Chapter 18
The world trembles beneath my feet, an unsteady, shifting thing. Strong arms wrap around me, and I’m enveloped in a familiar, leathery scent.
“You saved them,” Kaelzar’s low voice rolls over me like cooling rain, his hold firm enough to keep me upright. “Every single one of them is alive because of you.”
It hits me then, it’s not the world that’s shaking. It’s me.
The ground seems to shift in recognition of the impossible: I fought monsters. I survived. And not just survived, I saved people.
I am capable of saving lives, not only my own.
Though with the way my head spins, I’m not sure I managed to save myself.
The air thickens suddenly. From the far edges of the arena, seven Sibyls emerge from the shadows. Their synchronized steps echo faintly against the sand until they stop at the center. When they speak, their voices merge as one, resonant and otherworldly, vibrating from every direction at once.
“Champions,” they intone, “you have served well today, each of you proving your worth to the people of Calcatra. But only four may leave victorious.”
My gaze flicks to the other Champions who stood by their Sanctums, untouched by the fight.
Did all of them truly prove their worth? Least of all Zyrel?
A bitter sound scrapes from my throat, a huff that tastes of blood and acid. The nausea follows quickly behind.
“We should go,” Kaelzar murmurs, his sharp gaze sweeping over me with quiet concern. “We’ll watch the results through the mirrors.”
He carefully reaches for me, and I lean into his arm for a breath, just one, before forcing myself upright. I can’t show weakness. Not when the kingdom is still watching.
“Now,” the Sibyls continue, turning toward the people within the Sanctums, “it falls to these people to decide who will carry their prayers forward and which god shall no longer reign over the great kingdom of Calcatra.”
They raise their hands, fingers extending toward a row of five statues along the far wall.
“Iskavelle, Goddess of Air and Knowledge,” they say, “who grants wisdom to the seekers, clarity to the lost, and understanding to all who yearn for truth.”
My gaze follows their gesture to the crystalline statue of Iskavelle, delicate as mist. Her horns are short and pointy.
The Sibyls shift their hands to the next figure, ablaze in golden bronze with swirling horns. “Velskan, God of Traversing and Lust, who warms hearts and bodies alike, whose radiance stirs longing and inspires creation.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Seraphina straightens as Lyra Starcrest, Consul of Justice and Law, squeezes her shoulder. A silent endorsement. Lyra’s gaze sweeps the other Sanctums, daring anyone to overlook the one who saved her.
My attention flickers to Zyrel. He stands apart, untouched by battle, yet many people look to him as if victory is already his. The man beside him, Consul Montague, looms too close, his presence too deliberate to ignore.
Montague’s stare meets Lyra’s, an unspoken challenge passing between them. Something moves beneath the surface, a power play I don’t have the strength to decipher.
The Sibyls’ voices rise again, drawing me back.
“Zoya, Goddess of Water and Life. She is the wellspring of creation, who stirs the tides of birth, calls forth growth from barren soil, and commands the rivers through which all life must flow.” Her statue stands taller than the rest, her hair glistening with droplets frozen in motion, horns curving upward before flowing down along the length of her hair.
“Thul'Barak,” Sibyls continue, “God of Change and Beasts, who grants strength to the hunted, adaptation to the vulnerable, and courage to those who embrace transformation.”
Thul'Barak’s statue shimmers between stone and fur, as though caught mid-metamorphosis. Its horns are thick and tall, like a bull’s.
Then, a hollow pause as if even these divine heralds must brace themselves before speaking the final name.
“Calista,” they breathe together. “Goddess of Blood and Decay.”
No elaboration. Only her name.
Her statue stands regal and terrible, elegant horns arching like a crown.
The Sibyls lower their arms. “Step forward now,” they command. “Choose the god who shall carry your prayers onward. Let your faith decide which Champions remain in this trial and which one shall depart.”
The words hang in the air for a frozen moment, and then they move.
One by one, the people step forward toward the gods of their choosing.
Relief floods through me, and I almost collapse against Kaelzar. I saved more than half the people, they’ll remember that. Surely it will earn me enough prayers to get to the next challenge.
I just have to stay upright a little longer. Long enough not to bleed out on the sand beneath me.
But the relief is fleeting, swallowed by horror as I watch—helpless—while the very people I risked my life to save drift toward other gods.
