Chapter 24
24
SAOIRSE
T he underguards came for them the next morning.
At least, Saoirse thought it was morning. It could’ve been the middle of the night for all she knew. She’d spent the last several hours trying to sleep on the cold floor of her cell. But the dreadful anticipation of what was to come had gnawed at the edge of her mind, leaving her wearier than she had been before. Questions drifted in and out of her waking mind: Where would the games take place? Would they be given weapons? Or would it simply be an execution dressed up in the frills of a makeshift Tournament in which they had no real chance of survival?
In between bouts of inconsistent sleep and worry over Grivur’s games, she’d stolen glances of Rook from across the prison block. He was curled up against the back of his cell, silvery wings folded around himself like a dove in a nest. As noble and selfless as she tried to be, Saoirse had dreamed of him far too often not to be secretly grateful he’d come. If she was to die, she was thankful Rook would be at her side. She only regretted that these abysmal circumstances provided the backdrop of their reunion.
When the unsettling screech of the prison door echoed through the cell block like the untimely chime of an execution bell, Saoirse was ready for whatever horrors lay ahead. Grivur’s daughter, Sloane, accompanied the bevy of underguards. She wore a gown of rich crimson that matched the glossy sheen of paint on her lips. Her pale length of white hair spilled over her red-clad shoulders, reminding Saoirse of blood against the snow.
Sloane stopped in front of Hasana’s cell and gave her an apologetic glance. “It’s time.” The daughter of the mad king almost appeared sorry as she unlocked Hasana’s prison cell and stepped back, allowing the underguards to lead the Tellusun princess out of the enclosure.
Sloane moved down to Rook’s cell and gestured for the guards to escort him out with the flick of her wrist. They yanked him upright and he stumbled forward, a soft groan escaping his lips when they stabilized him around his injured torso. He’d grown visibly sick over the last few hours. Saoirse had no idea how he would manage to pull through and compete in the trials. Her stomach hollowed out as she watched him stagger forward, his wings dragging limply on the ground. Could he even hold a sword? If it came down to it, could he run?
She continued worrying over Rook as Sloane unlocked her cage, the flash of her vibrant red gown swallowing up all light in the dim limestone corridor. Saoirse barely registered the underguards as they hauled her out of the cell and shoved her down the prison block, her eyes still focused on Rook as he stumbled ahead of her. She heard Neia’s cell being unlocked behind her, accompanied by breathless curses as the former commander of Terradrin was led out.
“You must come too,” Sloane told Tezrus, turning her moon-pale focus to the old man. “In the absence of any Elders to host the games, you shall serve as the Master of Trials.”
Saoirse sucked in a breath, her stomach dropping out from under her. She wrenched her head over her shoulder and watched as Sloane unlocked the old man’s cell. Tezrus’s cloudy eyes went wide as the underguards snatched him from where he kneeled on the floor and shoved him forward. “But I haven’t been an Elder for twenty years,” he protested weakly.
“My father has made up his mind,” Sloane offered thinly. “He wants to replicate every detail of the Tournament, down to having an Elder oversee the trials as they always have in the past.”
“ No ,” Saoirse found herself saying before she could bite her tongue. “No, leave him out of this.” She twisted in her chains and tried to meet Sloane’s shame-filled eyes. “Please, ask your father to spare Tezrus from this madness.” Sloane’s crimson-painted lips parted for a moment. “Please?” Saoirse’s begging was interrupted by a swift punch to her stomach. She doubled over in pain.
“Saoirse!” came Rook’s choked voice from somewhere further down the prison block.
The underguard who held the chain linked to her shackled wrists didn’t give her any time to cradle her bruised stomach as he roared, “Move along! Do not question the will of the king!”
Saoirse wanted to retort, but she knew it would only earn her more bruises. She would do herself and her companions no favors by entering Grivur’s games battered and sore. So she silenced her tongue and instead focused her anger on the armored back of the underguard in front of her, trying to burn through his leathers with the heat of her gaze.
As she was jostled down the prison block, she was struck with an onslaught of memories from the Stone Circle. The irony of being surrounded by countless barred cells was not lost on her. The labyrinth of cages that unfolded underneath the ancient amphitheater was an image that would be scorched into her memory forever. She remembered the alarm that had flared in her chest when she realized what those cages were used for the morning before the first trial. She could almost hear Tournament Ambassador Vangelis’s voice in her ears: “ Live animals and other creatures have been contained here throughout the centuries .” This time, they were the beasts being forced to take part in the cruel games of a feckless king, dragged along in chains like animals on leashes for a monarch’s twisted sense of justice.
As they reached the prison block’s exit, Saoirse cast her gaze back to the empty cell block one last time.
“May glory be given,” she whispered to no one.
The black hood Saoirse had come to loathe was forced over her head and darkness enveloped her, more stifling than even the damp walls of her cell.
Her heart thundered against her ribcage. Her own warm, shuddering breaths condensed on her cheeks as the hood smothered her. May glory be given, may glory be given, may glory be given, each beat of her heart echoed.
But there was no crown to be won at the end of this trial. Only a senseless bloodbath.