Chapter 9
Fenric
“Today we meet our teams,” the court squire says, reading from his scroll as we enter the throne room.
The wealthy nobles and citizens have already filled the viewing galleries above, their bright silks spilling over the rails as they lean down to watch us. Their attention presses against my skin like heat, making me feel small in a way I haven’t since leaving home.
Their perfumes clog the air. Sweet oils and heavy florals layered over citrus and spice, all of it so thick it nearly turns my stomach. The knights standing nearby don’t seem to notice. To my left, a cluster of vampires wrinkle their noses, and the shifters look equally displeased.
At least the stench of the rich bothers me less than the thought of why I’m here.
With quiet direction from the house staff, we line up on the far side of the throne platform and wait. Osric shifts beside me, his huge frame radiating warmth. He smells of iron and old leather.
Under different circumstances, standing shoulder to shoulder with him would’ve put me on edge.
Back home, Osric was the blacksmith everyone respected and quietly feared.
No one questioned his skill, nor the brutal strength that made him one of the most physically imposing men in the village.
But there were stories too. Men beaten bloody for looking at him the wrong way.
Tavern disputes that ended with shattered furniture and broken bones.
More unsettling still were the whispered rumors of those who had angered him too deeply simply vanishing, leaving behind only uneasy speculation and families too frightened to ask questions.
I’d heard enough over the years that I'd once warned my younger sister to steer clear of him entirely.
He was not the sort of man any decent woman would willingly tie herself to.
Too volatile. Too dangerous. The kind of man who answered insults with violence and seemed to carry fury beneath the surface of his skin.
And under any other circumstance, I would have wanted nothing to do with him.
But then my family was taken.
Now every instinct that once told me to keep my distance has become a luxury I can no longer afford. Osric may be brutal, unpredictable, and morally at odds with nearly everything I believe, but he is also strong enough to help me survive these trials.
And whether I like it or not, survival is the only thing that matters. At least, if I ever want to see my family again.
My hands clench into fists and the scent of coppery blood fills my nose once more.
I still remember returning home to find the yard churned to mud by wagon wheels and bootprints, and the front door hanging crooked from its hinges.
Unease had gripped me instantly, sharp and cold, but it was the silence that truly unsettled me.
Our home was never quiet. Someone was always laughing, arguing, or calling for help with one chore or another. That day, there had been nothing. Just silence and the scent of blood.
Then the townsfolk began to emerge one by one, their faces pale and stricken as they told me what had happened.
The slavers had come while I was gone. My father had fought until they beat him half senseless.
My mother had clawed and screamed. My sisters had cried for me, calling my name while they were dragged toward the wagons.
They had expected me to come charging over the hill, bow in hand, ready to stop it. But I hadn’t been there.
By the time I returned, the wagons were already gone. The slaves were gone. My family was gone. Yet another family of berserkers taken.
The helplessness I felt that day still claws at me. The knowledge that if I’d been home, I would have fought until my body gave out. I would’ve died before I let them take us.
Instead, I was spared the choice entirely, left standing in the wreckage of our home while the people I loved most were hauled away in chains.
They are out there somewhere, still enslaved, still waiting. And whether they know it or not, I am all they have left.
I came to this city for one reason. I came to kneel before the gods and beg.
To ask them to free my family. To end what’s been done to the berserkers for generations.
I’d spent the entire journey rehearsing the words, convincing myself that if I spoke clearly enough, if I made them understand, they would help.
Instead, they laughed.
They’d dismissed me as though the suffering of my family meant nothing at all.
I remember stumbling from the throne room feeling hollowed out, my hope stripped raw. I had only a few coins left and nowhere to go, so I’d ended up in the nearest tavern, trying to decide what a man does when even the gods refuse him.
That was where I found Osric. Or rather, where he found me. He’d dropped into the seat across from mine, looked me dead in the eye, and asked if I planned to enter the trials.
At the time, it had sounded absurd.
Now, standing here, waiting to learn my fate, it feels like the only choice I ever had.
