Lydia Benton
My feet are buried in damp sand. Each pull of the tide toward the shore covers them further, and soon I’ve been sucked in
so deep, I am completely unable to move.
Upon the horizon, a wave grows and grows until it crests so high, it blocks out the blazing sun, turning the daylight off
like snuffing a lantern and casting the beach in eerie, sudden shadows.
“Help!” I call, but I turn my head and find that no one is there to save me. The dark sand stretches for miles in either direction,
and I am completely alone.
“Help!” I call again. The wave is barreling toward me, picking up speed with every moment, now a solid, terrifying wall of
water.
I pull and pull but my feet stay glued to the earth.
The rush of the ocean is deafening, dizzying.
I look down, and find myself, once more, in the body of my childhood. My white play dress is dirty with sand, and the pink
ribbon around my waist is limp and ruined.
I raise my chubby hands to cover my ears, anything to stop the painful roar, but before I do, I hear something to my left.
“Lydia?” The voice is barely a squeak. I turn to see Ivy beside me, no older than six.
Her golden curls whip around her face, picked up by the sea breeze.
She’s dressed identical to me, as we often were as children.
Her round cheeks are pink from the force of the wind and her brown eyes are huge and terrified.
I’m moved by a bone-deep need to protect her, but my feet will not budge. I cannot move. I can’t do anything but stand there
as the wave barrels toward us.
“Don’t look, Ivy!” I shout. “Look at me.”
“Lydia?” she whines, her voice sharp with fear.
“Ivy!”
The wave crashes into us, pitching our bodies into its icy depths. I search for Ivy’s hand in the dark waters, but my fingers
slip through the surf and come away empty.
Reality arrives in splinters, but that incessant roaring noise doesn’t stop. It’s as if it’s coming from within my own head.
The volume causes such intense pressure, I feel like my skull might burst.
My vision is bloodred, the inside of my eyelids illuminated by blindingly bright light.
My hand lands on a plane of sharp gravel that bites into the flesh of my palm, and in my other hand, I hold a cool, smooth
object.
I push myself fully upright, and force my eyes open, ignoring the stinging sun.
For a second, I think I must be in another dream. My brain can’t seem to make sense of where I am.
I’ve been dumped at the bottom of a bowl.
Well—not a bowl, I suppose. I search for the right word. I’m sure my father must have said it once during all our family dinners
discussing history and archaeology.
A coliseum. The word comes to me with stomach-churning clarity.
Above me, circular stands carved from snow-white marble are filled with thousands of faeries. Our kingdom isn’t particularly large; nearly everyone must be here—and they are the source of the roaring.
The nearest stand is probably ten feet above me; close enough to see the faces of the faeries who leer down at us.
They’re open-mouthed and shouting, screaming with equal parts glee and terror. “Get her!” some yell, or “Run, Queen Lydia, run!”
I look down at my hand, the one not holding me up in the dirt, and find I’m clutching the horn of the unicorn I stabbed. It
shimmers an iridescent blue in the beating sunlight. The wider end is ugly and jagged from where I tore it from the poor beast’s
body, and the other is a deadly sharp point.
Whatever sleeping draught they made me take to transport me here has left me feeling groggy and nauseous. The crowd goes absolutely
wild as I finally stand.
I rotate in a slow circle until I find what I’m looking for and—yes. There he is.
Bram lounges on a throne at the other end of the arena, the golden crown on his head glinting in the light.
Beside him sits Emmett, his white shirt dirty and torn, his hands and legs in iron chains, a gag tied around his mouth. From
what I can see of his eyes from behind strands of his limp hair, he’s fighting tears as he struggles against his restraints.
Next to him is Rhion, also gagged and beaten black and blue. His bruised eyes bore into mine, that piercing blue visible even
from here. I’m surprised by how much it hurts me to see him in pain.
On the other side of Bram is his mother on a brilliant golden throne, and beside her are Faith and Marion. They’re not chained or bruised, but by the grim looks on their faces, I have no doubt they’ve been threatened with it.
And directly below Bram, her unconscious form slumped in the dirt, is my sister.
I take off for her at a full sprint, pushing my weak legs to their absolute limit.
I skid onto my knees as I approach her, absolutely shredding them, but I don’t care. The pain is nothing compared to the panic.
Is it possible Bram dumped me in here with my sister’s corpse to torture me further?
“Ivy?” I shake her lifeless shoulders. “Ivy, please, please.”
