16. The Valley of Fallen Blades
THE VALLEY OF FALLEN BLADES
Seraphina
We leave The Meet through the doors at the back of the room opening onto Vulcaris’ grounds.
The cadets from all three Companies follow the Overlords, the mood somber. Not even Az seems to have a joke in him.
We cross the gardens, and weave along cracked pathways through mountains, until we eventually reach the burial site.
They told us in the debrief that they call it the Valley of Fallen Blades, and that we would come here after every game to pay our respects.
The name makes sense the moment I see it. Between the twin volcanoes, the ground is split and scarred, pierced by rows of wooden training daggers, each one a silent memory of a life cut short, stolen by the games.
A valley carved by fire and overwhelmed with loss, ash drifts like snow and the air carries the bite of sulfur.
The world feels muted here, silent and sad. A place to mourn and a place to remember.
I reach out to grab Diana’s hand.
She flinches for a second, then wraps her fingers around mine and squeezes.
Her grip doesn’t relent, like she’s channeling all of her pain, grief and fear into me unconsciously.
The wooden training daggers, acting like grave markers, point down in the dry soil and are set out in endless rows.
From a distance, it would look like a battlefield of soldiers’ frozen mid-charge.
Each wooden dagger is carved with something.
A word.
No, a name, I realize.
The Overlords escort us to the farthest row. It’s shorter than the rest, considerably so. I count twenty-seven daggers, all clean wood and fresh scorch marks, unlike the sea of others that have been weathered by time spent under the scorching red sun.
I should feel relieved that our line is a fraction of the length of the others, but we are only one game in with six to go. It would be delusional and naive to think ours won’t match the rest by the end of this.
When my gaze lands on the one with the name ‘Jack Karlel’ burned into it in angular script, reality steals the breath from my lungs.
A week ago, we’d been strapped to a mast together.
I look for a pattern, expecting to see Micah and Gabe’s names beside Jack, but there doesn’t appear to be any definition between the nephilim and the cambion.
In death, they are the same.
Neither has a more prominent grave than the other.
It feels significant, like the artwork inside Vulcaris.
Like the Sisters do not care for those with the blood of their species more than those of mine.
Overlord Zaheer breaks the silence, his voice heavy as stone.
“Let the fallen be a stark reminder to the living not to let a dagger with your name appear among them a week from now. May their strength become yours. May you learn from their mistakes.”
The other two Overlords bow their heads, Ravi too at Yuvi’s side, and most of the cadets follow suit.
I stare at the forest of wooden hilts piercing the ground with one question circling around my mind.
Why?
Why make the games so deadly?
Why pretend to mourn the deaths they knew were going to be inevitable?
Why make entry to your army so impossible?
A presence appears at my side, unmistakable even before I look.
Ravi.
Stupid hound.
She stands close enough that I can feel the steady beat of her heart against my leg. The ash paints her coat with silver speckles, and I reach down, brushing them off.
One of the volcanoes rumbles, a low growl that vibrates through the valley and into my bones.
As I glance around at the somber faces, I realize we’re not only mourning the ones who fell today, we’re mourning the ones still breathing. Because most of us won’t be for long.
“Will any of us survive this place?” I murmur to the hellhound.
She looks up at me, then nudges her face against my thigh several times until I stroke her properly.
By the angels, if my family could see me now.
I’ve avoided The Rec since landing on the shores of the Iron Isle, but as the crimson sun disappears behind the western volcano, The Rec is exactly where we are heading.
It doesn’t feel right to decline an invitation to a wake.
Especially not when it meant Diana being the only nephilim to attend, and I can hardly leave her with the likes of Lilliana.
Besides, I can’t let her be the only one mourning Jack, Micah and Gabe.
Music thrums faintly through the wall as we approach the doors. Me, Diana, and our unlikely allies are last to arrive, having lingered the longest at the Valley of Fallen Blades.
The melody is low and rhythmic, solemn drums mingling with the chatter of too many people trying hard to forget what happened this morning.
