Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
KAY
When I try to straighten my knees, I hit the arena sand hard enough that the air knocks out of my lungs.
Grit slides against my skin as I roll once, twice, and end up tangled with the cool sheet, wrapped haphazardly around me.
It’s the only thing between me and the hundreds of eyes I can feel pressing down from the stands.
I pull it tighter, but the edges gape, brushing against bare skin.
Naked. Of course. Umbral didn’t let me keep anything.
That place stripped me down to nothing, literally and figuratively.
I should care more, should feel the heat crawling up my neck, but I’m too wrung out for shame to fully land.
My body’s a knot of exhaustion, my thoughts slow and syrupy, like they’re still half-stuck in that shadow-realm.
I stay on my knees for a moment, just breathing, heart thudding like I’ve outrun something with claws. Maybe I have. It takes me too long for me to realize I’m not alone. Shapes move at the edges of my vision. I lift my head and see the other contenders.
All of them.
They’re scattered across the arena floor, every one of them looking like they just crawled through hell and barely made it back.
Sweat drips down temples. Tunics hang loose, torn at the edges.
Hair sticks to foreheads and necks in damp strands.
Even Varo, whose control is usually so sharp it could cut glass, looks like someone dented his armor and left the mark.
For the first time since this whole nightmare started, I’m not the only one looking wrecked. That thought loosens something in my chest. Relief is a strange thing to feel here, but it settles in anyway, heavier than the sheet over my shoulders.
The air smells faintly of scorched metal and something sweet, like flowers left too long in the sun. My fingers curl into the sheet and I close my eyes for a second. Umbral’s over. Whatever it wanted from me, it didn’t get it. I’m still here, and for now, that’s enough.
When I open my eyes again, they’re watching me.
Not just the crowd. The other contenders, too.
There’s no heat in their gazes, no easy calculation like before the trials started, just the same dazed, bruised-around-the-edges disbelief I’m sure is written across my own face.
Varo is the first to move. He pushes himself up from one knee, slow and deliberate, like every muscle in his body’s been replaced with stone.
He crosses the space between us without the usual swagger, without a smirk or some backhanded comment about me keeping up. Instead, he extends a hand.
It takes me a second to realize what he’s offering. When I do, I slip my fingers into his, and he hauls me to my feet. His grip is warm, solid—the kind of steadiness I didn’t know I needed until it’s there.
“You’re still breathing,” he says, voice rough, like maybe Umbral scraped his throat raw.
“I am,” I manage, clutching the sheet tighter.
A murmur ripples through the crowd above us, and it’s not the usual buzz of wagers and whispered derision. This is different. Softer. Curious. I glance up, expecting to see the usual half-bored expressions, but people are leaning forward, watching me with something that might almost be approval.
“Good.”
There’s an energy in the air, a strange warmth beneath the heat of the arena flame, like the crowd is sharing something between them that I’m not invited to understand. I don’t know if I want to.
Varo’s still beside me, his hand a brief, grounding weight on my arm before he lets go.
He reaches forward and I almost flinch, but don’t.
His fingers touch the pendant at my throat, stroking the smooth, red face.
I want to look down, make sure he doesn’t rip the chain from my neck, dash the gem against the rock, but I don’t want to look weak or shaken.
I keep my eyes on his face as he drops his hand.
He doesn’t say anything else, but there’s a flicker in his gaze, some calculation I can’t read—before he turns away and starts toward the others.
I let him go.
The sheet clings uncomfortably to my skin, damp with sweat from whatever that was, but my legs are steady enough now. The other contenders are regrouping in loose clusters, exchanging low words or standing apart entirely. For the first time, I see them without the shield of distance between us.
They look… human. Not in the mortal sense, but stripped of their easy arrogance, their confident tells. There are smudges under eyes that weren’t there before. Postures that slump where they’d normally hold like iron. One man keeps rubbing at his wrist like there’s a phantom shackle there.
It’s strangely comforting, in a way I didn’t expect.
The crowd above murmurs again, and this time the sound has weight to it—approval, maybe, or curiosity that isn’t entirely hostile. I’m not used to being the subject of anything but their suspicion or disdain. And I can’t tell if that makes me want to stand taller… or hide entirely.
