Chapter 5
Iprowl up to a harsh lady with grey hair shorn to her chin, standing with the roll-call list for check-in.
“Name,” she says coldly, as if everyone on this list will die today. I know she frankly doesn’t care what my name is, but this is what she is paid to do.
“Savaé.”
Her dark brown eyes look up at me, pausing as she gazes over the gold squares in my obsidian eyes and the gilded flecks across my cheeks. Clearly, I did a lackluster job in my attempt to cover the latter with soot from the fireplace this morning.
“Full. Name.” She punctuates each word as if exhausted she must clarify her previous statement.
I haven’t thought of my full name in a long time.
I suppose it’s one of the only things my birth parents left me.
There is almost a power behind the words that have rested unspoken for so long, grazing my lips like an unavowed promise.
“Savaé. Entropaé.”
She pauses again, staring at my odd eyes before returning to review her list. “You are fifteenth today. Wait over there.” She waves me off with a dismissive hand.
I sigh, fighting the urge to flip a rude gesture in her direction for her tone before stepping to her left.
The waiting area is filled with Fae around my age.
You must be twenty-two years old to enter Universitás.
Some people attempt the trials earlier, to have the extra year for a third trial repeat, where you must survive the mindwork of a newly graduated first year Persuasive from Gildorea Universitás, who needs to pass to make it to second year.
Needless to say, they are very motivated to see you fail.
This is the hardest trial to pass for many.
I am twenty-one years old, and with my strong ability to shield my mind, I figure I don’t need the extra year. My presumed birthday is soon, so I’ll be of age by the time all three trials are completed.
Most of the trialists are average-looking, with dark hair and pale skin typical of the Highlands.
One girl, unique in her appearance, has long, wavy blonde hair, contrasting her emerald-green eyes.
Another girl on the upper row of seats stands out with short, angular lavender hair that matches her sharp features, one side shorn to her skull.
Her most striking feature: stunning violet eyes deep in focus.
The color of her eyes is mesmerizing. I get lost in thinking how they’d look deep in the waves of bliss.
How they would gleam as her blood heats beneath mine.
She awkwardly catches me gawking at her, and I give her a roguish smirk, raising my brow as she blushes, twisting her hands in her lap. Perhaps I can make that fantasy a reality, if she lives through the day. Nothing like a much-needed release after skirting Lady Death’s clutches.
I walk with newly boosted confidence to an open seat in the front row.
There weren’t many opportunities for romantic liaisons in my small village, but I found occasion to enjoy the bodies of a few of the queen’s guards on quarterly tax collection.
I enjoy the raw beauty of both females and males and the wide array of Fae Cascara offers. Why limit yourself?
My pleasure comes from others’ satisfaction.
I enjoy being in control, limiting how much they touch my body.
The added perk of them only being in town for a few days increased the thrilling pleasure of the moment with no strings or ridiculous attachments.
Connection more than physical pleasure is beyond my wheelhouse and, frankly, something I am not sure my glacial heart is capable of.
I make sure not to look back at the violet-eyed girl, following my rule: ‘always leave them wanting more.’ I glance at the opposite side of the pit and see Sully seated in the watching area, giving me two big thumbs up and grinning.
The corners of my mouth curl up, happily annoyed at how ridiculous he looks.
As I sit, the hairs prickle on my neck, just like before you get a static shock from a blanket.
I turn to the side where the charge is coming from, swearing I catch a glimpse of a shadow racing under the amphitheater steps.
Odd. Shadows have never tried to play games with me before.
I shake my head. Great, now I’m seeing things.
It must be my nerves. Yet I can’t shake the feeling of someone’s heated gaze on me.
I know my markings are hidden, so I brush it off as the heat of the midday sun warming my cloak.
The third creature of the pit is a worm-like centipede—a Tieped—with large, piercing jaws and hard armor covering its back and underbelly.
It has a weak spot where its legs enter its body.
Ideally, one gets on its upper back to avoid it twisting around to snap off one of your limbs.
You then cut off one of its legs, about four armored plates down from its head, and shove a sword straight through, skewering its heart.
