5. The Proving Grounds
The Proving Grounds
The cold crept into my bones first. Then the smell—damp stone and rot.
I doubled over and retched onto the floor, my body rejecting the horror even as my mind couldn't escape it. But there was nothing left in my stomach except bile and the taste of copper.
It's my fault.
The thought crashed through me with such force that I gasped, my forehead striking the cold stone as I curled in on myself. If I'd been more careful. If I hadn't lost control that night. If I'd just stayed home. If I’d allowed them to take Marel.
He's dead. He's dead because of me.
My father is dead.
The words didn't feel real. Couldn't be real. Sulien was supposed to be at home right now, stoking the morning fire, preparing nets for the day's work. He was supposed to grow old and gray.
You should have stepped forward immediately. The voice in my head wouldn't stop. As soon as they asked. You hesitated. You're a coward.
Too late. Always too late .
Sulien's last words echoed in the darkness. I love you both. Remember that. Always remember that.
But what was I supposed to remember? That he'd loved a daughter who got him killed? That his final moments had been spent watching the priests drag away the children he'd died trying to protect? That the last thing he ever saw was his family being torn apart?
I pressed my hands against my eyes until spots danced behind my lids. But even that pain was nothing compared to the image burned into my memory—Sulien, kneeling by the fire. The resolution on his face. The way his blood had looked black against the sand.
The way he'd smiled at us, even then. Even as he died.
Thatcher.
I reached out through our bond, searching desperately for his presence.
There was nothing.
He must be shutting me out. Building walls between us that had never existed before.
And maybe that was for the best. Maybe he finally understood what I'd always known—that I was a poison.
Soon they would come for Thatcher. They would drag him out of whatever hole they'd thrown him into, and they would demand that he demonstrate powers he'd never possessed.
What if he died too?
Because of me.
My stomach dropped and twisted, cramping so hard I doubled over again.
I couldn't save him. Couldn't do anything.
Just like Sulien.
Little was known about the proving, but those selected to participate never returned home. What would happen if he didn’t present any abilities?
He had none to show. Would they simply kill him on the spot ?
It would have been better if they'd just killed me in the cave. Better to have died beside Sulien than to live with this.
So I let the tears fall. Let myself curl back into a ball and close my eyes, begging for the sweet mercy of the dark to take me once more.
I woke to the sound of my own breathing, harsh and ragged in the silence. I had no way to tell how long I’d been locked in this room. It felt like days and weeks all at once.
But this time, instead of the crushing weight of grief, something else rose in my chest. Something hot and vicious and desperate.
Rage.
Thatcher.
"Thatcher!" The scream tore from my throat. I lurched toward the cell door, my body protesting every movement, muscles stiff. "THATCHER!"
My hands found the iron bars, and I shook them with all my strength. "Where is he? Where is my brother?"
The rage was good. Clean. Better than the suffocating despair. This I could use.
"THATCHER!" I screamed again, pulling at the bars until my shoulders burned. "Let me see him! Let me see my brother!"
The cell felt smaller now, the walls pressing in. I needed out. I needed to find him, to get him somewhere safe, to figure out how to save him before?—
No. I wouldn't think about that. There was only now, and now I had to act.
I stepped back from the bars and raised my hands, reaching for the stars, for the burning heat that could melt metal and stone alike. Power tingled in my fingertips for a moment, then... nothing.
I tried again, harder this time, pulling with everything I had. But the connection was gone, severed as cleanly as if someone had cut a rope .
The cell. Whatever this place was made of was blocking my abilities.
"No," I whispered. Then louder: "NO!"
I threw myself against the bars, ignoring the pain as metal bruised my ribs. "Let me out! Let me OUT!"
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. I pressed my face between the bars.
The guard who appeared was like nothing I'd ever seen before.
Tall and broad-shouldered, but his skin had an odd metallic sheen to it, like it had been polished to a mirror shine.
Clunky patterns covered his arms and face, shifting and rotating as he moved.
And his eyes held spinning clockwork irises that whirred softly.
"Keep it down," he said, his voice resonating with an odd harmonic quality, like metal struck at perfect pitch. "You're disturbing the peace."
