Chapter 10
Rising with the sun, I don my basilisk-scale armor before slipping on my black leather fighting vest, adorned with the six daggers at my ribs and a short sword strapped along my left thigh. Something in my gut tells me to strap my small crossbow to my back, with the quiver pouch on my right thigh.
I fold my cloak, leaving it for safekeeping in my solitary room. I don’t bother covering the gold flecks on my cheeks today. I will just sweat the soot off during the trial, and frankly, I don’t have any more fucks left to give.
I arrive and check in for the trial. The same cold, bitter lady is begrudgingly present at this event.
Her eyes appear more tired, no doubt from the many days she has been at work with the entire continent of trialists arriving for the event.
She will be here for the next three months until everyone on the list has a chance.
She looks up at me and then returns to her scroll as she writes something.
“You are last today.” There’s a ghostly inkling to how she said ‘last,’ but I already suspect it has to do with the extra challenge Chancellor Ashfel will send me. I know it involves another monster, thanks to Winx’s warning.
It makes sense they will have me go last—assuming if I can’t kill the beast, it won’t unintentionally kill anyone else for the day.
I have nothing left to lose at this point.
I’m not saying I have a death wish, but my gut tells me the universe and the Fates enjoy torturing me too much to let me off easy with an early death.
Plus, this is everything Sully and I worked for.
Even if he didn’t want me to go to Gildorea, I know he wouldn’t want me to just give up.
We’re seated in order today; our times are spaced out by one hour. Being last means the sun will set during my trial. Commander Bragen’s son goes first, his name being called as I walk to my seat. Apparently, Blondie’s name is Chet. Chet Bragen. Sounds about right.
He glares at me as I walk by, raving, “You’re as good as dead this round, Savaé Entropaé.” Celestials, I wish my name was sharp enough to cut the tongue out of his mouth and leave him choking on his own pompous blood. If only.
“I’ll ink you in for this evening, right after I leave Lady Death moaning my name,” I say with a sarcastic wink. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a shadow reaching up behind Chet, shoving him forward. Before he can catch himself, the side of his face smashes into the railing.
I sling a dagger-like glare at S?las, who’s sitting next to him, reclined, hands clasped behind his head with a smug smirk on his face. I grit my teeth. I don’t need him or his shadows fighting my battles for me.
He gives me a lazy perusal. I curse my heating skin, which only intensifies in the electricity of the air between us as I walk by. I really loathe how he affects my body. I hate not being in control.
I roll my shoulder in an effort to roll off the sensation as he says, “Good luck, though something tells me you won’t need it.”
The emerald-eyed blonde is next. Her hair is spun into two buns at the top of her head.
I pass several other trialists before I see Winx, with a big grin on her face as she sees me.
I don’t bother to smile back—there’s no kindness left inside me.
I have nothing left to give. Her smile falls to the floor, brows pinching with confusion.
I take my seat last in line.
First is the crucible of thorns. Chet struggles clumsily due to his oversized build as thorns and vines try to drag him under, mimicking the ability of the Wuvon to manipulate the ever-changing landscape of the Blackwood.
For this trial, they use Elarian-Naturalists, a hybrid subspecies with strong druid magic.
Allowing them to manipulate nature. During the obstacle course portion, Chet triggers a fire trap, burning half his hair off.
The sight of his fuming, singed face would have made me laugh if my insides weren’t lost to a blizzard of grief I’m barely holding at bay.
The crowd cheers from below, seated in rows of amphitheater seats for everyone to watch the spectacle of misfortune.
Next, S?las dances through the entire crucible of thorns and obstacles with ease, like this is just a game.
He plows through the mountainous climb, designed to test your endurance.
His tall body making quick work of the ascent up the steep rocky cliff.
He slips out of sight over a ledge midway through, where he enters the Ethereal Maze of Whispers.
The blonde is quick and agile on her toes. However, the three trialists after her all die. One succumbs to the quicksand, the next falls from the tightrope, and the last almost climbs to the maze but loses his footing on the final ascent before tumbling in a twisted, broken mess to his death.
