blast wave, my ears ringing, my vision filled with smoke and debris. Heat washes over me, singeing hair and exposed skin. The ancient walls shake, massive cracks spider-webbing up toward the vaulted ceiling.
Through the chaos and dust, I see Lord Evander.
He’d been standing closest to wherever the device was hidden. The blast caught him full-on, and now he’s lying motionless ten feet away. A massive piece of the ceiling has fallen on his upper body, crushing his chest and head. Blood spreads in a dark pool beneath the rubble.
“EVANDER!” Lady Tavia screams, her voice distant and muffled through my damaged hearing. She runs toward him, but Zevran catches her arm. Lady Tavia collapses, her diplomatic composure shattering into raw grief.
That’s when the alarms begin.
Ancient technology awakens with a sound like the world ending – a deep, resonant vibration that I feel in my bones. Suddenly I understand why the arena’s walls always hummed with hidden energy. They’re not just stone and metal, not just holographic screens and decorative panels.
They’re massive mechanisms designed to protect the structure during crisis.
The floor vibrates beneath our feet as sections of wall begin to move.
Stone panels that I’d always assumed were fixed rotate on hidden axes, sliding and reconfiguring.
Emergency protocols that have been dormant for centuries activate all at once, transforming the static architecture into something fluid and alive.
“What’s happening?” Commander Kaelix shouts over the mechanical grinding.
“Lockdown,” Zevran says, his military experience recognizing emergency procedures even if he’s never seen them activated. “The arena’s sealing itself. Isolating sections to contain the threat.”
The moving walls create new corridors while closing others, herding us like livestock into predetermined safe zones.
I see Lord Castor and Lady Tavia being pushed toward one passage by the encroaching barriers.
Lady Nerida and Commander Kaelix disappear behind sliding stone panels in another direction, Lady Nerida’s scream of protest cut off mid-sound.
“Cyra!” Zevran lunges toward me as a massive wall section begins descending between us.
I run for him desperately, our hands reaching across the narrowing gap. Our fingertips brush – so close I can feel the warmth of his skin – before the stone barrier slams down with finality.
“Zevran!” I pound against the wall where he was just standing, but there’s no response. The stone is seamlessly joined now, soundproof and impenetrable. No gap, no seam, nothing to indicate there was ever an opening.
The withdrawal symptoms spike with my panic, making my vision blur and my stomach clench with nausea. The healing I did for the Cardinal, the stress, the trauma, the hours since my last session with Zevran – it all compounds into a perfect storm of physical weakness.
I hear grinding stone above me.
Looking up, I see another wall section beginning to descend from the ceiling. In seconds, it will crush me flat against the floor.
Strong hands grab my arms and yank me backward just as tons of stone crash down where I’d been standing. The impact sends vibrations through the floor hard enough to knock me off balance. I stumble into someone’s chest, breathing hard from terror and adrenaline.
“I’ve got you, darling,” Isolde’s voice says, warm and reassuring in my ear. “You’re safe.”
I turn in her arms, noting how calm she seems despite the chaos. Her amber robes are somehow still pristine, not a speck of blood or dust on the flowing fabric. Her dark hair remains perfectly arranged. Even her breathing is steady, controlled.
“Thank you,” I gasp, my own breath coming in ragged bursts.
“Come on.” She guides me toward what appears to be a small safe room carved into the wall. “We need to get somewhere secure until this is over.”
The space is clearly designed as an emergency shelter.
Reinforced walls curve in a perfect arc, carved with the same ancient symbols as the main chamber.
There are basic supplies stacked in alcoves – water containers, preserved food, even medical supplies.
A small air vent high in the ceiling ensures we won’t suffocate.
As the final barriers slide into place, sealing us in, the mechanical grinding finally stops.
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence that feels heavier than the chaos that came before.
I sink onto a stone bench built into the wall, my legs finally giving out as the full scope of what just happened hits me.
“Lord Evander’s dead,” I manage to say, my voice hoarse. The image of him crushed beneath that stone refuses to leave my mind.
“I know.” Isolde settles beside me, her presence somehow both comforting and strange. “I’m sorry. He was a good man.”
“Where’s everyone else? Lord Zevran, Lord Castor, the others – are they safe?”
“Sealed into their own safe rooms, I assume,” Isolde says. “The arena’s emergency protocols are designed to protect people by isolating them during attacks. They’ll be fine. This is just temporary.”
Something nags at me about her certainty, her composure. Everyone else was terrified, panicked, but Isolde seems almost ... prepared. Like she knew exactly where to position herself, exactly where the safe room was located.
“Where’s Ren?” I ask suddenly, the wrongness from earlier crystallizing into concrete fear. “She should have been just outside the holding chamber, waiting for me. After yesterday, after the masquerade, she wouldn’t have left her post. And Astrid – where are all the advisors?”
“Perhaps they’re dealing with threats elsewhere,” Isolde suggests smoothly. “Or perhaps they simply can’t reach you, since I assume the arena locks down entire sections independently.”
The explanations are logical, but they don’t quell the growing unease in my chest.
Where is Ren, who’s been obsessively paranoid about my safety? Who hasn’t let me out of her sight for more than minutes at a time since the attack?
“How long do you think we’ll be trapped here?” I ask, trying to focus on practical concerns instead of spiralling panic.
“However long it takes,” Isolde says, and something in her tone makes me look at her more closely.
She’s watching me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Not the warm friendship or calculating politics … like she’s studying a specimen.
“Isolde? Are you all right?”
“I’m perfect,” she says, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “In fact, everything is going exactly according to plan.”
The words hit me, and suddenly the pieces start falling into place. Her calmness during the explosion. Her convenient rescue from the crushing wall. The way she knew exactly where this safe room was located.
Sheer terror bubbles up inside me as I realize I’m not trapped with my ally.
I’m trapped with my enemy.