As Reiva pushes the doors open, I'm hit with the smell of spiced liquor, wood smoke from an open fire, and roasted meat.
Inside, The Rec is nothing like the training halls or dorms. Instead, everything seems as though it’s meant to distract.
From fireplaces built of red glossy bricks which cast the room in a warm glow, to the love seats draped in black furs that cluster around the flames, each filled with cadets lounging, drinks in hand.
Along one wall, gambling tables carved from dark wood and varnished to gleam are set out under orblights. Cards are shuffled between calloused fingers and dice clatter as they are rolled, inciting a hiss, boo or cheer.
“It’s not usually so fucking sad in here,” Az tells me, like he doesn’t want me to be put off from coming back.
I have no plans to return.
Before I can think of how to reply without lying, Yuvi calls out, “Damn, traitorous bitch,” not for the first time. The words are full of humor though, spoken in the tone he reserves for his favorite pet.
A beat later, Ravi appears through the quickly parting crowd, Silver not far behind her, muttering about how the other Overlord needs to keep his hound on a leash if he doesn’t want him to tame the spring right out of her step.
“Want to explain what Yuvi’s mutt sees in you, Scarvo?” Silver asks, accusation and annoyance evident in his voice. “The second you’re nearby, she bolts, and Yuvi starts accusing me of poisoning her against Stannum.”
“I–I can’t explain. I honestly have no idea.”
“Maybe it’s those treats you stash in your weapons belt?” Az winks.
“I don’t have a weapons belt,” I point out.
“I think it’s cute,” Khali says, patting Ravi on the head before looking up to Az. “You’re just jealous that you don’t have a hellhound stalker.”
“I don’t get jealous.”
Liar. I’ve seen the way his nostrils flare when another male is sparring with Khali or watching her kata with eyes a little too hooded to be merely observation.
“She can probably smell her,” Reiva chimes in. “The only good thing about nephilim is how damn intoxicating they smell.”
Silver swallows.
Does he realize he’s nodding?
When he catches me watching him, he shakes his head and clears his throat.
“The buffet is about to open. I suggest you all get over there and line your stomachs before you hit the bar like Aes and Stannum already are.”
He tilts his head in the direction I assume must be where the bar is, but there’s such a crowd around it, I can’t actually see the bar itself.
“I’m not hungry.” Especially now I know the demons are salivating over the way me and Diana smell. But the others have already left, making their way over to the buffet table.
Everyone except Silver.
“You didn’t eat at breakfast either, Scarvo, despite my warning.” He looks down at me, arching a thick eyebrow. “You’ll eat now.”
I frown up at him.
How does he know that? Was he watching me?
No. Surely not.
I try to think back, but to be honest, breakfast was a blur.
During the game, I hadn’t been myself, and at breakfast, I was only just getting back to feeling normal again.
Diana had started crying into her cereal and that’s when the loss of Jack, Micah and Gabe hit me, like really hit me for the first time, and any thought of food had been repulsive.
I didn’t know them well, maybe self-preservation stopped me from trying to, but I’d overheard them talking. Sharing tales of their trauma from the academy, bonding and healing over shared experience. As horrific and unbelievable as those stories were.
Jack had said he’d wanted to marry before he died, that all he thought about while at the academy, locked inside his assigned cell, was the girl from his town who he’d never had the confidence to ask out, let alone marry.
He'd resigned himself to his fate already, but that hadn’t stopped me from secretly hoping I could help him get out of here so he could ask that damn girl to dinner.
I quickly wipe my eyes.
In a matter of hours, the other nephilim cadets had withered and starved.
They’d died because they had the strength to exercise restraint.
Now, the daggers marking their graves will rot away and their families will never know what happened to them.
It isn’t fair, and it makes no sense.
I hoped the Overlord’s would explain it all, somehow try to justify it during the debrief, and then again at the burial, but they hadn’t.
I lift my gaze to the Overlord still in front of me, watching me like he’s counting my every breath or trying to read my thoughts.
“I still don’t have any appetite,” I tell him honestly, then drop my gaze. “Not after the game.”
