Fourteen
I don’t remember closing my eyes, but the world returns in fragments. It can only have been a few minutes. Marissa’s sobs blur with the wind, broken only by Alaris’ angry cries. The mist is thicker now, wetter, sticking my shirt to my skin.
I can’t stop trembling. There is a metallic tang in the air—blood.
Mine? I can’t tell, but it sours every breath I take.
To my right, Morwen is hunched forward, eyes wide and unfocused.
Her lips tremble, her fingertips slick with something that shines black in the half-light of the mist. Blood stains her collar.
She tries to press a hand to the wound at the back of her head, but her fingers slip, and she winces—as if surprised to find herself so breakable.
Callen is there in an instant, clumsy with panic. “What happened?” he asks, voice cracking.
He kneels beside Morwen, his hands darkening with her blood as he inspects her wound. She signs something, but I don’t know what it means.
“She hit her head when we were thrown,” Lyssandra says, translating for us.
Morwen tips her head back and tries to smile but only manages a grimace.
Lyssandra looks at the wound. “It’s shallow. It looks worse than it is.”
She signs something to Morwen, and Morwen’s breathing steadies.
“Please,” Callen says. “Let me help you.”
He rips off a strip of his shirt’s hem and uses it as a crude bandage, pressing it to the back of Morwen’s head to staunch the bleeding.
She flinches at the contact, but then sets her jaw, taking a deep breath.
“We need to move you,” he says. “Get you somewhere safe, somewhere with a bit of cover.”
He looks to me, panic-stricken. “Luceris, help me—”
I don’t move. I don’t know where to put my hands, what wound to press, what lie to offer next.
“There is no safe,” Lyssandra says, her voice flat but melodic. “Let her rest. It will all be over soon.”
She says it as if Morwen’s pain is incidental. Her faith is so absolute it borders on madness. I want to hate her for it. Instead, I am envious of the way she can be so still, so calm, while the world falls apart around us.
Callen ties the bandage around Morwen’s head and helps her lie down. Morwen closes her eyes and curls into herself, suddenly small.
Mist curls in around us, thickening like closing fingers. The light dims as shadows move within the fog.
At the edge of my vision, a pocket of shadow darkens. Vaelis emerges from it, not stepping out so much as assembling, his body gathering itself from the dark in a way that turns my stomach.
He stands a few paces away, arms folded, eyes clinical. “The Fireborn are coming,” he says with brisk indifference. “Circling round towards you.”
His gaze slides over Morwen’s bloody bandage, over her sleeping body, then stops on Callen. “If you plan to run, you should do so now.”
Callen’s voice is serrated. “Why warn us? Wouldn’t it be easier to let them kill us and end the trial?”
Vaelis blinks, like the question bores him. “Atheron has slipped from the Prince’s hands. The Prince is now occupied dealing with Rask.”
He looks to me. “Nyxen is injured. I must return to the Prince’s side. Atheron and his dogs are coming here to cull the Lightborn. He announced as much, loudly.”
He lets the words hang in the air, then adds, “He’s coming for you, Luceris.”
“Is Kael hurt?” I blurt out.
Vaelis shakes his head. “The Prince is fine. Preoccupied. Do not rely on his help; he is not in the habit of saving the weak.”
It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
Alaris pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. His face is pale and splotchy, but a new determination shines in his eyes.
“I’m not hiding anymore,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “Not after what happened to Fen. And Sorin.”
Vaelis studies Alaris with mild disinterest. “Survival is not cowardice. This place demands survival by any means. Dying stupidly, however, is.”
He flicks his gaze back to me. “Make your choices. They will arrive soon.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Vaelis dissolves into shadow, and the mist closes around the space where he stood.
Marissa stands next to me, her hands balled into fists.
“What do we do?” she whispers, looking up at me.
I want to tell her that everything will work out. I want to tell her that Kael will come, that he will appear out of the dark and save us.
I can’t, so I just stare into the mist. Three glowing points of fire flicker in the distance. The Fireborn are coming.
“I’m going,” Callen says. He hoists Morwen into his arms, cradling her with an awkward tenderness, and runs. He doesn’t even look back. Not at me. Not at Marissa.
Lyssandra looks ready to resist, but Callen has already disappeared into the mist. Instead, she sinks to her knees, taking up her prayers once again.
Marissa grips my arm, her fingers trembling as the fire draws closer. For a breath, it seems like she might follow Callen.
I almost tell her to. But I don’t.
Alaris doesn’t wait for permission. He turns towards the Light island and runs, grief driving each step.
