Chapter 5 #2
“Yeah, just like old times.” Orpheus smiles with mischief dancing in his eyes and looks toward the gauntlet entrance where Keir is preparing to enter.
My mate catches sight of us, smiles that devastating smile of his, and waves before diving into the darkness with the fearless confidence of someone who can blink through space itself.
Leander’s groan of dismay is clearly audible even from this distance.
Orpheus and I lean against the low stone wall that borders the training grounds, listening to the sounds echoing from within the gauntlet—crashes, mechanical grinding, the occasional thud of impact—while watching Keir’s glowing dot move along the magical tracking display.
Two more of his blink hound packmates line up behind me, their presence a comforting weight at my back.
“How’s he handling being Alpha?” Vaughn’s familiar voice comes from my left before his arms wrap around me in a warm hug. He kisses my forehead with paternal affection, and I breathe in his comforting scent of leather and old books.
“He’s doing well, Daddy Vaughn. The last of his pack moved into the Blackhaven territory last week.
” I pull my phone out of the hidden pocket cleverly sewn into my leathers and check the screen, noting several messages.
“Hemlocke is with his dad today, helping the seven families that want to relocate to Blackhaven.”
The move has been months in the planning—establishing safe territory, preparing housing, planting fields. It’s the kind of work that makes me proud of my mates’ leadership.
“Next!” Leander’s voice booms across the training ground, and I look up to find him staring directly at me. Apparently, I’m the next one to go—whether by design or fate, I’m not sure.
I walk over to the gauntlet with measured steps, my boots crunching on gravel, and crane my neck to look up at the towering wooden death trap. The structure seems to loom larger the closer I get, shadows pooling at its base like living things.
“Are you sure you want to run?” Corvus asks as he climbs the steps to join us at the entrance platform, Solaris’s egg carrier secure against his chest. I can see the worry in his silver eyes despite his earlier declaration of support.
“I’ll be fine,” I promise, meaning every word.
I kiss his lips softly, tasting coffee and bacon on his tongue, and let him band his arms around me, holding me against his solid warmth. We purr together—a soft rumbling that resonates between our chests where they’re pressed together—before he reluctantly releases me.
“Leave nothing breathing,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes flick up to Leander. “Live threats, partial shifting allowed.”
“What about breath weapon?” I call up Leander. After last year’s incident where I melted through three walls, they’d been debating whether to allow it this year.
“Not allowed,” Leander says with a knowing smile that tells me he remembers exactly what I did to his gauntlet last time.
“Alright, let’s do this then.” I roll my shoulders, feeling my wings settle into optimal position, and take a deep breath that fills my lungs with cool morning air.
Then I dive into the darkness of the gauntlet, leaving the sunlight behind as shadows swallow me whole.
Stepping into the dark hall of the gauntlet reminds me viscerally of the catacombs deep beneath Blackhaven—that same oppressive weight of ancient stone and forgotten deaths pressing down from above.
There’s a musty smell that fills my nostrils, thick and cloying like wet earth mixed with decay, along with the lingering metallic tang of blood from previous contestants.
The scent makes my stomach clench with anticipation rather than fear.
Keir gives a gentle tug on our bond, the sensation like warm fingers brushing against my consciousness, letting me know he made it through alive and relatively unscathed.
Relief floods through me, and I smile in the darkness, sending a warm embrace back down the bond—my version of I’m proud of you, stay safe.
The flooring beneath my boots is made of rough-hewn wood that creaks ominously with each careful step.
The walls are constructed of the same material, though I can see metal reinforcements gleaming dully in the dim light filtering from somewhere above.
I allow my silver talons to extend with soft clicks, feeling them pierce through my fingertips with familiar ease, and raise the protective scales up over my throat—just in case something decides my jugular looks appetizing.
I shift my eyes to my dragon’s sapphire vision, and suddenly the darkness becomes navigable.
Details emerge from shadow—the grain of wood, subtle variations in temperature, the faint shimmer that speaks of magic at work.
I gaze out across several paths that branch ahead of me like a nightmare made of choices.
They must be using dimensional stones to expand the interior of the gauntlet, folding space in on itself to create something impossibly large within the structure’s relatively modest exterior.
The realization makes my skin prickle—dimensional magic is notoriously unstable, and one wrong move could collapse the entire space.
Not safe, my dragoness growls in the back of my mind, her voice carrying ancient instincts honed over generations of blood memories.
I have to agree with her assessment. There’s nothing remotely safe about this entire setup, no matter which path I choose. None of the pathways seem trustworthy—each one radiates its own particular brand of danger like competing predators marking territory.
Time to figure out the lesser of the evils, I suppose.
The path to the far left looks disturbingly similar to the catacombs under Blackhaven—same rough stone walls, same smell of old death and older magic, even the same angle of descent that leads deeper into darkness. My familiarity with it makes it simultaneously appealing and suspicious.
The path just to the right of that one looks like part of the Temple of Bahamut—all gleaming white marble and soft golden light that promises safety and sanctuary.
Deceptively safe-looking, which makes it possibly the most dangerous option.
Anything that looks that welcoming in a gauntlet designed to test our limits is definitely hiding something nasty.
The second path from the right looks like the standard gauntlet construction I’m used to—wooden walls, mechanical traps, the occasional pit filled with something unpleasant. Familiar in its hostility, at least.
The last path to the far right looks like it should be in a crypt rather than a training exercise—stone walls covered in ancient moss, the smell of graves and forgotten rituals, shadows that seem to move with their own malevolent purpose.
For all I know, they could all be illusions. Every single path could be a carefully crafted lie designed to lure me into choosing based on false assumptions. Or they could all be exactly what they appear to be, which would be its own special kind of psychological warfare.
The path that looks most like the catacombs under Blackhaven calls to me with its familiarity. I know those tunnels like I know my own scales—every twist, every hidden passage, every place where danger likes to hide. If this is an accurate recreation, that knowledge could give me an advantage.
Decision made, I move toward the leftmost path, my boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor.
Then the air is sucked out of my lungs in a violent rush, as if some invisible giant has squeezed my chest like bellows. My vision darkens at the edges, then rushes inward like water down a drain, and the world goes completely black.
The last thought I manage before consciousness slips away is a single word: Trap.