Chapter 15
Nyx
The forest seems endless.
Standing at the edge of the cliff beside Thorian and the other competitors, I stare out over a sea of treetops stretching to the horizon.
The canopy rises and falls in great waves of green, orange, and crimson.
Vines drape between branches. Strange flowers bloom in impossible bursts of color.
In places, mist hangs above the trees, obscuring whatever lies beneath.
Beyond that vast wilderness lie the Trials. Monsters. Traps. Competitors willing to kill me.
The realization crashes into me with startling force.
Until now, a part of me has managed to pretend this wasn't real.
Training with Thorian felt real enough. Standing before the gods felt real.
Being chased through the garden by a murderous flower definitely felt real.
But all of those things happened inside the safety of civilization.
Inside walls. Near healers. Near people.
This is different. In a few minutes, we'll be sent into that forest. And some of us won't come back out.
My stomach twists.
I can practically feel the weight of the dagger at my hip, the absurdity of it.
It should calm me a little, the fact that the other competitors had all their weapons removed.
The gods had laughed and let me keep mine, but it does little to comfort me.
Days ago, I barely knew how to hold a weapon.
Now I'm expected to compete against vampires, berserkers, shifters, warlocks, and warriors who've spent their entire lives preparing for violence.
For one terrible moment, I can't breathe. What am I doing here? The question pounds through me.
Then another image rises in my mind. Lyra.
Not the version carried away by the vampires, but the one from before. Curled up beside me in bed during a storm. Laughing as we stole pastries from the kitchen. Sitting in the garden with dirt on her nose after planting flowers she swore she would remember to water.
My sister. The reason I'm here. Slowly, the panic loosens its grip.
I don't have to be stronger than everyone else. I don't have to be the best fighter. I just have to survive. I’m good at surviving.
The major gods stand before us, looking half bored and half eager. A soft wind stirs Soryn and Aqualis's skirts and tugs at Eryndor's shirt. The festivities are over now. The parties, the feasts, the betting.
This is the part they've been waiting for.
“Once again, we approach the start of the Trials,” Valtor says.
The god stands at the very edge of the cliff, his heels practically hanging over empty air. He wears loose leather trousers and no shirt, his enormous frame bathed in the morning sunlight. Gold glitters from the braids woven through his beard and catches on the bracelets wrapped around his wrists.
He rocks backward casually. Any mortal would've plummeted to their death. Valtor doesn't even glance down.
I find myself wondering whether a major god can fall at all.
Eryndor looks up from his tablet, as though having forgotten where he was.
Like with the other times I’ve seen him, he wears a white cotton shirt and has his pen at the ready.
Clearing his throat, he says, “As I’m sure you all know, your objective is to reach that—” he turns, pointing out the black structure I saw in the distance yesterday “—the Obsidian Spire. The Ever-Changing Woods surrounding it are the battleground for the Trials this year. They look innocuous, but they are magical, shifting at their own whims. Trees change position. Seasons turn without warning. Even time and space can, on occasion, stutter in and out along some sections.”
“So do not count on any bootleg information from years past,” Valtor adds, glancing at Thorian with a smirk, as though driving home the point that Thorian’s previous experiences won’t be enough for an advantage.
That much seems obvious. If experience was an advantage, surely my partner would have already been successful at winning the Trials.
“As a reminder of why it’s worth striving for victory,” Aqualis says, touching the tips of her fingers together and looking out at us. “Think of the riches, titles, and lands the winners are awarded, near the city.”
“And the minor godhood,” Terranis adds, flipping his hand casually, causing the grass around his feet to strive upward around his ankles.
“And, of course,” Valtor adds, turning to me, my continued partnership with Thorian seeming to have earned his complete disdain, “the Courted Prize, one Lady Lyra of the Nocturne family, as your shared bride.”
As he sneers down at me, I wonder if he even remembers my mother, or if she’s just another faceless woman in the fodder of his past. The tradition of snatching women from their homes and forcing them into situations they loathe runs deep with him.
“Not only will the layout of the forest change,” Soryn says, spreading her hands, palms up, “but there are also several magical species in the woods. You’ll be facing not only one another in the fight to the Obsidian Spire, but whatever monsters and beasts lie in your way.”
“Anything goes,” Valtor drawls, tilting his head and looking out at the groups, dragging his gaze from one to the next.
“We are far from the city and any laws of society. And, as your divines, we grant you the right to levy any manner of violence against your opponents. Only the most worthy are deserving of our gifts, and, beyond entertaining us, the purpose of the Trials is to determine which of you are actually worthy.”
Without meaning to, I let my gaze wander, skipping first to Fenric, the berserker, then to the vampire from the garden, Talon. For some reason, the idea of fighting them, of levying any manner of violence toward them feels inherently wrong. Impossible.
But I may have to. Taking a deep breath, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the hilt of my dagger.
I have to save my sister no matter what.
Even if that means hurting the vampire who helped me...
and the berserker with the warm smile and gentle eyes, who seems entirely out of place in a competition like this.