Marissa and I stand together as the fire approaches, the shadows in the mist growing longer, sharper, more treacherous.
They aren’t coming for everyone.
They’re coming for me.
I don’t feel brave, not even close.
But this time, I won’t run.
At first there is only the taste of burning in the air. A dry heat that scratches my nose and catches at the back of my throat. I brace myself as they come into view—three figures march in a shallow V, their leader unmistakable even through the swirling fog.
Atheron walks in front, his steps so fluid and graceful they barely touch the ground. To his left is Maleiros, sturdy and broad, his eyes glazed over in a distant haze. To his right is Serraith, wiry yet equally menacing, his hands flexing, wreathed in restless, living flames.
They spread out, encircling us—not charging, but tightening their formation like predators savouring the fear.
Marissa trembles next to me, suddenly every bit the child she is: shoulders hunched, face pinched, all her bravado leeched away by the heat.
Lyssandra hasn’t moved; she hasn’t even looked up. Her lips continue moving in prayer—the sound is soft and rhythmic, but I can’t make out the words. I want to scream at her to get up and fight, but the peace in her expression stops me.
“Luceris!” Marissa hisses, grabbing my arm.
The first flicker of flame comes from Serraith—an almost playful toss of fire that arcs just over my head, close enough to feel its heat. It isn’t meant to harm me. Not yet. Only to remind me who’s in control.
I shove Marissa behind me. My own Mana throbs under my skin, but fear makes it flutter.
“Don’t be shy,” Atheron mocks. “We’re all friends here.”
Maleiros launches a slow, lazy fireball directly at my chest. I barely manage to throw up a shield, and the impact makes my arms shake. The golden barrier holds. I release it, shaking out the tension in my fingertips.
“Pathetic,” Serraith jeers. He darts closer, eyes dancing. “You barely got that up in time. You really think you can take all three of us?”
Lyssandra continues her prayer, her voice a song rising above the taunts until the words blend into a single unbroken note.
Atheron watches, amused, his lips curling in genuine delight.
He approaches slowly, hands behind his back, utterly relaxed.
The other two retreat into the mist.
“You know, the last time I won the Rites, the Lightborn never made it past the first trial. It was a massacre. But this year, the Mother Shard is restless—unpredictable.” He stops a few paces away, his eyes glittering amber.
“I suppose it must be quite boring when the Offerings are this weak. Perhaps she’s trying to amuse herself.
The death count is not the same, you see. ”
He glances at Marissa behind me, then back at me, lingering for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“Just like that embarrassment of a Crown of yours. Three pointless Offerings, barely able to summon a flicker—well, except you. You tricked the Blessed somehow. That is interesting.” He waves his hand, a dismissive gesture. “No matter. You’ll still have to die.”
A cackling laugh rolls through the mist—Maleiros’ or Serraith’s; I can’t tell which.
Marissa bites down hard, but a tear slips down her cheek and drips from her chin. “Please,” she whispers. “Please let us go.”
Atheron cocks his head, almost considering. “You want mercy? In this game of death?”
He steps forward, close enough that heat rolls off him into my face. “The only mercy here is efficiency. A quick death. But I don’t think either of you has earned that.”
His tone shifts, all playfulness gone. “Unfortunately, that Prince of yours has made himself a problem. Harder to break than I expected. He would want to see this, though, don’t you think?”
He casts a theatrical glance around the mist, as if he expects Kael to drop out of the sky. “I want him to watch as I destroy his little pet, knowing that he was too late to save you.”
Understanding cuts through the haze.
They’re waiting. Not for the kill, but for Kael. For an audience.
I am bait. Nothing more.
The thought chills me through.
Kael will come.
He has to.
I just need to keep Marissa alive until then.
I turn and pull her close. “I need you to run,” I whisper. “They don’t want you.”
She shakes her head, a sob tearing from her throat. “I won’t leave you—”
“You will,” I say. “Find Callen. They won’t chase you. It’s me they want. This is about Kael.”
She clings to my shirt, knuckles white. “Please don’t die.”
“Not today,” I promise. I hope it’s not a lie.
Behind me, Lyssandra’s prayer swells, soft and unbroken in the warm mist.
Serraith is circling now, fire dripping from his fingers in licking strands that hiss when they kiss the ground. Maleiros stands like a wall at the edge of the mist, arms crossed, waiting.
Atheron leans in, voice soft so only I can hear. “If it were up to me, I’d let you go. Save your death for another day. But the Prince made this personal.”
He straightens, then shouts to the sky. “Anytime, Prince. We’re waiting.”
“He’s not coming,” I shout.