The course blazes violet in Winx’s glow—a living flame racing like forest fire. Vines shrivel and blacken just from the heat radiating off her in a shimmering wake.
Next is an Aetherhawk called Highin Heathrow.
Aetherhawks are a hawk-Fae hybrid species with exceptional vision.
His face is that of an Elarian Fae, though his nose is narrow and flat.
Two small wings jet from his temples, made of sepia-colored feathers that descend his back into powerful wings.
His build is lean, with scaled legs shifting to birdlike feet ending in talons.
He moves with precision. It’s extremely rare for Aetherhawks to enter the trials and join the Golden Legion.
Their species has been hunted near extinction as they are a coveted prize for the Wuvon.
Clearly, some parts of them harness extremely potent magic.
Despite the unwavering lines of his stoic face, there is a sad determination to his eyes.
As though the Wuvon have stolen someone important from him and he’s here to make them pay.
Well, would you look at him. Climbing the mountain instead of just flying to the maze. He’s a better Fae than me, no question. If I had wings, I wouldn’t hesitate, taking flight without a second thought.
The following Fae is a feline-like species known as Mao.
Her name is Kissa Mrow. The announcer pronouncing her name Keyssah.
She has cat-like eyes the color of striking chartreuse and enormous ears that twitch to follow sounds in all directions.
Her face is structured like an Elarian Fae, but her nose ends in a pink cat’s nose.
Rich mauve fur, dappled in speckles of white and mulberry, covers her tall, muscular frame.
She has toned arms with fingers ending in retractable claws, and lanky legs meet her paws.
A fluffy tail whips behind her, dusted in violet spots with white centers.
Her cat-like dexterity is stunning to watch.
White feline canines glint as she smiles, showing off on the tightrope with an acrobatic cartwheel that has me holding my breath.
Finally, my name is called overhead. I hit the ground running, not giving the vines beneath my feet a second to catch up as I quickly scale the ten-foot wall.
Next, I cross four-inch disks, balanced on rickety beams. I barely touch them as I leap off, moving like lightning, never giving the vines a chance to snag my ankles.
Then, I make my way to the end of the crucible of thorns, a narrow corridor of vine-like walls closing in as I run through and avoid vines snapping out at different angles.
I duck and dodge, twirling my short sword to make quick work of them before they get too frisky with me.
Suddenly, a giant stone boulder swings towards me, suspended by chains.
I slide underneath, a breath away from losing my nose.
I turn the corner onto a stone pathway and face another agility course.
My weight will trigger tiles to fall, so I glide over them, my first toe skimming the surface before leaping for the next one.
Next are the swinging bars, spaced too far apart above a pit of quicksand.
Thankfully, my arms are just long enough to make the gaps somewhat manageable as I hurl my body from beam to beam.
Then I’m swinging from vines that try to creep around me the longer I hang on to them while fire bursts from the walls, avoiding the death drop below.
Sully did his best to mimic this in the courses he created for me growing up.
If he were still alive, I’d definitely have some notes for him on this one.
The thought of him threatens to tug my grief out of its locked window, but I raise another layer of golden light, reinforcing the shields of my mental fortress.
I bring my focus back to my swinging momentum.
I just have to hold it together for a little bit longer.
I make it through without any singed body parts or hair. Climbing up the large tree is a breeze for me, just like being in the Mysticwoods. I hop from the branch to the tightrope, arms out, one toe in front of the other, moving quick enough to never give myself a chance to look down.
I don’t mind the ride of the bucking cylinder, squeezing my thighs tight, my upper body swaying with the motion rather than resisting it.
I fly off in a rolling landing, gazing up at the towering ascent before me.
My muscles sing with fire as I sling my grip to the next hold.
Before I know it, I’m halfway up the mountain when a shiver slowly ticks its way down my spine.
I chance a glance below me to see a Pykavow hurdling towards me.
Shit. Shit. Shit. How the fuck do they keep catching all these Wuvon monsters!?