Chapter 15
Varka had been characteristically vague: meet Bohdan in the dungeons of Hearth at sunset to enter the trials.
The carriage dropped her off outside the unwelcome but familiar gates. She approached the guards with tension, but with her gold token in hand, everything had changed.
The guards stepped aside with respectful nods and an Envorsen materialized at her shoulder, wordlessly gesturing for her to follow.
He led her through corridors, down narrow stairs that spiraled endlessly into the castle’s depths. The chill air bit through her clothing, thick with the smell of damp stone and dust. Torches flickered in their iron brackets, casting their dancing shadows on the walls.
Finally, they reached the bottom and he pushed open a heavy door, reinforced with iron bands, revealing a large dungeon.
Bohdan’s piercing green gaze magnified on her the moment she entered, despite filtering to the back of the crowd of men.
The noise level dropped—then doubled.
Ksenia fought the urge to fidget, pinning her hands stiffly at her sides, the leather of her black fingerless gloves groaning.
She wore an oversized black linen shirt with loose, billowing sleeves that tied at the wrists; across her torso, she had wrapped both sides of the tunic, folding the free edges and tucking them into a pair of high-waisted black leather pants.
The breeches tapered at the ankle and were carefully tucked into black suede boots with a reinforced metal toe, similar to the pitons she’d adorned her boots with just a few nights ago.
She had draped a velvet cloak over her shoulders, which brushed her knees. Her goal was to be forgettable, part of the crowd, and nothing more.
How woefully naive she’d been.
Laughter erupted in the corner opposite her—full-throated guffaws.
“You’re joking.” A massive man with a shaved head and scars crisscrossing his forearms turned to another. “They let anyone enter?”
“Must be the entertainment,” his compatriot added, gold tooth winking in the light as he grinned widely. “Giving us something pretty to look at while we wait.”
More laughter rippled through the competitors. Two dozen men, maybe more, all turning to leer. Finding the same joke hilarious.
A lean, sinewy man with a bow slung across his shoulder nudged his neighbor. “D’you think she knows which end of a sword to hold?”
“Think she knows what a sword is?”
Ksenia’s rage simmered at the edge of her control. Did she know what a sword was? She had forged more blades than their years. Her family had fitted warriors of the highest caliber. Her family had forged Radegast, for gods’ sake.
And they boiled her capability down to her sex.
“Maybe she’s the prize,” an oily voice called, next to her. “For the winner.”
Without much thought, she had unsheathed Caromir and hauled the voice’s owner close—a pathetic weasel of a man. She fisted the front of his tunic in her grip and dug the dagger’s point into his neck just below the apple in his throat. It bobbed up and down as he gulped.
Unorthodox, but I won’t turn down fresh blood.
She felt the heat behind her eyes and clenched her jaw, fighting her bloodlust and failing at her mission of being forgettable.
“Enough,” called Bohdan. “Let him go.”
Ksenia reluctantly withdrew Caromir and gave the man a hard shove.
He sneered and spat on the floor before her. “You’ll regret that, Kitten.”
She leered back then turned to scan her surroundings, locating Bohdan.
He sported a casual tunic this evening, paired with suede breeches.
When he crossed his arms, the laces of his tunic loosened, revealing a scar that cleaved from the top of his neck down his collarbone; a deep, irregular trench where something had brutally torn through almost to the bone.
He scratched the silvered mark idly as though he sensed her attention.
He faced the crowd, leaning against an oaken table before a crackling fire. The air smelled acrid and stale, as if the room was seldom used but for something foul when it was. It was a dungeon after all.
He rapped his knuckle against a carved wooden chest on the table, its corners capped with gold filigree.
“Competitors, welcome. Drop your token into the chest for official entry to the trials.” He shifted slightly, and the hilt of his sword glinted at her across the room like a warning. “But know this: there is no turning back once you enter.”
On cue, his gaze and countless others flicked to Ksenia. She refused to blink, and her eyes watered.
“Hold on, now. What are the rules of these trials?” The weaselly man she had shoved drew closer to the front of the room. A dozen golden hoops were embedded in his ear, giving a gentle clink as he dug his pinkie deep into the orifice.
“Good question.”
The man displayed a toothy smile at the bit of praise.
“There will be four challenges. Death and dismemberment are expected. Those who do survive but don’t reach my measure of success in each trial will be executed.”
