Chapter 16
Ihit the ground hard, sand scraping my palms as the force that hurled me through space leaves my senses spinning. The world tilts, my stomach lurching in protest. For a breath, I can’t tell which way is up.
My fingers dig into the grit, searching for balance, but the ground itself seems to shudder, unwilling to hold me. Before I can steady myself, strong hands clamp onto my shoulders.
“No time to rest,” Kaelzar grunts, hauling me upright as if I weigh nothing.
Rest? My head still reels from the brutal shift between spaces. I barely have time to breathe before his cheek brushes mine, his chest solid and unyielding against my back. Heat seeps through the thin layers between us. Then, in one smooth, commanding motion, Kaelzar turns us both toward something.
A shock runs through me at the sudden closeness, a shiver following unbidden. The pressure of him is grounding, infuriatingly steady, when I feel anything but.
My eyes lift, sweeping the space. It’s the Torey Arena again. Gone are the stone walls that formed the maze in the previous Challenge.
Now the arena stretches wide, blazing with light despite the night sky above. Along its perimeter, towering torches rise— each as tall as three men, their flames roaring high and bright.
The fires burn so fiercely that the sand glows pale, and their flicker casts restless shadows dancing across the space. Between the torches, the Divinity Gazes glow faintly along the walls like watchful eyes.
A few dozen paces ahead, a sand hill rises to a half-buried stone platform. An hourglass towers there—bronze frame, glass twice my height—its sand held still.
“This is how much time we’ll have before the Fleshleeches reach the people,” Kaelzar says, his voice low and urgent, vibrating against my ear.
His breath grazes my skin. The sensation jolts me fully alert. Then he steps back, releasing me now that my focus has returned.
In each of the four corners, massive forms loom—monsters bound in heavy chains that groan and clatter as they fight against their bonds.
They are aberrations: bloated, segmented bodies sheathed in slick, mottled skin that shifts between sickly brown and putrid green.
Their lengths coil and stretch unnervingly, twenty, maybe thirty feet long.
At their front ends, cavernous mouths gape open, spirals of razor-sharp teeth glinting within fleshy, circular maws.
The teeth clatter together in an unnatural rhythm, like bones snapping in quick succession.
There’s no mistaking their purpose: to tear through flesh.
As the leeches jerk against their chains, their mouths distend farther, unfurling like obscene flowers blooming in reverse. The mere wrongness of their movement turns my stomach.
Along their underbellies, rows of sucker-like appendages writhe, searching for something to latch onto. A thick, viscous secretion trails behind them, pooling in the sand.
“Fleshleeches,” I breathe, the word leaving my lips like a curse.
“They’re one of the monsters from the forest I told you about, native to Elysium,” Kaelzar says, as if their origin might somehow make them less nightmarish. “The Sphere must have plucked them from their burrows and brought them here for the second challenge.”
The sickening sight grips my stomach, but I force my gaze toward the center of the arena. A cluster of people huddles together there, their eyes darting between the Champions and the monsters looming in the shadows.
There are dozens of them. Nobles from the dinner, the two consuls standing rigid, their dread barely contained. Some of the women from the dining hall are there too. Most, though, wear only their nightclothes, dragged from their beds by the gods’ sentient magic that knows no limits to its cruelty.
Even the privileged citizens of Calcatra are not immune to the gods’ games. Somehow, that thought makes my magic stir with a dark, gleeful appreciation.
The chains squeal, grinding against their mechanisms as they unspool, releasing more length for each Fleshleech. The sound scrapes through the air, and the creatures lurch forward, dragging themselves a few feet closer to the trembling crowd.
And just like that, I understand the rules.
The second Challenge isn’t simply about surviving or fighting. It’s about proving the Champions’ worthiness to the people of Calcatra. It’s about saving them.
The Sibyls’ collective voices boom across the arena, reverberating off the towering perimeter walls, amplified, no doubt, by the Sphere’s magic. “Champions of the Trial,” the Sibyls proclaim, “hear the decree.”
I snap my gaze toward the sound, where trickles of people begin to fill the seats beyond the barrier. They must have been roused by the sudden flare of the mirrors across the city. Those living close enough rushed in, eager to take a seat before the rest and witness the spectacle firsthand.
“You stand not as mere mortals, but as the chosen of your gods,” they continue, “vessels of their will and defenders of their people.”