Begging the gods had failed. Pleading for mercy had accomplished nothing. If I wanted my family back, if I wanted enough coin and influence to find them and buy their freedom, then I would have to earn it myself.
The trials were dangerous. Brutal. Likely fatal.
But they were also the first real chance I’d been given.
The moment that truth settled over me, the shape of my future had become painfully clear. I would enter the trials, and if I wanted any real hope of surviving them, I would need a partner strong enough to keep us alive.
That was how Osric and I went from unlikely companions on the road to unlikely teammates.
Now we stand side by side awaiting presentation before the very same divines who laughed me out of their chamber when I denounced the slavery of my kind and begged for justice.
The weight of that irony sits bitterly on my tongue.
Beside me, Osric settles one broad hand over the hilt of his war ax, his expression unreadable beneath the thick black beard shadowing his face. The motion draws my attention to him fully, and once again I find myself taking stock of the man my future has become tethered to.
There are, admittedly, several things about my teammate that give me pause.
For one, I still have no idea what he did to get himself cast out of the village.
For another, his indifference toward bathing remains deeply unsettling.
A patch of grease clings stubbornly to his beard even now, and I have long since given up wondering how a man can carry so much soot on his person when we’ve spent days nowhere near a forge.
Still, his poor hygiene has its advantages. The other teams give us a notably wide berth. The shifters wrinkle their noses but don't seem inclined to retreat. If anything, they appear more amused than offended.
Then again, perhaps the distance has less to do with his smell and more to do with what we are. The berserker team. No doubt the vampires, warlocks, and shifters surrounding us are sneering down their noses in our direction.
It doesn’t matter. I’m here for only one reason. To win the money and status I need to buy my family’s freedom. Permanently.
As we wait, my gaze shifts over to the woman, Lady Nyx Nocturne, I met at the buffet tables. She stands silently next to her companion, a tall, broad, mountain of a man that I have an instant distrust for, her chin raised primly.
She’s a lady, and one can tell that even without her official title.
She stands with a stiff back, her skin fine and fair, never having seen a day of work in the sun.
Her dark hair circles her head in an intricate braid, and for a moment I wish I could free it, watch it tumble over her chest and down her back.
This Lady Nocturne is kind.
And she definitely should not be competing in the Trials.
Perhaps I haven’t had as much training, but I am at least strong from farming and have my berserker abilities. She won’t last long in the competition, unless her companion is double the strength and skill of an average man.
And even then, I’ve been told that the Trials are tricky.
Many of the games rely on luck, force contestants to draw on skills they never knew they would need.
I’ve heard of widowers being lured by the ghosts of their dead loves, parents seeing phantoms of their children in danger, only to plummet to their own deaths and leave those children orphans in an unforgiving world.
Valtor laughs suddenly from his throne, waving his chalice and interrupting the court squire, who is still reading from his scroll, announcing the rules of the presentation. “We grow bored of this! Bring out the teams!”
It’s only when a servant near me ushers Osric and I out that I realize we’re going first.
When we walk out in front of the gods, the weight of all ten eyes before us is immense, and nearly brings me to my knees.
Valtor sits in the middle, his massive frame like a mountain.
Soryn shines with an inner light. Terranis looks like he wants to flatten us, and Aqualis seems mildly interested.
Eryndor has his head bent over a tablet, onto which he scratches quick notes with his feather pen.
“Berserkers!” someone from the crowd shouts, and that makes Valtor laugh.
“You seem strong,” Aqualis says, her voice smooth and rhythmic as she looks at me. “Turn for us, let us examine you thoroughly.”
My face flames as we do as they say, reminding me far too much of the examinations performed on berserkers as the slave traders tried to determine how much they might fetch for each of them.
When I found the records, I discovered my father had sold for the highest price and had convinced his buyer to take my mother and siblings as well. My younger brother and sister fetched less, though I'm sure the buyer considered them a worthwhile investment. They would eventually grow up.
