2. Never Tell Me the Odds
Chapter 2
Never Tell Me the Odds
SONGBIRD
Summerlands, Faerie, 100 years ago
A king’s pride can go a long way toward ruining your life. A father’s ambition is even worse. Either death or glory awaits me in the Royal Academy’s labyrinth. I don’t think I could face my father’s disappointment if I merely washed out of the trials.
Death is honorable. Failure is not.
Whatever happens tonight will determine my entire future. They’ve gathered the applicants on the field behind the huge maze they built for the trials. All the aspiring students are peppered around the manicured lawn. Applicants are here by invitation only, and I’m the sole common Fae present.
Most of my competitors are receiving one last prep session from their coaching teams, whereas I stand alone. It singles me out and makes me an easy target, the stares of my competitors riddling my pale skin with goosebumps.
Half of them are boys from the Spring and Summer courts, but a nasty-looking Red Fae—an applicant from the bloody Red Forest—bares her teeth when she catches me looking, prompting me to angle my gaze toward the sky.
Huge round torches tower above our heads, flooding the space with light. The vast majority of the Fae competing in the challenge need them to see.
Fireflies flicker in and out of view on the outskirts of the clearing, the gigantic half arched windows and tall, prickly turrets of the Abbey twinkling behind the maze. I try not to stare at the shape of the Royal Academy’s main building, my mouth parched and my lips dry.
I’m hungry for this. I want to show each and every one of these rich, pompous high-borns that I, Elizabeth Snow, am as clever and powerful as they are.
The boys are expected to wear nothing but black shorts, while we girls have been given flimsy summer dresses to cover our black, form-fitting, waterproof leotards—I think they call them swimsuits. The Spring Fae decorated their dresses with bright flowers, but that’s a mistake.
Who cares about looks? These trials will certainly include a few sentient beasts, and I’d rather not give anything with fangs or claws a better chance to spot me.
I play nervously with the straps of my leotard, ready to melt into the grass and hide within the crust of the earth. I don’t know how to swim—not properly. If the challenge calls for me to plunge into anything more than a shallow pool, I’m screwed.
“Let me through.” A boastful voice erupts from the crowd.
My stomach cramps as Ezekiel Nocturna, the Shadow Prince, elbows his way through the sea of supportive coaches. I’ve been glaring at pictures of him for the last two days. My father was all too happy to present the prize he’d won for me, my royal fiancé.
Fae royals usually never marry so far down the totem pole, but this one was desperate enough to choose me, being in dire need of raw magic to boost his claim to the Shadow throne.
I’m an anomaly in my family. The first Snow with enough power to draw the king’s attention and escape the mediocre fate I was born to, or so my father has been telling me since I froze the entire kitchen as a Faen because I didn’t want to eat ragout.
A hurried betrothal to Ezekiel allowed me the perk of vying for a spot in this elite school, but I’m an outsider. If I make it through the admission trials, I’ll receive a first-grade education. I’ll be initiated into age-old secrets about our realm’s magic and form connections with people that would not otherwise have deigned to glance upon me, given my lineage, and that includes my brand-new fiancé.
The living shadows flickering along the prince’s smooth, tanned skin create an aura of black fire around his tall frame. Men from the Shadowlands are known for their rugged sex appeal, and Ezekiel is no exception.
He’s got his father’s strong jaw and his mother’s silver eyes. I’d be tempted to grin timidly at him if it weren’t for his sly, superior smile—the hallmark of a true Fae prince. His no-frills uniform bridges the class divide between us, but he looks like a man who’s never worn anything but the finest silk.
He crosses his arms over his chest and eyes me up and down. “There you are, moth. You’re not so bad to look at, at least.”
Moth is used when referring to a common Winter Fae without any noble blood, as we come from the land of death. It’s not considered derogatory, but it chafes my vanity all the same. Ever since I hit puberty, I’ve had a sixth sense to gauge a man’s intentions. Call it a gut feeling or feminine intuition, but I can always tell when a man only pays me a compliment—even a backhanded one—to manipulate me, and Ezekiel checks all the red boxes on that front. Hells, he’s not subtle or witty about it.
He purses his lips. “But I don’t believe you’ve got what it takes to pass the admission trials. You’re going to fail—or die.” He shrugs as though his words are merely simple truths. “And I won’t cry over it when it happens.”
“I guess you’ll know soon enough,” I deadpan, my nerves stripping me of my usual carefulness when speaking to high-born jackasses.
“Don’t get too attached to this face,” he says, pointing at it with his index finger. “I don’t care what my father said. If you don’t get into the academy, I’ll never marry you.”
“No one is expected to marry a corpse, right?” I crack.