He looks down at me and his eyes land on my mouth, like he’s remembering how I’d licked my lips and salivated over the feast.
My cheeks fill with heat, and I bite down on my bottom lip, embarrassed.
Silver’s eyes suddenly dart away. “Go to the buffet Scarvo. You can thank me later.” Then he looks at Ravi. “If you like her that much, make sure she eats something.”
Ravi yips, then opens her monstrous jaw and hooks a giant canine around the leather at my waist, pulling at me.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “That’s enough. I’ll follow you, okay?”
Ravi yips again, and I sigh but move to follow her.
Silver doesn’t come with us, but I swear I catch a smile flash across his lips as he watches us go.
The buffet corner is quieter, with almost everyone else seeming to decide they could use a drink more than food.
I can’t blame them.
If I hadn’t been raised not to drink the stuff, if I didn’t need to be always ready to leave the citadel at a moment’s notice, maybe I would be right there with the demons.
The tables groan under platters of roasted roots glazed with honey, bread flecked with rock salt, skewers of flame-grilled meat still sizzling.
Steam curls from pots of stews infused with some kind of strong herbs, and I step in line next to Diana, not bothering to take a plate from the stack.
I can’t stand to see the sadness on her face, but I can’t help that part of me resents her for being the reason Lilliana now has my journal.
The demoness hasn’t said anything, she’s not even looked at me weirdly, which is odd in itself. Usually, if she’s not throwing daggers my way, she’s whispering when my back is turned, or being vile right to my face.
What game is she playing?
I have no idea, but I do know that I won’t be getting the journal back by asking for it nicely.
I need to wait. Be patient. Work out what she needs or wants and offer her a trade.
Find some dirt on her and blackmail her if I have to.
Finally, you’re learning.
I don’t have a choice. And sure, I’ll likely go to Hell for it, but I’ve already been there now and know it’s exactly as awful as I imagined.
My path feels like it’s been carved and set in stone. I just need to make sure I’m not going to Hell for no reason.
Some good will come out of my fall.
But for that, I need to have my journal back so I can tell my father everything.
I wasn’t sure what or how much to tell him, I thought I had time to decide, but after Diana’s confession last night, I realize I know what I need to do.
“Oh, there you are,” Khali says, glancing down at my empty hands and her empty plate. “Kind of hard to eat after the Feast of Endless Need, huh?”
“Nuh-uh,” Az says, licking his fork clean. “You’ve got to try the cake.”
That’s when I see it. There, on his plate…
The red velvet cake.
The same one from the game. The one I never got to taste. The one Silver took.
I’m glad I didn’t take a plate, because it would likely be smashed at my feet right now.
The slice is thin, from a cake far too small for the crowd gathered here. Deep scarlet sponge and smooth cream frosting.
There can’t be enough for everyone. There never was.
My heart beats too loudly in my ears.
What is this?
A reminder?
A warning?
What’s his game?
I don’t know. I hate that I don’t know.
I find him across the room, some kind of short drink over ice swirling in the glass in his hand. He’s chatting to Yuvi and Zaheer, a few of the cadets too, though they are listening intently like devoted fans.
“The chef never makes cake,” Az goes on. “Someone really pulled strings to get this here.”
“Someone did,” I mutter, and as though he can sense my gaze, Silver looks up.
The Overlord lifts his drink slightly in acknowledgment. No grin, no wink, nothing more than a faint tilt of his glass.
My stomach flips, and the walls press in, too loud and bright and burning hot, but that’s nothing compared to the weight of Silver’s stare.
I look away first.
But my eyes go straight to what’s left of the red velvet cake, the plate balanced on the edge of the buffet table.
It doesn’t fit in with the rest of the spread, almost like an afterthought, an addition that the kitchen staff didn’t put there.
Because they didn’t.
One solitary slice is left on a plate of crumbs. I want to try it almost as much as I did in that cavern in Hell.
It looks delicious.
And yet, a cake has never looked more dangerous at the same time.