It’s too quiet here. Not silent, there’s a hum from the crowd, like bees in a hive, but the usual jeers and bets aren’t there.
The sound feels softer. Curious, almost approving.
Attendants drift toward us in shimmering waves, their clothing all gold thread and perfect drape, like someone took the concept of “luxury” and spun it into human form.
They don’t look at the crowd, only at us.
For a long moment, I just stand there, breathing.
It’s not still. That’s the first thing I notice.
No heavy, syrupy air dragging me down, no invisible hands pressing me into the mattress.
My legs feel shaky but they’re mine again.
My muscles hum with the ache of being used.
The arena glitters. Sunlight—real or illusion, I can’t tell—pours over everything, chasing away the dimness of Umbral like it never happened.
The stone beneath my bare feet is warm, humming faintly, as if it approves of me standing on it.
A woman in gold-threaded robes approaches at a graceful glide, the train of her gown whispering over the ground. She smiles like she’s been waiting for me her whole life.
“Come, my lady,” she says, her voice bright and lilting. “You’ve done it.”
“Done it?” My voice sounds hoarse. “Escaped Umbral?”
“Escaped? Oh no. You’ve conquered it.”
I almost laugh. My hair’s a mess, my skin damp, and I’m clutching a bedsheet like it’s battle armor. If this is conquering, it’s not pretty. The relief hits me anyway. Umbral’s grip is gone, and for the first time in hours, maybe days, I can move. I just need to find—
The attendant extends a hand. Her palm is warm when I take it, and she tugs gently, guiding me forward.
“Come. We celebrate you now.”
“Celebrate?” I repeat, stumbling a little to keep the sheet from slipping.
“Yes. You’ve endured. The realm honors those who endure.” Her eyes skim over me without embarrassment, even when the sheet shifts and I blurt a panicked,
“I’m naked.”
“For now.” She laughs, but the sound is kind, and with a flick of her fingers, another attendant is suddenly there, draping something soft and heavy around my shoulders. It smells faintly of honey and spice, and I instinctively want to burrow into the soft collar.
“There. You’re perfect.”
I almost say I’m not, a cloak doesn’t fix the naked issue, but her expression makes it feel irrelevant.
We start walking—no, not walking—gliding, as though the space between the arena’s edge and the cushioned benches is meant to be crossed in slow, deliberate steps.
Every movement is framed by the gleam of gold and the murmur of the crowd.
I can hear my name, or maybe I imagine it, woven into their voices.
An attendant presses a cup into my hand, her smile as soft as the robe around my shoulders. Heavy, inlaid with gold filigree.
“Drink. It will help.”
I take a sip. Sweet fruit and something sharper, like citrus with a spark. My limbs feel lighter already, the stiffness melting. Another hand brushes at my hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear.
“We’ll make you ready for the feast,” she murmurs.
“Feast?”
“In your honor,” she says, like it’s obvious. “For the victors.”
I want to protest that there’s still more Rite ahead, but the words get lost somewhere between the warmth in my veins and the applause curling up from the crowd.
Somewhere across the benches, Varo catches my eye.
He’s letting an attendant adjust his collar, expression unreadable.
But there’s a flicker in his gaze—too brief to pin down—that feels almost like a warning.
Still, I keep moving toward the benches, toward the gold and the cushions and the smiling faces, because right now, it feels good to move.
The benches are draped in velvet so soft it feels like water under my palms. Gold plates gleam in the sun, piled high with roasted meats, jeweled fruits, sugared pastries that sparkle like they’ve been dusted with gemstones.
Attendants move like dancers, refilling goblets before they’re half empty, slipping silver-handled knives into waiting hands.
I’m settled onto a cushion that swallows me whole.
The robe I’m wrapped in is drawn snug around my shoulders, the cup in my hand refilled with something richer, sweeter.
They keep touching me. Light fingers on my arm, brushing at my hair, adjusting the fall of the robe like I’m a painting being framed.
Every gesture is paired with another compliment.
Radiant. Resilient. Deserving. The words braid together until I almost forget they’re strangers speaking.
I take another sip without thinking. The drink hums in my veins, loosening something tight in my chest.