“Corpses take care of themselves. I can’t marry a loser. Good luck, moth, but I don’t expect to see you on the other side.” He leaves with about as much discretion as when he arrived, thundering back to his advisors.
“Wow. He’s an ass,” a man says, inching closer to me. “I heard he’s not the most talented or disciplined pupil. He should worry about his own fate, not yours.”
“You’re right about that.” I spin around to face the newcomer. “Oh?—”
The boy is awfully tall, but his posture lacks confidence, and his long arms hang awkwardly at his sides, as if he just sprouted a few inches and hasn’t yet figured out what to do with his new height. His platinum blonde hair is in disarray, slicing through the dark night, but it’s the wide wings on either side of him that steal my breath. He obviously wasn’t on the lawn when I sized up my competitors earlier, and I glare at his outstretched hand.
“Elio Lightbringer, nice to meet you…” he trails off, waiting for me to introduce myself.
I’ve studied his name, along with the names of every Fae royal. Elio, second-born son of Ethan Lightbringer, the King of Light.
“I’m Beth—I mean Elizabeth Snow.”
A luminous smile stretches his mouth. “Your name is on everyone’s lips tonight.”
My brows furrow. He’s right, of course. “Given your expression, my last-minute invitation must have ruffled quite a few royal feathers.”
“All of them, I’d say.”
I shouldn’t trust any noble Fae, especially friendly, gorgeous princes, but my keen instincts remain subdued and quiet.
I crane my neck around, searching for Elio’s coaches. “Why are you alone?” As a prince, he’s probably been training for this since he came out of his mother’s womb.
“I ordered my coaches to stay away.” He rolls his shoulders back. “It’s nice to meet you, Beth. If it helps, I’m nervous as hell, too. They all expect you to fail, but if I don’t make it through… Let’s just say my father will take it as a personal affront.”
The high-born applicants who wash out are usually relegated to less prestigious positions and never taken seriously as contenders for one of the seven crowns, but it's hardly a harsh fate. If I fail, I'll be trained to become a reaper and lose my only chance at life. That would force my cousins to leave school early, as they would have to work year-round in the mines to keep even a basic, hole-riddled roof over their heads.
We can barely afford the food on our table as it is.
I shake my head at Elio’s lack of awareness for his obvious privilege and swat his comment away with a dismissive wave. “You’re a prince; you’ll be fine. This could completely make or break the rest of my life .”
“Let’s agree that we’re both in a tight spot, then. Each trial has a guardian—a seasoned student granted the honor of crafting their court’s challenge. My brother is one of them, and he’d love nothing more than to prove his superiority by being the one to eliminate me,” Elio explains.
His wings shiver at his back, and in spite of myself, I keep staring at them. Sleek long feathers are interspersed with smaller down feathers that appear incredibly soft to the touch.
“Why don’t you just fly over the labyrinth?” I joke.
Elio raises a pointed brow at my suggestion. “That’d be cheating.”
I blink at him, stunned. Is he saying he can actually fly? Or did he answer in jest?
“You two should stop whining.” A melodic, high-pitched voice muses from the side. “I’ve got worse odds to overcome.”
A tiny girl plants herself next to Elio and me, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s a pixie or a nymph. Loose brown waves fall below her waist, and she has a steep, slanted nose and big amber eyes with thick, long lashes that don’t look human at all. Her red lips, high cheekbones, and chin dimple give structure to her round face.
The applicants are at least sixteen years old, but this girl could still pass for a Faen. We’re all barefoot, and my big feet look like sleigh runners compared to hers. She didn’t put on the summer dress. All her black leotard is missing is a dance tutu, and she’d be ready to step onto an opera stage as the worlds’ most ethereal ballerina.
“Hi, I’m Willow Summers,” she chimes.
Willow Summers. Daughter of Thera Summers, the Summer Queen. While all the Fae courts are technically equal, the Summerlands are larger than any of the other kingdoms, more populated, and possess the biggest army. The capital of the entire Fae continent, Eterna, lies at the heart of the Summerlands and doubles as their capital.
Given an inextricable argument between two courts, the side taken by the Summer Court pretty much tips the scale, making Willow the most influential princess.
“I’m Elizabeth Snow. Beth to my friends,” I say quickly.
“I know. You’re all everyone’s been talking about.” Willow braces her hands on her hips and stares down the labyrinth.
“What were you saying? About your odds?” Elio asks.
“Only a quarter of all applicants make it through the trials. Of those who don’t make it, five percent die trying. That’s 0.9 of us tonight.”
“You’re a… ball of sunshine,” Elio croaks.
“I’m not finished. Of the dead aspiring students, only forty percent are female, but of those females, ninety-five percent were princesses less than five foot two.”