Bile climbs in my throat and I force it back down, reminding myself of my reason for being here. I can’t win this thing and save them if I’m constantly overwhelmed with the reality of their situation.
Quickly, the gods pepper us with questions, asking about our training and weaponry, which skills we think will be most useful to us. Then they ask us of our motivations for entering the trials. Rather than admitting the situation of my family, I only state that I’m there for the money.
Eryndor sighs, “As most of you are.”
The crowd behind, above, and around us is vast and diverse, composed of nymphs, shifters, vampires, and human nobles, all cheering, jeering, and placing their bets. Numbers fly through the room, bet-takers talking quickly and collecting coins and paper notes.
“We shall call you Iron Hearts,” Terranis says, leaning forward. “Now, move aside for the next team to present.”
And with that, we’re shuffled to the side of the space, watching as the next team comes out to the floor.
The next team is three massive shifters, who come running out onto the floor, showing the kind of macho I’ve seen down in some of the fighting rings east of the city.
They wave their arms and get the crowds to cheer for them.
One of them, calling himself Hugh, shifts into a hulking, massive gray wolf, slobbering and howling.
I watch the spectacle and wonder if Osric and I were supposed to put on more of a show.
Elswyth, the only other woman in this competition other than Lady Nocturne, is a beast of a thing, her hair cut short like a man’s, her arms beefy enough that I think she could crack a pumpkin between her bicep and side.
Valtor and Terranis seem to like the shifters, but the other gods are bored by them. They’re named The Ashen Hounds and sent to stand next to us as well.
Next come a bunch of metal-clad, stiff warriors, their swords hanging long by their sides.
They matter-of-factly detail their skills, their histories in training and fighting for various noble armies, and catch the eye of Eryndor, who asks them most of the questions.
They’re named The Hollow Blades and sent to us.
Warlocks come out after them, following in the shifters’ path, using their magic to cast beautiful and terrifying glamours around them.
There’s a bad taste in my mouth instantly at the thought of the warlocks who came to take my family.
Warlocks are who the slavers usually send, some of the only beings powerful enough to handle us in our berserker form.
Once again, I force myself to focus as they introduce themselves, knowing this information could be useful later.
Their names all sound vaguely erudite, and they likely come from the land far north of here, where it snows constantly and the people have nothing else to do but huddle in their castles and read.
Magnus, Ulric, Halwin, Antone. They’re named The Vultures, a fitting name with their black robes, sharp beards, and pointed noses, and sent off the floor.
A team of four vampires stride out, sleek and beautiful. If there were such a thing, they might be the antithesis to a berserker, all about refined, restrained power. To me, all of them look the same, and it doesn’t help that they all have typical vampire names: Eamon, Oswyn, Behanta, and Talon.
There’s no demonstration from the vampire team, thank the gods. I don’t think any of us are looking for a blood bath here tonight.
The next group is three brutish, human fighters. They’re named The Stone Serpents after detailing their fighting history and sent away.
And finally, the last team is called out.
The only other team that consists of just two, like Osric and me. When they emerge, I can’t stop myself from staring at her in those fighting leathers, which fit her like a glove. She walks with a confidence that makes me think she might win this competition through sheer will alone.
At first, I think I imagine the hush that falls across the room, as though my surroundings are reacting to my focus on Lady Nocturne.
But I’m not imagining it. Everyone, even the Valtor, goes still. The smile slips off his face and everything quiets at the sight of this team.
Lady Nocturne and her companion stand tall in the center of the throne room, their backs stiff, looking up at the gods with an expectant air to them. In the silence, I can hear my heart beating, feel my curiosity rising up inside me at the reaction to this pair.
Is it for Lady Nocturne? Surely the crowd, the gods, they’re all thinking it’s not right for a woman like that to sacrifice her life in this fight. That there should be some other way to free her sister.
Nobody moves, and even my breathing grows shallow.
Then, in a burst of light and sound so intense it shakes me to my core, Valtor begins to laugh.