Chapter 46
Caelus steps forward before I do.
My heart lurches, slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
Rhythe hasn’t made a move. And now he’s being held by guards like a dog with its tail between its legs. If he isn’t going to try to execute the Benevolent, Caelus and I will need to create our own distraction in order to steal the magic and run.
My neck is slick.
Caelus must be able to sense my sudden panic, because he gives the slightest nod.
A silent promise. My breath quickens. Each inhale feels too shallow, each step too light to be real.
And yet—I’m moving. Somehow, my feet carry me forward, past Dorian’s body, up to the stage, even though I don’t remember putting a single step forward.
The crowd blurs, a sea of beaming faces and applause. The light gleams off polished stone and bloodied metal.
I catch sight of the Mercyenforcer who picked up the bloody spear that impaled Dorian. I veer, giving him a wide berth. The stage rises before us, solemn and final. The two refilled chalices are waiting.
We stop, side by side in front of them. And for a breathless moment, time hangs suspended.
Rhythe eyes me coldly, and I feel it in my bones.
I could swear he shakes his head. But I blink and he’s not looking at me anymore.
I can feel all the contestants watching me, waiting to see if Caelus and I have what the rest of them claimed to covet.
I grab a chalice. Caelus does too.
“On my say, you will drink,” the Benevolent announces, his voice clipped, each word sharpened with venom, spite curling at the edges.
I loosen my stance, letting my limbs hang open, ready for the shards.
I don’t know where they’ll form or what shape they’ll take, only that they will.
My gaze stays fixed on the royal escape tunnel.
The Benevolent signals the Mercyenforcers suddenly.
They tighten in a circle around us. I search their faces, looking for some hint that one of them here is on our side.
But they are unreadable, their movements synchronized, the circle closing like a noose.
I feel it in my chest—a rising pressure, like the air itself is narrowing.
The audience watches in hushed silence.
“Now,” the Benevolent says.
I lift my chalice. My hands don’t shake.
Not because I’m brave, but because fear has locked every muscle in place.
We turn toward each other and Caelus’s eyes meet mine, a promising sea beneath a glittering sky.
We will get out of here. If it kills me.
He told me that once and I didn’t understand it.
But I do now. I feel it in the marrow of my bones, a determined strength, something supernatural that’s instinctually human.
I will make it out of here.
Because I cannot live through whatever is waiting on the other side.
We nod once—together.
And drink.
The liquid is warm. Sweet at first, cloying, like honey left too long in the sun.
Then—bitter, metallic, and wrong. It hits my tongue like rot and fire all at once, and I want to gag, but I force it down.
My throat burns. The warmth spreads, fast and ruthless down my throat, curling into my gut like coiled smoke.
Then it turns.
The warmth becomes fire. Not heat, but hurt—searing through my chest, radiating outward in jagged lines. I double over with strangled breath, clutching at my ribs as the pain stabs deep, like something inside me is being cut open, exposed raw.
Beside me, Caelus stumbles, gasping. His hand slams to his chest.
I feel it then—an energy, sudden and violent, like lightning forced inward. It surges to my heart, sharp and electric, like something ancient and wild being awakened against its will.
And then—
Light.
A glow bursts from beneath my ribs, pulsing through the fabric of my chest like a second heartbeat. Bright. Vivid. Alive.
Gasps ripple through the arena. I stagger, breathless—but still standing. Still shining.
Then I turn to Caelus.
And my blood turns cold.
He’s swaying slightly, his face pale and strained. But his chest—his heart—does not glow.
No light. No answering pulse of magic.
Nothing.
Just silence.
My breath catches. My body freezes.
Caelus blinks up at me, stricken, eyes wide with confusion. He touches his chest again, as if he could will the magic to rise and glow like mine, showing we are a truest-love match. But the devastating truth is already there.
The crowd murmurs, the commotion rising like a wave of shouts. I hear the shifting of boots, the faint click of weapons. That’s when I notice everyone is no longer looking at me. All heads have turned toward the base of the stage.
Rhythe.
He stands alone, arms folded across him, expression carved from stone. His chest pulses with light in a glowing steady rhythm. A radiant pulse that mirrors my own in color and cadence. Not just similar—identical.
His heart glows in perfect sync with mine.
It takes me a second too long to understand what I’m seeing. Then everything inside me recoils.
No.
No. No. No.
Not him. Anyone but him.
I step back, like the distance might erase the bond. How? He’s cruel when he speaks. Distant when he doesn’t. He’s terrifying.
He can’t be my truest match here.
I turn, hoping—desperate—for something else. For Caelus.
He’s still bracing himself at the weight of what just happened. He presses his unmoving chest, as though if he holds it long enough, the light might come. Might flicker.
But it doesn’t.
There is nothing. No glow. No pulse. He looks up at me, eyes shining—not with magic, but with pain. Real, raw pain, as if he somehow believes I could truly love Rhythe more than him. None of this makes sense. His jaw clenches, and I see the exact second his heart cracks beneath the surface.
Then his ire moves to Rhythe, who says nothing. Rhythe’s jaw is slack, stunned; his hands rove his chest as if he’s looking for some veil, some mask to pull off this lie. The Benevolent throws his head back in a mocking laugh.
I step forward. “No. No, that’s wrong. That’s—” But I don’t get to finish.
“Seize them both! Shove their faces together. They will kiss!” The Benevolent’s expression darkens.
Then the air shifts.
And the sky explodes.