Elio’s mouth quirks. “That’s an awfully specific analysis.”
“Math doesn’t lie. Probabilities are worse than fate. Short princesses are in grave danger tonight, whereas there’s been zero casualties in the winged prince category.”
“And what are my odds?” I ask, half amused, half terrified.
She tilts her head to the side and examines me. “You’re tall and not a princess. You should be fine.”
One of the faculty’s presiding judges walks onto the stage, and conversations die down across the lawn. The black woman is wearing a ceremonial white toga, her dark brown hair styled in an afro and held away from her face by a thick, golden band.
“If I could have everyone’s attention, we have a long night ahead of us,” she announces. “I’m Master Evelyn Eros, and if you’re lucky, one of your future teachers. Coaches must now leave the lawn. Applicants, please line up in front of our esteemed Headmaster, Idris Lovatt. Since his daughter is among you tonight, he appointed me to rule over this year’s trials in his stead. Thank you for the honor, Headmaster.” She offers a respectful nod to the man standing right in front of the stage as the coaches head off the grassy field.
The older man’s gray hair and thick beard contrast with his dark brown skin. He’s got an elegant face and the piercing, enticing gaze of a Summer Fae.
He brings a hand to his heart and shows off his perfect white teeth. “Thank you, Evelyn.”
The woman goes on with her speech. “Master Idris will have you draw a numbered tile at random. And don’t even think about switching tiles with another student. Everyone must keep the tile they drafted. I, along with the two other judges, will ensure that there’s no cheating of any kind. Remember, cheating during the trials is not only an automatic disqualification, but also a serious crime against her Majesty Thera Summers, our beloved hostess.”
The lawn seems almost empty now compared to how it was a minute ago, only the twenty-four applicants remaining, and we form a semi-straight row in front of Master Idris, a few applicants peeking out of both sides of the line to watch the others draw their starting numbers.
Willow, Elio, and I are the farthest away from the stage, and we end up at the back of the line.
Elio motions for us to stand in front of him. “Ladies first.”
I refrain from narrowing my eyes at his gallantry, suppressing the mistrust in my gut, and stare at the tall hedges beyond the stage as we wait for our turn to come. The holes forming two distinct entrances into the labyrinth’s exterior wall give absolutely no clue as to what lies beyond them, the hedges at least twenty feet high.
According to my father and the information he managed to glean from his network of friends, the first two trials should be Winter and Storms, followed by Spring, Autumn, and Light, before the trials end with Shadow and Summer. If I could only draw an early entrance slot and blaze through the Winter trial… it’d give me ample time to work my way through the other sections of the maze.
“Going too early has got its drawbacks,” Willow declares with the same verve she displayed earlier. “But the last few time slots are the worst.”
“Because of the time crunch, you mean?” I ask.
The applicants who go last have to race through the trials if they hope to make it through in time.
“Yes, and by the end of the night, the guardians are in a hurry to get to the afterparty. They’re known to be more vicious on the unlucky few who close the march since the poor bastards will be rescued and resuscitated by the judges in a somewhat timely manner after the closing horn. But the first few to enter get all the fresh, active traps.”
I could drown before the last bell rings…
“I’m hoping to draw a number between five and fifteen,” Willow says, sinking her small hand deep in the purple velvet bag to retrieve her tile. “Ten.” She blinks a few times like she can’t quite believe her luck. “Only one student who’s drawn this tile in recent times has died.”
My fingers tremble as I pick one of the last two tiles.
23. I press the rectangular piece of marble hard into my palm, and my stomach churns. I’m in the very last group to enter.
Elio reaches into the bag, too, and drags out the final tile. “I’m in the first group.”
Willow elbows my side. “What did you get?”
I grimace and show it to her.
“Time will be your true adversary. Less than ten percent of the applicants in the last group finish in time. A ton are severely injured, but none of them has ever died. Silver fucking linings, right?”
I grumble a strangled acknowledgment, wondering what 'severely injured' means for rich, powerful Fae who can easily get the best healers. Are we talking stab wounds or severed limbs here? I can’t afford to spend the next month in a sanctuary.
Master Evelyn collects the bag and turns it inside out to make sure it’s empty. “Alright. Now that you have your starting numbers, you know the rules. To be admitted to the Royal Academy, you have to come out of the other side before the closing horn blows. No physical objects, weapons, or armors of any kind are allowed inside. Only your magic and the clothes we gave you can cross the barrier. You have one hour after the chime of the last bell to cross the finish line. There’ll be no exceptions, however close you are to the end of the labyrinth. The early time slots get more time, that’s true, but they have more deadly traps to deal with, so you shouldn’t lament your late time slot.