“Do any of you have questions about the rules?” Eryndor asks, lifting his brows and staring out at us with an eager look. “If you do, now is the time to ask. Later, ignorance of the regulations will not save you from being penalized by them.”
There’s some shuffling as various members of the teams look around, glancing at one another, clearly trying to determine if there are questions, and who should be asking them.
I glance at Thorian. The bags from yesterday are gone. Maybe he actually managed to sleep well last night. Or, maybe, as a demi-god, he recovers faster from a poor night of rest.
Surely, if he had any questions, he would ask. It’s just as likely that he doesn’t have any questions. Having done this several times before, I’m sure he knows the rules.
“Are we allowed to switch teams?” a gruff voice from the end of the line asks, and we all look together to see the brute standing beside Fenric with his hand partially raised.
I blink in surprise. If anything, I would have thought it Fenric who might be itching to join another team. If Fenric is surprised or bothered by the question, he doesn’t show it, just stands still and looks straight ahead, as though eager to hear the answer.
The others around us murmur amongst themselves, clearly surprised by the question. I wonder if this is the first time something like that has been asked.
And surely the answer is no… right? What would be the point of forming teams in the first place if we can change them at will.
“Of course!” Valtor booms, his deep voice reverberating joyfully through the air and drowning our Eryndor’s cautious, “Well…”
“Of course?” Aqualis asks, raising her eyebrow at the other major god.
“We want things to be interesting,” he says, and this time, his gaze doesn’t linger on us. “So, yes, switch teams, but they have to be established before you reach the spire. Whomever gets to the Obsidian Spire wins, but only if everyone is present.”
“That’s correct,” Eryndor says, quickly taking back the reins on the rules.
“If only one person from a team reaches the spire, there is no reward. Every member of a team must reach the top of the spire together, and alive, to receive the title of winner. It’s part of the strategy behind forming your team.
Every additional member increases your fighting strength, but it also means dividing the spoils among more people. ”
“What a light-hearted beginning for our competitors,” Soryn says, her voice crystalline in the early morning air.
If it’s possible for a major divine to blush, Eryndor does, and Valtor takes the moment of silence to interject, “That’s right.
If only one team member makes it, nobody wins.
But don’t worry—” he throws a look at Thorian, who flinches for the first time since lining up out here beside me, “—you can always come back next year, provided you survive.”
There’s a titter of laughter through the gods and the other competitors, some of whom jeer in our direction. I keep my chin up and my head forward.
My heart is already pounding, blood rushing in my ears. It feels like adrenaline has been flooding my body since I woke up this morning, and now I'm starting to feel as though I've been running in place, vibrating with energy but unable to use it.
“Well, if there are no other questions,” Eryndor says, clearing his throat and tucking his tablet under his arm, “one final matter.”
He lets his gaze travel over the competitors.
“You should not assume we are watching your every waking moment. Even gods have responsibilities beyond this competition.”
A ripple of murmurs spreads through the crowd.
“However,” he continues, “whenever you reach one of our Trials, you will have our full attention. We will observe every team as they attempt to overcome the challenge we have set before you. Beyond that…” His mouth curves into a faint smile.
“Should something particularly interesting occur, we may choose to watch.”
Valtor grins.
“So do try to keep things entertaining.”
A few of the gods laugh.
Eryndor sighs. “With that settled, we may begin the first Trial.”
“The first thing you must do is simple!” Valtor says, turning and walking to the side, so the valley below us is clear.
It’s a good hundred yards down, and I can just make out some objects piled in the clearing below.
“All you need to do is get down the cliff and gather the supplies you think you’ll require for the trials. Simple.”
My hands start to shake. The other teams jostle forward, trying to get a good look and figure out what’s down there.
Thorian doesn’t even squint. Maybe his eyesight is good enough for him to see from here.
I make a note to ask him about it later, to inform myself of what, exactly, his status as a demi-god means for us.
Obviously, I bring little to the table. The town doctor has always declared my vision just fine, everything in working order. But I doubt adequacy is going to come in handy if I’m cornered by one of the vampires, shifters, or berserkers.
“Simple,” Terranis grunts in agreement, before turning and hiding a mirthless grin.
I turn to Thorian, wondering if we should talk strategy, or determine which of the materials will be most useful for us to get.
But one look at his face tells me that despite what the gods are saying, this first task isn’t as simple as they might want to make it out to be.
Of course there will always be a catch. I’ve heard plenty of people say the Trials are beyond difficult, and based on the description of these woods alone, it’s clear I should learn to be on my guard.
“What do you—?” I start to ask my partner, thinking we surely will have more time, but I’m cut off by the thundering boom of Valtor’s voice, raised several levels of volume to the point where my ears ring.
“The Trials have now begun!” he says, clapping his hands.
His words reverberate through my head and body, seeming to crackle in the air around us. It holds me completely still, paralyzing me with the fear of what I'm getting myself into.
I snap out of it when I feel a large, warm hand on my arm, and, through the ringing in my ears, faintly hear Thorian saying, “Move, Nyx!”
The other teams scramble over the edge of the cliff, and I stumble along toward it with my partner, realizing that even though the Trials have just begun, our team is already far behind.
How the hell am I going to save my sister?