My pulse beats hard beneath my skin as their voices roll on.
“Each of you has been granted a Sanctum, blessed by Thul’Barak, God of Change and Beasts,” they proclaim. “This safe space will shield you and those you deem worthy. No Fleshleech may enter so long as the sanctity of its barrier remains whole.”
My eyes sweep the arena until I spot five shimmering outlines glowing faintly in the sands behind us.
“But understand this, Champions,” the Sibyls warn.
“Each Sanctum is limited, meant for you, your Godbeast, and five other souls only. Invite more, and the divine barrier will falter. For every soul beyond the fifth, the walls will fall for a single heartbeat, granting the Fleshleeches a moment to breach and feed.”
A tremor ripples through the crowd as the meaning of the Challenge sinks in. Save a few, and let the rest die.
Nobles, consuls, and commoners alike stare at us with pleading, fearful eyes. Whispers rise like rustling leaves, disbelief and desperation as they realize what this test demands.
“It is not merely the beasts who test you this day,” the Sibyls say, “but the weight of your choices. Who you save, and who you let perish, will echo in the prayers of your realm. Prove your worth to them, for it is they who will strengthen your magic. Their faith will feed your gods.”
Sibyls’ tone deepens. “Know this: your Godbeasts are forbidden from harming the Fleshleeches. Should one even touch a leech, its larval form will root within their belly, inflicting ceaseless agony until the third Challenge begins. Only then will the Sphere extract it. But if your Godbeast kills or wounds the creature, the Sphere will erase them entirely.”
A pause.
“The merit of this contest,” they say, “is yours alone. Only your hand may unshackle the chosen ones. Touch them, and they will be free. But remember, the more you protect, the more peril you bring to yourself and the others. ”
Silence grips the arena.
Fifty people stand in front of us, trembling. Some cling to one another, others stand frozen. A gust stirs the sand, the only sound in the emptiness.
I force myself to inhale, but even the air tastes like dust. My throat tightens. So many faces waiting for someone to decide which ones of them will live and which ones will die.
Who do I save? Who do I condemn?
“Let the Challenge begin,” the Sibyls announce loudly. Nothing moves.
The pause stretches, long enough for doubt to take hold.
Would other Champions try to go for each other instead, given that hurting one another without repercussions would only be allowed during the challenge?
My fingers curl into fists as I look to my side, at Zyrel and the rest of them. Neither one of them moves yet.
Then, with a sickening rattle, the Fleshleeches’ chains snap taut. The silence fractures. Metal grinds against metal as the restraints unspool, the sound dragging like claws across my nerves.
The creatures lurch forward, inch by inch, hauling themselves closer to the terrified crowd.
And the clock turns over.
The grains of sand begin their descent, tiny particles slipping through the narrow waist of the hourglass, cascading in a thin, ceaseless stream. A faint hiss fills the air, a whisper of how little time remains.
Already, a thin layer has settled at the base.
The crowd erupts into frantic cries. I brace myself, expecting them to rush toward our Sanctums, desperate to seize control of their own survival.
But they don’t. They stand frozen, terror locking them in place.
Something’s wrong.
Their bodies twitch and jerk as they struggle. Only the hand of a Champion may unshackle the chosen ones. Touch them, and they will be free. The Sibyls’ words flash through my memory, and realization slams into me—they can’t move. Their feet are bound to the ground.
Seraphina is the first to act, clad in a sleek battle suit as if she had expected this very moment. Half running, half space-stepping across the sand, she moves with deadly precision.
Her dragon follows close behind, releasing a low warning growl aimed at Alaric’s dragon who leaps effortlessly from one invisible perch of air to the next, movements eerily graceful despite its ruined wings.
The magic of the Goddess of Air and Knowledge allows Alaric's dragon to fly- an ability it should have possessed by nature.
Then the Red Hunter moves. His black dragon surges forward, snorting and huffing, nearly plowing into the cowering figures.
I stay where I am. Something deep within me whispers that it’s not my time yet. I watch as the last Champion, Liona and her dragon, finally reach the crowd.
The Champions leave their Godbeasts outside the perimeter and descend upon the people like predators, sorting through the writhing mass of bodies. Desperate hands clawing, pleading voices rising in frantic cries.
Many have already fallen to their knees, faces twisted in terror.