Chapter 9
We return to the Sevenfold Shrine, and the crowd looks almost unchanged, as if the horror lasted seconds instead of hours. The bodies are gone, the carpets stripped away, the rot scrubbed clean, and only one other thing has changed: the guards.
More men in gilded armor line the walls. Where there were barely ten before, there are now four dozen.
Inside me, a dangerous magic churns. And suddenly, I understand why so many Goldspears have been added on top of regular guards. They’re here for me, an unpredictable, volatile new Champion.
I’m too exhausted to be offended. And maybe, I admit, it’s not the wrong choice.
With the connection between my Godbeast and me severed, relief floods over me.
I’m done with his constant judgment invading my mind… or so I tell myself. Because the moment his presence vanishes, it feels like the rug’s been yanked out from under me, leaving only dry, cracked earth beneath my feet.
I stand before the dais alongside four other Champions.
Alaric Voidreaver, the Champion of Iskavelle, the Goddess of the Air and Knowledge, stands silent and grim beside his yellow dragon.
Seraphina Bardot is accompanied by her scarred green dragon, its golden eyes gleaming with an unexpected intelligence.
A diminutive girl with slicked-back white hair—whose name escapes me—stands with a smaller, pale pink dragon at her side.
And, to my disappointment, Zyrel Falcon stands with his beast. The man glares at me, eyes gleaming with manic excitement, like he’s glad I survived, just so he can be the one to destroy me later.
I ignore the murmurs of the crowd and the eerie chants of the Sibyls, my focus narrowing on Ryker, doing my best to ignore Mael standing right behind him.
Ryker’s bright blue eyes shimmer with relief and concern as they lock onto mine. Standing on a dais amongst the consuls, he extends his arm, presenting a gleaming ring—a symbol of honor and hope. One by one, the Champions kiss the ring and accept the king’s accolades, while I stand rooted.
The shock and disbelief of surviving the first Challenge, of becoming one of the Champions, of the possibility that I might make it through this and even win, makes my head spin.
Somehow, all of it dulls the sting of Ryker’s refusal to offer forgiveness, or demand an explanation for what happened between Mael and me.
My mind and body can’t hold it together any longer. I start to tremble, wishing Ryker would just hold me, unafraid of my touch, and tell me it’s going to be alright, despite everything.
“Are your legs still working, Trouble, or should I just sling you over my shoulder?” Kaelzar’s gruff voice fractures the silence. “Unless groveling over the king who rejected you is your new strategy?”
I glare up at my Godbeast, towering beside me, his words both humiliating and infuriating in their precision. How easily I slipped back into the role of the silenced would-be queen, hoping for her king to fix everything.
And I hate Kaelzar for seeing it, for naming it so bluntly.
“I suggest you stop fixating on my legs,” I hiss as I start to move, “or one of them might just kick you where it hurts.”
“Really?” he retorts, a mocking lilt curling through his tone as he falls into step beside me. “And where exactly is that?”
“Right in your chest, where your broken heart lies,” I snap.
It’s a low blow. I felt his broken heart and despair through our connection. But my words raced ahead of my thoughts, leaving me no chance to take them back.
His only reply is a fleeting blink, enough to stoke my quiet desire for retribution against Kaelzar’s earlier cruelty. Or maybe… for the way he sees through me when no one else bothers to look that closely.
The afternoon sun sears my back as a reminder that although only hours have passed since we vanished into the first Challenge, the Ryker I once knew now seems a lifetime away.
I reach him, and when his steady gaze meets mine, my strength nearly fails me. Instead of collapsing as my body begs for relief, I lower myself slowly onto my knees, the last of the remaining Champions who stand in line on the other side of the dais.
“You made it after all,” a derisive voice calls from behind Ryker, as Mael steps forward.
Zyrel chuckles from the side. “Like mold in a damp cellar, always creeping back, no matter how many times it’s scrubbed away.”
I snap my head to the side, shocked that he would find it appropriate to speak up after the king’s brother. Deep within, my coiled magic stirs.
I return his gaze with defiant resolve. “Sorry to disappoint, Red Hunter, but I’m not planning on being scrubbed away anytime soon.”
Zyrel sneers, “And what a shame that is,” his words thick with disgust, as though each syllable nearly chokes him.
Despite myself, I glance at Ryker, hoping—foolishly—for a flicker of outrage. But he says nothing. Zyrel’s insult hangs unchecked in the air.
