Chapter 48 #2
The slap comes fast, a backhand that snaps my head to the side. My teeth click together and my cheek burns, the skin already throbbing. For a heartbeat, all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears. Malrik’s smile is pure malice.
I straighten, but I don’t touch my cheek. I don’t give either of them the satisfaction.
From the edge of my vision, Iskar moves. She doesn’t step in, just stands beside a pillar, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the music.
“Leave them, Kay. They’ll get out on their own. Or they won’t.”
My hands curl into fists.
“We can’t just leave them here.”
“You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to leave,” she says. Her gaze flicks toward the arch. “You’re drawing too much attention to yourself. The realm will notice. And it won’t let you go.”
The words stick, heavy in my chest. She’s not wrong.
The air is thicker now, like honey clinging to my skin.
Eyes are on me. The room itself feels… aware, but the idea of walking away from them, even knowing they might not follow, makes my stomach twist. I’ve already seen what happens when people vanish from a trial.
Sometimes they don’t come back. The fighters have gone back to each other, the slap forgotten, their insults sharper, hungrier.
I could wade in again, but Iskar’s warning rings in my ears.
“You have to choose,” Lyra says, and when I glance back, the arch is there again, just for a breath. It flickers, threatening to vanish. She steps through, and the gold flames swallow her whole.
I’m left with the sound of glass laughter and the weight of stares. I turn back to the fighters one last time.
“I’m not leaving you here,” I say, even though I know they’re too far gone to hear it.
The nearest one scoffs, shoving the other hard enough to knock her into a table.
“Then you’ll die here with us.”
The words aren’t prophecy—they’re bait. And I’m not taking it.
I turn my back on the both of them before my temper talks me into something I can’t undo. If they want to rip each other apart for the entertainment of whatever’s running this place, fine. But I’m not giving the realm another excuse to keep me here.
Elira is off to the side, tucked into a corner where the golden light turns soft and almost warm.
He’s in a high-backed chair upholstered in something that gleams when he moves, one ankle crossed over the other, a plate of food balanced in his lap.
In one hand, a fork. In the other—a book, pages edged in gilt.
He looks… content. Like none of this is strange at all.
For a second, I almost envy him. Then I remember Varo stepping through the arch, the flames catching gold, and my envy sours into urgency.
“Elira,” I say, crossing the floor. My sheet trails behind me like a ridiculous train, snagging on the edge of a low table. I have to tug it free before I can get to him. “We need to go.”
He glances up from his book, blinking like I’ve just interrupted his afternoon in some stately library.
“Go where?”
“The arch,” I say. “It’s the way out. Varo already—” I cut myself off before I say too much. The trial is listening. Watching. “We don’t have much time.”
Elira sets down his fork, marking his place in the book with one long finger.
“Kay, I’ve barely started this meal. And this is the first time in weeks I’ve been able to read without someone breathing down my neck.
” His tone is wry, familiar, but there’s a strange softness to it, like the realm has sanded down the sharper edges of him.
“Elira Voss, listen to me,” I crouch beside him, lowering my voice.
“This isn’t real. It’s the trial. If you stay here, you’ll get stuck.
Like them.” I tilt my head toward the fighters without looking directly, no need to draw the realm’s attention to them more than it already has.
Something flickers in his expression, like he’s remembering what came before the ballroom.
But the Gilded influence is thick here, syrupy sweet in the air.
“Please,” I press, “It’s important. I need you to get yourself out. Don’t make a scene. Just go.”
For a moment, he studies me, and I think he’s going to argue. Then he closes the book, sets it on the table, and stands.
“Alright,” he says, voice low. “But if I don’t get to find out how that one ends, I’m haunting you.”
“Deal.”
I watch him thread through the crowd with calm. Most of the attendants ignore him, still too focused on offering me fruit and silks and drinks I don’t want. The arch flickers again when he reaches it, the flames catching for a second before swallowing him whole.
Varo, Lyra, Elira.
I turn back to the fighters. They still haven’t stopped.
The music swelling like it’s feeding on their anger, the gold catching in their hair and skin until it almost looks like they’re glowing.
Beautiful, if you don’t listen to the words coming out of their mouths.
I should leave them. Captain Iskar’s warning echoes in my head.
But my feet carry me forward anyway. The fighters don’t notice me until I step directly into their path.
Rhovan, the better fighter, has Malrik by the collar, half a heartbeat away from slamming him into a pillar. Their faces are red, voices sharp with venom, spitting insults that sound like they’ve been rehearsed in the mirror for years. I plant myself between them.
“Enough.”
They blink at me, and for half a second, the spell wavers. Then the one with the grip sneers.
“Stay out of this, human bitch.”
That hits harder than I want to admit. The realm knows exactly where to strike, and it lands with the precision of a blade. But I’ve been through Obsidian. I’ve been through Umbral. Words aren’t enough to gut me anymore.
“You think this matters?” I shoot back. “You think winning an argument here makes you more than you were before? It doesn’t. It just keeps you trapped.”
The other one laughs, low and cruel.
“Says the girl wrapped in a bedsheet, playing hero. Pathetic.”
“Go fuck your Prince again. It’s the closest you’ll get to rule, and he’ll throw you away like the trash you are the minute this is all over.”
I refuse to look down at myself, refuse to give them that. Instead, I step closer, forcing both to back up half a step.
“We’re leaving. All of us.”
The first one shoves the second hard, sending him stumbling into me.
I catch my balance and use the momentum, twisting Rhovan’s arm to turn him toward the arch I know is there.
The gilded light tries to distract me, to slip silk and gold over my thoughts.
I grit my teeth, focusing on what’s real, on the faint shimmer in the air, the flicker of flame.
Malrik advances, jaw tight. “You don’t get to—”
I grab his wrist. He’s stronger than me, but strength doesn’t matter with the element of surprise.
I throw my weight backward, pulling both of us off balance.
The sheet tangles around my legs, but I keep pulling, step by step, toward the arch.
They’re cursing now, half at each other, half at me.
The realm presses harder, trying to drown me in its perfume and gold and music.
I hear the crowd gasp, attendants calling out offers of help, as they rush forward. As if I’m the one in need of saving.
Maybe I am.
The shimmer is close enough now that I can see the fire licking along its edges.
Gold, just like with Varo. One last yank, and both of them stumble forward.
Rhovan grabs my arm to steady himself, exactly what I need, and Malrik tries to twist away, but I catch his tunic with my free hand. And then I fall.
Not gracefully. Not heroically. Just all at once, pulling them with me through the arch. The flames surge as we hit, heat washing over my skin in a rush that smells like metal and rain, but I don’t let go. Not until all three of us dash against the floor of the arena, panting.
Free.