Crunch is the only sound we hear from the trialist frozen in fear in the pit below as he loses his head to the Tieped’s large pincers.
Yet another trialist to be collected by Lady Death; that makes thirteen so far.
My stomach flops as the waterfall of blood shoots from his neck, while the darkest parts of me find an unsettling thrill in it.
The dark parts of me I try to keep locked up and hidden, only to be released when I need to draw extra power in a fight.
Oddly, in the squirting of his blood, I notice a fourth entrance to the pit that isn’t how you enter the arena.
This pit has recently been adapted. You can tell by the green hue of the gate’s sharpened tree trunks.
An additional gate doesn’t make sense to me.
There should only be three gates for the three trial monsters.
And one smaller door for trialists to enter the pit.
They wouldn’t add a new monster, would they?
That hasn’t been done in recorded history. It must be for some other function.
My contemplation is interrupted by the call of the next name to enter the pit.
A shadowy figure walks out in a form-fitting black leather vest, accentuating his broad shoulders and rippling, thick arms. I don’t mind his snug leather pants hugging his shapely ass.
A smirk tugs at my lips. At least it will be dinner and a show as we watch this one die.
At that moment, his gaze snaps to mine, as if hearing my sarcastic thoughts.
A wave of wildfire sweeps through my body.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Maybe I’m going to be sick?
His eyes are ice blue, almost white, like a frozen lake, or perhaps… moonlight. I swear there almost appears to be shadows swirling in them. His eyes fixate on mine, unwavering, and my heart almost forgets how to beat.
The light moves over his warm umber skin, like an oil painting beneath the shadows of wavy black hair framing his soft but angular face.
My breath catches. Something is clearly wrong with me.
I break his gaze. My eyes drift to his thick lips, a decadent finish to an artistically sculpted face.
He is too handsome. He belongs in a museum, not a pit full of monsters.
The hairs sway on my neck as my lips curve at the edge. Why the fuck am I smiling?
My eyes immediately lock back onto his. He appears amused to be drinking in my gaze once more.
The rising gate groans in the distance. His moonlit irises linger on me.
Unwavering. Almost pleading. Like it’s impossible to pull his gaze from mine.
Then, he gives me a sly wink just before turning his focus away, facing the opening gate.
As his gaze leaves mine, there is a strange feeling of… What is it? Absence?
Wait. Did he just wink at me!? My blood boils for a whole new reason.
Who the fuck does this fuckboy think he is?
I huff, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the unsettling feelings off.
He’s probably just looking at someone seated behind me.
Probably the emerald-eyed blonde I couldn’t help but notice on my way in.
She is the classic beauty standard of the Midlands.
Now that I think of it, what is she doing this far north?
My skin is still oddly hot. A new feeling tightens deep in my stomach. I loosen the cloak around my neck to release the heat. Hormones. This must just be my fucking hormones. I clearly need to get laid.
The snarling and clattering of an armored skeleton nips my attention back to the fight below—the Bone-Thresher. The male has two broadswords crossed against his back. A hint of relief drifts inside me when he doesn’t unsheathe them; that would be certain death.
Shit. What’s wrong with me? Why would I even have an inkling of relief that this random fuckboy might not die? He means nothing to me. Let’s just tuck these feelings into my favorite box in my mind. The one labeled: ‘never going to open that shit again.’ And chuck it right out my mosaic window.
I quickly note the other weapons he has at his disposal: a short sword on one leg, and two daggers sheathed on the other. And the idiot goes for the short sword.
The Bone-Thresher stalks around the edge of the circular pit, lined with thirty-foot-tall trees sharpened to spikes at the top and slicked with tar so no monsters or contestants can get out.
The creature prowls, searching for the nonexistent high ground.
Realizing this, the beast lunges for the trialist. He dodges like shadows escaping the rising sun, narrowly escaping its snapping maw.
He’s quick but doesn’t account for the length of the thresher as it crashes into the wall with its momentum. The Bone-Thresher’s body pins him with the less-sharp bony protuberances jetting out from the side of its body.