Then, from my right, my Godbeast stirs. “The real shame,” he says, voice like gravel, “is a man who built his whole legacy chasing frightened girls with a rope because no woman ever willingly let him close.”
A surprised half-gasp, half-chuckle slips from my lips, glad for once that Kaelzar’s brazenness is aimed at someone else, especially someone so deserving of it. He must have seen the truth about Zyrel through our mental connection, and for once, I don’t mind.
Mael raises his hand to gesture for Zyrel to hold back his retort, while he looks down at Kaelzar as if he’s a mere insect.
“Beasts are meant to serve in silence,” Mael says. “Don’t you forget that and keep your mouth shut.”
I’m not sure where this sudden burst of defiance comes from, whether it’s the exhaustion of these past two days, frayed nerves, or the stolen images of Kaelzar on his knees that I glimpsed during our shared mind connection, but the last of my restraints breaks.
I square my shoulders and glare up at Mael from my kneeling position.
“He’s mine, Mael,” I say, “so only I decide what he does with his mouth. And with all due respect, your opinion of us is irrelevant.” Rising without waiting for permission, I add, “I am the Champion of the Goddess of Blood and Decay, and your word means nothing to me now.”
My heart pounds as exhilaration floods through me, as if my soul has slipped free of old constraints.
In the dark corners of the temple, the shadows seem to flicker, and for the first time, despite my sodden, torn dress and aching bones, I feel I can stand tall, chin raised high.
Mael opens his mouth, drawing in a sharp breath like he’s preparing for a long-winded retort when Ryker barks, “Enough,” his voice laced with fury.
And in that moment, I finally understand his silence. The anger simmering beneath his calm exterior is barely contained. Fury at me? Maybe. But more than that, I see it in the way he turns his head ever so slightly away from Mael, as if the sight of his brother repulses him.
Still, he says nothing. Because the court doesn’t know the truth. They don’t know Mael caused my Crimson Tether curse. And Ryker, ever the king, keeps his true feelings buried, choosing silence over scandal.
“Let the Champion be on her way,” Ryker says cooly. “She deserves rest.”
For a heartbeat, hope lights in my chest. But when I look at Ryker, his eyes are fixed on the red strand in my hair.
And in his carefully controlled gaze I see the anger, the betrayal, the pain he’s trying so hard to bury beneath his kingly mask.
“You may go,” Ryker declares, his gaze sweeping over me to his silent court as if I were nothing but a nuisance.
The finality in his voice stings, and I feel the weight of his dismissal like a physical blow. Almost as if he’s ordering me to leave not just the temple, but this kingdom and its people.
Finally leave him.
I bow my head, the glimmer of hope within me extinguished, and turn to leave, feeling the cold stares of the courtiers following my every step.
I suddenly realize Ryker didn’t offer me his hand with the ring. Perhaps he no longer wants my lips to touch him in any way, though I’d obviously keep my cursed hands to myself.
Perhaps I no longer deserve it.
The gloom is replaced by the glaring, almost disorienting brilliance of midday as I leave the shadowed confines of the temple.
Kaelzar and I prowl the sunlit streets, and people dart away from us. The coachmen, usually eager for work, do their best to ignore us, steering their carriages off as soon as I move to approach them.
My aching feet protest each step, yet I force myself forward, one determined stride at a time. I remind myself that the worst part of the day is behind me.
Now all I have to do is move. One step, then another, until I reach my bed. I almost expect the guards to stop me, to tell me I’m not allowed to return to the palace. But no one does.
I guess, as Calista’s Champion and not just another Crimson Tether cursed, I’m allowed to keep my illusions of home.
Kaelzar is a dark, powerful presence looming at my back. He brims with seething, pulsating frustration that I’m too exhausted to acknowledge until another coachman hurries his horses to speed up as I try to approach.
I whirl around, annoyance finally reaching its tipping point. “Can you take off your hood?” I snap. “You’re scaring the populace.”
He is indeed extremely intimidating, his menacing silence broken only by the clicking of his shifting chains and his unnatural stillness. His cloak oozes tendrils of shadow, as if drenched in darkness, and his hood is a shroud that hides his face completely.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Kaelzar lifts his hands to lower the hood. As the fabric falls away, his face is revealed in the bright light—a visage chiseled from stone, with piercing gray, almost silver eyes. The shadows around the streets deepen as if drawn to him.
People around us visibly recoil from the slithering darkness at our feet. Gasps and murmurs of fear ripple through the crowd.
I see the terror in their eyes, the way they clutch their loved ones and hurry away.