I stared at him for a moment, trying to process what I was seeing before the rage took over again.
"Fuck your peace," I snarled, gripping the bars. "Where is my brother? Bring me to him right now!"
The guard's strange eyes clicked as they focused. "That is not up to me."
"Then bring me to someone it is up to!" I shook the bars again. "You're making a mistake. My brother has no powers!"
"You wouldn't be in these cells at all had you offered yourself willingly," the guard replied with infuriating calm. "We only detain those who tried to hide their blessings. The contestants who came forward are waiting in luxury, being pampered as we speak."
I didn't give a damn about the other contestants or how well they were being treated. I needed to save Thatcher. I couldn't save Sulien, but I would save my twin if it was the last thing I did.
"I don't care about them," I spat. "I need to see my brother. He doesn't have any abilities to demonstrate. He’s completely fucking normal. Do you understand that? "
The guard's expression didn't change. "You could be seeing him in a few hours. But do keep it down—you're giving me a headache."
"We don't have a few hours!" I slammed my palm against the bars. "And I don't care about your headache. If you don't have the authority to help me, then bring me to someone who fucking does!"
The guard just huffed like steam from a boiling pot of water, and turned.
"Don't you dare walk away from me!" I threw myself against the bars again, the metal singing with the impact. "I'll kill you when I get out of here! Do you hear me? I'll tear you apart piece by piece!"
I kept screaming until my voice cracked, kept throwing myself against the immovable bars until my body was a collection of bruises.
Finally, exhausted and hoarse, I slumped against the back wall of the cell. My throat stung, and every inch of my body ached. But the rage still burned in my chest, a steady flame that kept me upright.
Thatcher was alive. That was all that mattered. And somehow, I would find a way to save him.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor again, different this time. Lighter. I forced myself to stand, ready to start screaming again if necessary.
Three beings approached my cell, and like the guard, they were clearly servants of the divine realm.
Servants of Voldaris. Tiny drops of light moved beneath their skin, their hair floated as if on a phantom wind, and their eyes held depths that made me dizzy to look into, as if I were staring into the night sky itself.
"I understand that you are rather agitated," the leader said, her voice smooth.
She was taller than the others, with silver hair that shimmered—tiny stars that winked in and out of existence as she moved.
She held up a coil of those burning ropes.
"But I would prefer not to use these. What happens next, there is no choice in the matter.
If we can work together peacefully, we can avoid having to restrain you again. "
I stared at the ropes, remembering the agony they'd caused. But my need to find Thatcher outweighed my fear of pain. I opened my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it.
"My name is Lyralei," she said. "We are Dreamweavers, servants of Syrena, Aesymar of Dreams."
"Where is my brother?"
"I'm not certain of his current location," she replied, which was more honesty than I'd expected. "The contestants are housed in different areas depending on their circumstances."
It was more than the guard had offered. I studied her face, trying to read her intentions. Those eyes were impossible to decipher, but her tone suggested she might actually mean it.
"Where are you taking me?"
"The Aesymar prefer their contestants to be prepared for the ceremony. It would be... unsightly to arrive in your current state." Her gaze traveled over me.
I looked down at myself—torn clothes, blood under my fingernails, bruises blooming across my arms from throwing myself against the bars. I probably looked like I'd been fighting for my life.
"I couldn't care less what the gods think of me."
Her expression grew serious. "You should. They hold your life in their hands. It would be beneficial to have them on your side, rooting for you." She tilted her head, studying me. "I can tell you're quite striking beneath all this... distress."
I tried to calm my anger enough to think clearly. This was my first opportunity to leave this cell. I could use it to find Thatcher, to see if our bond grew clearer once I was out of this cage.
"If I cooperate," I said slowly, "you'll help me find information about my brother?"
"I will do what I can."
It wasn't a promise, but it was something.
"What exactly does this preparation involve?" I asked.
"Bathing, grooming, dressing you appropriately for divine attention," one of the other Dreamweavers said. "We will make you look like you belong among gods. "
"I don't want to belong among gods."