“The labyrinth will ensure that you do not cross paths with each other, but if you were to encounter a guardian, know that they are not allowed to help you—or even speak to you. There will be no interference until the closing horn goes off, after which we’ll rescue those who failed.”
I paw at the front of my summer dress, my heart in my throat.
“The maze is made so that you don’t have to go through all the trials, but three at a minimum, depending on where you enter and exit the challenge,” Elio whispers. “You should strive to stay away from Spring and Summer altogether. Those two will be the hardest considering your darkling pedigree, and the viciousness of their magics.”
I squint at the prince. “Why are you helping me?”
“I think everyone should be allowed to apply here. It’s stupid that only high-born Fae get invited since power is not necessarily hereditary.”
Willow nods emphatically at that. “I agree. The way they only allow a teeny tiny percentage of common Fae to study here keeps the vicious wheel of our wicked caste system turning.”
“You’re preaching to a believer,” I say on a sigh. “The admission process is meant to weed out undesirables like me, who have enough magic to succeed, but not the right surname, favoring nepotism—no offense.”
Elio fails to conceal a grin behind his hand. “How did you get invited to the trials? My father left out that part.”
Willow points at the Shadow Prince’s back. “He’s the reason.”
Elio raises a brow. “Zeke?”
“Yes. If everything goes according to my father’s plans, I’ll be the next Shadow Queen,” I say, my voice shaking over the last part.
“Number one, left or right?” the judge calls out to the girl who drew the number one tile, urging her to choose her starting position.
She picks right, which means Elio has to go left, and the prince waves us goodbye. “Got to go. See you both on the other side.” He walks to the starting totem at the left entrance of the maze.
“Winter is on Elio’s path,” Willow breathes so faintly I almost miss it. “Ice will change him forever,” she trails off, her voice carrying a strange musicality.
“So Winter’s on the left? Are you sure?” I ask.
She blinks again. “I’m sorry?”
“You just said Winter was on Elio’s path.”
“Oh.” A deep blush brands her round, youthful cheeks. “I get these flashes sometimes, of the future or whatnot. But seventy-two percent of all predictions and forecasts end up to be incorrect.”
The first bell rings. Elio and the girl enter the maze while the two members of the second group take their place by the totems.
Willow sits in a lotus position on the grass, and her gaze darts over to my fiancé. “Why doesn’t Zeke sit with you if you’re engaged?”
I sit crossed-legged next to her and nibble on my thumb. “I don’t think he cares much about me.”
Zeke drew a middle of the pack starting group, but the Shadow Prince doesn’t attempt to belittle me further. He’s too busy flirting with a gorgeous Spring Fae with long dark hair and radiant brown skin to bother with me.
Willow nods at that, as if I’m making perfect sense, not at all bothered by the admission. “Eighty-nine percent of all royal Fae marriages are for power—either meant to boost the bride and groom’s political momentum or their raw magic, depending on the Fae. Half of those marriages were arranged between the Fae’s parents.” She bites her bottom lip. “You must have tons of ice magic to spare. No one in my world would dare to entwine their fate with Zeke’s, given how weak he’s rumored to be.”
The crowd starts to filter out after a few bells, each group of two given a five-minute edge over the two following behind them. After Willow is called away, I shift to hug my knees to my chest, trying to get comfortable. I’ve still got a long wait to go.
The bells ring again and again until the cuticles of my thumbs are bloody. Only four of us are left. We glance at each other, sharing the same ill-fated timing. Oppressive silence blankets the lawn, and sweat beads on my brow.
The two applicants in the group before mine enter the maze, and Master Evelyn finally waves me forward. “Number twenty-three. Left or right?”
I watch the exterior wall again, searching for a clue, but they wouldn’t make it so easy as to label the entrances, would they?
“Left.” My stomach flips. I’ve got one shot at a completely different future, and I can’t let my father down.
I take my position, and the guy who drew the twenty-four tile takes the empty spot next to the totem on the right.
The three of us are the last people here, now. Most of the crowd probably transferred to the other end, anxiously waiting to see who makes it through—and who will be cast aside.
The last bell of the night rings with a shrill edge in the clearing, and I run into the maze.
Here goes.
It’s all or nothing.
The entrance closes behind me, bare branches in the cedar hedge stretching from the heart of the plant and crawling toward one another like skeletons staggering toward the afterlife. The deep cracks and snaps of the dried twigs shiver through me.
There’s nowhere left to go but forward.
Warm tingles of warning creep along my spine as I spot a large thundercloud crackling with electricity up ahead. This isn’t Winter but Storms. Fuck me.
Off I go, deep into the labyrinth.