She awakens with a rattling gasp and I let out a sob of relief.
I pull her into a tight hug. “What’s happening?” she mutters groggily into my shoulder. We’re dressed identically, like we’re
little girls again. Both of us in perfect replicas of my Pact Parade gown, golden tiaras on our heads.
Ivy is made up just like I am, with painted lips and rosy cheeks, so I know the lady’s maids must have paid her a predawn
visit as well.
The only difference is Ivy’s left hand, the one Queen Mor broke the day Ivy attempted to kill Bram. It’s wrapped in thick
gauze, immobilizing it.
Her right hand, like mine, contains a weapon. Bram loves a joke, and this one is particularly cruel—he’s armed Ivy with the
crude knife she used in her ill-fated assassination attempt.
A boom echoes out through the arena, and I pull Ivy to her feet, careful not to jostle her broken hand, and sling an arm around
her waist to keep her standing upright.
I hate the way fear ignites in her dark eyes as she takes in our surroundings.
Bram is standing now, and I realize the booming sound was the hilt of his sword striking the marble railing of his observation box.
“Dear guests!” He must have magically enhanced his voice to carry across the arena because an immediate hush takes over, causing
my ears to ring in the absence of the crowd’s roar. I force myself to focus on Bram’s words over the buzz.
“I welcome you here to enjoy the finale of three trials to find my wife.”
I’m already your wife, I want to hiss, but Bram is a coward and cowards will always bend the truth until it fits the narrative they want to believe
about themselves.
“I was married both here and in England to free us from my mother’s tyranny, but it left me in a rather interesting predicament,”
he explains. A smattering of laughter ripples through the crowd. I bet he loves it.
“A man cannot have two wives, and a land cannot have two queens. Both Benton sisters have fought bravely, but I am still unconvinced
either possesses the devotion to put me, and our two great lands, above all else. Thus, our final trial is simple. To prove
her loyalty to me, the last living sister will be declared the winner.”
The last living sister? It takes me a moment to even glean his meaning, but Ivy puts it together faster than I do.
“You want us to kill each other?” Ivy shouts up at him with disgust. If she thought she could bridge the distance, she’d probably
spit on him, too.
“Yes.” Bram sinks down onto his throne. The jet-black beads of his ornately embroidered doublet jingle like soft bells.
Emmett struggles against his binds, but Bram doesn’t so much as spare him a glance.
Oh, Emmett. My heart breaks for him, my faithful friend. He’s only ever been guilty of having a heart that longed for love so desperately
it left him, and everyone in his wake, bruised. I wish I’d gotten to see a world in which he and Ivy got to be together, settled
and happy. They deserved it, but I suppose life doesn’t always deliver what we deserve.
I know immediately what I must do, and I know I cannot hesitate.
The unicorn horn is still clutched in my sweaty palm and I raise it above my head, briefly blocking out the sun.
In that single heartbeat, a memory comes back to me with crushing clarity, perhaps one final gift from the universe.
It’s my very first memory, a little foggy and pink around the edges. My father leading me by the hand into my mother’s bedchamber.
She was propped up against the pillows, a little sweaty, but glowing with happiness. I’d never seen her hair down before;
that’s what I remember being shocked by. I didn’t even notice the wriggling bundle in her arms until my father scooped me
up and placed me next to her.
She tipped the white blanket toward me, and inside was a sleeping baby. The sister they’d been promising me for months.
“She’s mine?” I asked. Happy. That’s how I felt looking at that chubby little face. Possessive, too. None of the other girls at the park had their very
own baby sister. Anne had a baby brother, but he was always snotty and crying. This baby wasn’t crying. She was perfect.
“Meet Ivy, your baby sister,” my mother said gently, smoothing the bow I had tied in my hair. It had gotten all rumpled while
I was playing on the floor with the kitchen cat.
“Mine.” I reached out for her tiny little hand and she gripped my finger in hers like she needed me. When I think now about the two years before she was born, it seems unfathomable that I ever existed without her.
“It’s your job to protect her,” my father said, looking at the three of us. I didn’t understand why he was crying.
“My baby sister,” I whispered with awe. It was the first time I understood why people cried from happiness. I knew then, I’d
do anything for her.
Even this.
I take one last breath, one last glance at Emmett and Ivy. Then, before I have the chance to lose my nerve, I drive the unicorn
horn toward my heart.