Each departure lands like a fist to the chest. Some don’t even glance my way.
Their steps quicken, as if I’m the curse itself. As if my touch, my sacrifice, stained them. My pulse spikes, every footfall dragging my heart deeper into a dizzying panic.
I fought for them. I bled for them. And still, they turn away.
I have no way of knowing who will choose to stay. The uncertainty digs its claws into my gut. It shouldn’t hurt this much. I should have expected it.
I knew what I was and what I wasn’t. A cursed girl wearing the colors of a forgotten goddess, pretending she could belong among Champions. I was never meant to stand here.
And now they remind me, one by one, with every step they take away.
I force myself to ignore the grief burning behind my eyes, but it claws at me, unraveling the last threads of composure I have left.
“Hold your head high,” Kaelzar murmurs, his voice a low rasp near my ear, echoing the command he barked when we first met. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.”
I stiffen.
Heat flares in my chest, indignation twisting through exhaustion. Is he mocking me? After everything I’ve just endured, he chooses cruelty again?
I whip around, ignoring the stabbing pain in my side and hands, ready to snap at him, to tell him never to speak to me that way again.
But the words freeze when I see his mouth twitching into a smirk.
“With all your rolling about and bleeding everywhere,” he says, tone light and teasing, “it was quite the spectacle.”
Is he… joking? The glint in his eyes, threaded with unmistakable mischief, answers before the thought fully forms.
And then it clicks. He’s echoing our first exchange—pulling me back from the edge. So that I could breathe. So I would feel anything other than the unraveling grief tightening around my throat.
And gods, it works.
A broken, almost startled sound escapes me. I think it’s a laugh.
“I bet it was,” I rasp, the words rough as gravel dragged across my throat, but easier to carry now that he’s shared some of the weight.
Kaelzar’s shoulders ease, his posture loosening. He tilts his head slightly, studying me with quiet curiosity.
I follow his gaze to the statue of Calista. My vision wavers, darkness creeping at the edges, but I blink it away, forcing myself to focus.
A small group kneels before her statue, their prayers offered to her. Mostly women with red hair. A few others, their hair untouched by the Crimson Tether curse, linger close—perhaps lovers, daughters, mothers of the cursed.
Despite losing nearly half of those I saved, more still kneel for me than for the others.
And there’s him, too, the man who caught me when Seraphina shoved me. His words slither back, threading through the haze: It wasn’t the gods that ended the Archpriest, girl. Though someone tried really hard to make it seem so.
It hadn’t sounded like speculation. There’d been no doubt in his voice. And if what he said is true—
The thought fragments as my body sways. My vision tunnels, dark creeping in again. Blood loss. Exhaustion. My raw wounds throb.
Strong hands steady me. Kaelzar’s touch is firm but careful, grounding me like an anchor in a storm. And in a quiet, startling realization, I know that I don’t fear falling. Because if I do, he’ll catch me.
Just before the darkness overtakes me, movement at the arena’s entrance catches my eye. A group spills inside, led by Ryker. His eyes search wildly across the space.
A weak, trembling smile tugs at my lips. I lift a hand toward him as my body slips further from my control. The world tilts, dimming at the edges.
Then everything goes black.
Pain flares at my side, dragging me back from unconsciousness with a soft gasp.
My fingers fumble for the thick bandage wrapped over the raw gash along my ribs, the ache beneath it is sharp and persistent.
My hands too are wrapped tightly in bandages, my fingers stiff, nearly immovable.
Small, deep green leaves poke out from beneath the pale cloth—medicinal, I assume, their numbing effect dulling the worst of the pain.
Blinking slowly, I take in the unfamiliar space: the bed beneath me, vast and strange, its wooden frame looming protectively around me. The scent of wood and earth fills my senses as I feel a soft blanket cover me in my undergarments. The steady crackle of fire is the only sound.
Grinding my teeth to hold back a yelp, I force myself to sit up with slow, deliberate effort. Then, I see him. Kaelzar, sprawled near the fireplace.
His cloak is bunched beneath his head as a makeshift pillow, his chest bare, the inky chains lying still over his skin. Without their usual movement, the links look subdued. But I know better. They’re never truly asleep, only waiting.
The arm that bears the same sigil of Calista I wear on my own is propped beneath his head. The other rests loosely against his torso.
That’s when I notice a second sigil around his forearm, one I’ve never seen before.