The silence that followed was deafening before protests erupted. Ksenia’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the ruckus of the crowd.
Bohdan looked nonplussed—a testament to enduring this song and dance yearly. With weary patience, he held up a hand in silence.
“That’s a rule that won’t be changing. By decree of King Saranov, the Sevrant is a highly coveted and secluded role.
The knowledge this successor will have is tantamount to the safety of the crown—the safety of the kingdom.
This person will become the king’s closest confidant, strategist, and hand. ”
Ksenia recalled her scathing words with Bohdan in the library a couple of nights prior.
In front of her, a broad-shouldered man with a shiny, shaved head except for a thin strip on top shifted his weight, his hand palming a large gold coin.
The weaselly man yawned, sauntering forward to Bohdan with a greasy smile before plunking his gold token into the chest.
“My name’s Tivan, the only one you’ll need to remember.”
Bohdan’s lack of amusement was palpable, and the crowd snickered.
Tivan harrumphed and brushed back his greasy hair. “Laugh all you want. I’m glad the rules are as they are. It’s a waste of my energy to weed out you lot anyway.”
Tivan had broken the seal, and before long, more competitors lined up to toss in their tokens of entry. Ksenia found herself rooted to the spot, turning hers over in her palm, the Beranek crest blinking at her.
Several people threaded their way to the back of the room and up the stairs to leave. Maybe that was a better idea.
Ksenia rubbed the back of her neck before settling her jittery hands at her sides when she noticed someone assessing her from head to toe. This was a kill-or-be-killed competition, and everyone was a threat.
It was now or never. She had already died once, and she couldn’t afford to squander her second chance.
Heat flushed the tips of her ears as she strode forward in line to deposit the coin. When she reached the front, Bohdan’s gaze sharpened on her.
He studied her reddened face nonchalantly, his expression smooth like stone.
Her token flipped and tumbled in the air before clinking into the chest to join the growing pile. One eyebrow rose on his handsome face, his mouth curving cruelly.
This was risky. Potentially brilliant. Probably suicidal.
The collective laughter started up again, and heat crept up her cheeks. She shook it off and pivoted on her heel, retaking her spot at the back of the room.
Bohdan’s slender fingers stacked the coins on the tabletop, noting each noble house that had submitted a champion. Many houses were represented, some more than once.
Thirty champions. One winner.
With a beckon of his hand, three crimson-clothed Envorsen entered the room, shutting the iron-framed double doors.
“Shall we get started?” His voice broke the silence, like coals splintering in a hearth.
“What do you mean?” came a man’s voice, pitched high as he looked at the Envorsen and back to Bohdan.
“The trials have officially started.”
“Hold on now—my sponsor assured me it wouldn’t start for another few days,” Tivan snarled, swinging his arms up at his sides, trying to rile up the crowd. He succeeded, and others joined in his show of protest.
A mound of dread weighed on Ksenia as Bohdan’s gaze locked on her face.
Shit.
This was as good as over.
“Done complaining?” Bohdan turned on his heel and strode up a back set of stairs into the cool, night air.
Eyes darted back and forth, toward each other and then toward the Envorsen behind them. Tivan spat on the ground before slinking out. Emboldened, several others followed him until the crowd found its feet.
Outside, they gathered around Bohdan, who sat within a marble gazebo on a raised dais.
He gestured behind himself to a large statuary the size of Beranek Manor, filled with hundreds of black stone–carved figures, ranging from larger-than-life to true-to-scale.
They stretched beyond what her eye could follow, despite the rare clear night.
Heroes, scholars, politicians, dignitaries, preceptors, and, of course, long-dead royals took shape in intimidating reliefs and poses.
“This exercise is called Catch and Kill,” declared Bohdan, drawing their attention back to the impressive marble structure. “Three Envorsen against thirty combatants. Five weapons have been placed within the statuary. Those who escape will move on.”
“Doesn’t seem that hard,” a man whispered behind Ksenia, and she couldn’t help but nod her agreement. The Envorsen were fearsome, but these odds weren’t terrible.
“But first, you’ll be relieved of your weapons.” A chill raked across Ksenia’s neck, and the hollow of her stomach grew deeper. The man behind her cursed softly.
One by one, they reluctantly dropped their weapons onto the dais.
A white fog settled into the grounds of the statuary, fine and hazy. Ksenia averted her eyes from a nearby statue whose gouged pupils were alarmingly animated.