CHAPTER FIFTY
PLAYING WITH FIRE
It is almost always the dark season in Virdei, so I’m used to gray skies and never seeing the sun. But without the beacons shining atop Widow’s Hall, the mountain is dark and haunting.
Wind whines around us, rustling trees in the distance that I can’t see. Wood creaks with the ever-shifting mountain breeze. And ringing above it all is the sound of stone clashing against metal as the kingdoms of Virdei and Petruvia go to war.
In the darkness, I can see only a few paces ahead, but I direct the oxen to move quickly.
Well, I try. They’re stubborn and terrified, so they move at a slow trot, huffing anytime something appears suddenly in their path with the limited visibility.
There’s a flash of metal ahead. I yank the reins to the left, urging the greyhorns to swerve.
They grunt as they reluctantly shift. The heavy sledge rumbles as we glide over the ice past a soldier. Now that we’re passing her, I see she’s in indigo—Petruvian.
Behind me, Kaidren cries out.
Metal slices the air, followed by a thud.
I tense, pulse picking up speed. “Kaidren?” My voice shakes as I call back to him.
“I’m fine.” He’s out of breath. As soon as he’s spoken, the greyhorns stomp harder. The sledge shudders as we pass over something—another body.
I have no idea who we just trampled. Bile rises in my throat. I choke it down.
The arena isn’t far from Widow’s Hall, but the distance feels longer in the dark.
The greyhorns screech and stop. Just ahead is a cluster of soldiers. There are at least six—a blend of Petruvians and Virdeians—fighting. They swing weapons and shout, and I can’t tell which side is winning.
A head twists toward us. A soldier in indigo charges in our direction.
The greyhorns are skittish. I pull at the reins, but they don’t move.
Panic curdles my insides. I touch my skin to my tshira trinket, gathering magic. I kick at the sides of one of the oxen, and he jerks to the right.
The others follow suit.
We glide away, moving around the mass of soldiers.
I almost allow myself to be relieved. Until someone snatches my arm.
I scream.
“Mira!” Kaidren shouts my name.
The soldier who charged away from the battle has grabbed hold of my arm. He tugs, trying to rip me from the sledge.
I release a shriek as I slip from the bench.
I hear Kaidren on the sledge behind me, scrambling to get to me.
He’s too late.
The greyhorns have slowed, and the Petruvian has me half pulled off the sledge. I dangle over the edge of the bench; one hand grips the reins as hard as I can, the other is being pulled by the stubborn Petruvian soldier alongside us.
I struggle to break free, but I’m stuck.
Kaidren appears on the edge of my periphery. He snatches my arm, trying to pull me back onto the bench. I feel as if I’m being ripped in half.
“Throw tshira at him!” I shout, voice strangled.
Kaidren hesitates. I see the indecision in his eyes. He’ll have to let me go. I don’t think I’m strong enough to stay upright on my own, but I don’t see another option.
With a pained nod, Kaidren releases me.
My grip on the reins slips. For a terrible moment, I’m falling.
My fingers scrabble for anything to latch on to. They find purchase along the wooden bench. Splintered wood digs into my palms as I hold on as tight as I can. My arms strain.
I don’t see the tshira flying through the air. Only hear as the Petruvian trying to yank me to my death sputters as he’s hit with a face full of powdered tshira.
I shove every bit of magic in my chest toward him with a scream.
Flames ignite in front of me.
The soldier cries out, releasing me.
He falls into the snow.
I’m still fumbling, trying to get back onto the sledge.
Strong hands encase my waist, tugging me up until I’m resting on the sledge’s bench, out of breath and slumped into Kaidren’s side.
He’s also panting. “You know, that’s the second time I’ve saved your life.”
“If we survive this, remind me to thank you.”
I still haven’t recovered my breath when the arena finally comes into view. I exhale in relief as Kaidren and I leap off the sledge.
The massive double doors are half closed, revealing a glimpse of the chaos inside. A sea of soldiers in indigo, clamoring to get past a wall of decurio in white on the far end of the arena.
Though I can’t see past them, I know they’re guarding a covered sledge. It’s empty, but the Petruvians don’t know that. As long as they think there’s something worth protecting inside, they’re distracted.
A decurio waits at the base of the stairs outside the arena. She leaps to attention when she sees us. “Finally. Is this the tshira?”
“As much as we could get.”
“We’re taking this to the roof. Close the doors. Don’t let anyone out.” She reaches for a medallion around her neck and flashes it at us.
My breath mists the air as Kaidren and I step behind the arena doors. They stretch up nearly as high as the arena itself, made of thick wood and reinforced with steel.
I press my hands to my door and brace my feet in the snow. I meet Kaidren’s eyes. In them, I see my same fear, my same doubt, my same determination. We nod.
Anxiety is a hole in my stomach, draining me of any and all feeling. I grunt as I shove the door.
The wood groans until, with a rumbling thud, they close.
Footsteps pound inside like low thunder. Hundreds of soldiers rush to the entrance, bashing against the wood, trying to see why the hell they’re being barricaded inside.
We loop metal chains through the door handles and secure them with a padlock.
The doors are locked, and our enemies are trapped inside.
As the Petruvian soldiers hammer futilely, trying to burst out, the Virdeian decurio still inside are racing for the equipment rooms at the base of the stands to hide.
The windy night air fills with the drizzling sound of rainfall. It takes me a second to place what it is—tshira. Barrels and barrels of it falling from the skies, pouring on the soldiers in the arena.
I don’t want to hear what comes next.
I take Kaidren by the arm and pull him toward the grey-horns. He doesn’t fight me. We’re climbing aboard the bench behind the oxen when it starts.
Screams.
Hundreds of bloodcurdling screams, loud and terrified, shaking me to my core.
It’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever heard. And it was my idea.
The contents of my stomach roil. My knees shake as I lean over and throw it all up.
A few weeks ago, I’d never seen someone die. Throughout the Tournament, I’ve watched several deaths. And now . . . I’m causing them. Hearing the agony I created.
Kaidren rubs circles into my back. “Are you all right?”
“No.” I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and take the reins. I don’t need comfort. I need to get out of here.
I can’t bear to listen to this.
We don’t speak as I begin to steer the sledge back to Widow’s Hall. It’s still so dark, I can barely see ahead of me.
Until the flames rise.
Orange firelight burns through the now-open dome of the arena.
In the newfound light, I see Widow’s Hall, still standing; the scattered remnants of a battlefield; a few homes with shattered windows; and blood streaked across the snow.
The screams continue. The fire in the arena burns on, so brilliantly it’s as if the beacons atop Widow’s Hall are lit once again.