"No," Lyralei said softly, "but that doesn’t matter."
The truth of it hit me hard. I was going to have to play their game, follow their rules, make myself into whatever they wanted me to be. All for the chance—the slim, desperate chance—that I might be able to save Thatcher.
"Are we going to be compliant?" Lyralei asked.
I said nothing, but stepped back from the bars. It was answer enough.
The cell door swung open with a soft click, and I followed them out into the corridor.
The transition was jarring. One moment I was in a dank stone prison, the next I was walking through what could only be called a palace. Soaring ceilings supported by columns of crystallized light, floors of polished marble, paintings of the Aesymar in gilded frames the size of buildings.
I lowered my eyes and reached for Thatcher again.
And this time, he reached back.
A relieved sob almost broke from my throat. He was alive. Still alive. And for the first time since waking up in that cell, I could feel him clearly—his terror, his rage, his desperate worry for me.
I'm here, I tried to send through the connection. I'm alive. Hold on.
"My brother is not blessed," I said to Lyralei as we walked through the corridors.
"I understand your concern," she replied, her voice gentler now that we were away from the cells. "But the situation is... complicated."
"How is it complicated? He has no powers. If he’s meant to compete in some way, he will die."
"Those who oversee the Proving are not known for their mercy," one of the other Dreamweavers said quietly.
"But," Lyralei added, raising a hand, "they are also known for their... theatrical nature. They enjoy drama, unexpected turns, displays of power and beauty that capture their attention. "
"What does that mean?"
"It means the best way to save your brother is to survive the Proving yourself. Gain their favor, their interest. Make them want to keep you around."
"It will be too late by then." I said desperately.
"The best I might be able to do is request you go early in the proceedings, give you a chance to make your case before..." She didn't finish the sentence.
Before they called Thatcher's name.
The idea of asking those monsters for favors made my skin crawl. "And you think they'll grant it?"
"Perhaps," Lyralei said carefully. "The Legends are unpredictable. Some might find the idea of sparing a powerless twin romantic. Others might see it as amusing. Others might refuse purely for the sport of it."
"So it's chance."
"Most things are, in the end." She looked at me, a soft smile gracing her lips. "But you have advantages. Your story has dramatic appeal. And once we're finished with you..." She paused, tilting her head to the side, really examining me. "You'll be impossible to ignore."
It wasn't much of a plan, but it was better than sitting in that cell.
"What if it doesn't work?" I asked quietly. "What if they refuse?"
Lyralei was quiet for a long moment. "Then at least you'll have tried."
She didn't sound convinced, and neither was I.
But it was all I had. And while every instinct screamed at me to sprint in another direction and start searching for Thatcher myself, I could see it would be pointless.
Metallic-skinned guards lined every passage and corridor, their strange eyes taking in everything.
The room they led me to was so extravagant it made my eyes water. Everything was gold and silk and crystal, with furniture that looked like it had been carved from single enormous gems .
It might have been impressive under different circumstances.
"Sit," one of the Dreamweavers commanded, gesturing to what looked like a throne.
I sat, and they went to work.
They didn't just clean me—they transformed me. My hair, tangled and dull, was washed with substances that smelled like citrus and combed until it fell in waves down my back. My skin was painted with shimmering pigments that made it glow, and my eyes were outlined with kohl.
The gown they brought was a spectacle all in itself.
Deep black fabric that reminded me of velvet, but richer and more luminous.
Scattered across it were thousands of tiny crystals that glittered.
The cut was unlike anything I'd ever seen in the village, even from the wealthy travelers who spent their summers on the coast—fitted close through the bodice but with sleeves and a skirt that flowed like water.
Through it all, I sat numbly, letting them work. My mind was focused on one thing only. What I would say when I had the chance to plead for Thatcher's life. How I would demonstrate my power in a way that would gain the gods' attention and favor. How I would save him, no matter what it cost me.
Let them dress me up like a doll if it would help. Let them paint me and powder me and make me beautiful for their entertainment. Because when I stood before the Aesymar, I would be the spectacle they were looking for. I would be powerful. I would be everything they wanted and more.
And I would make them spare my brother.