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My jaw tightened, and I clenched my hands in front of me, containing my anger and trying so hard to push it down. My unease threatened to spill over. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to happen! My mother would die if I didn’t get back home to her. I didn’t have time to play an absurd faerie game.
Everyone’s warnings came flooding in at once, churning my stomach. Flushing my skin.
The room was too small—too hot.
“Our competitors will receive upgraded accommodations as they take part in the trials, however, I may revoke or extend privileges depending on their performance. They’ll also receive a faerie mentor to help them train and navigate these trials. After all, we want a good fight, don’t we?”
The crowd responded in confirmation. They wanted a show. A bloodbath. They wanted revenge.
All the air evaporated from the room at once, choking me into submission.
The weight of the king’s words was too heavy.
The flicker of the candles like needle pricks to my skin.
How am I going to get out of this alive?
The crowd cheered and whistled their agreement, and the king puffed his chest. This was barbaric. All because of what happened centuries ago? And he called their species kind and forgiving? I dug my nails into my palms.
More like vengeful and sadistic.
“Now let’s meet our competitors. When you’re presented, offer us your name.”
A cold sweat coated my skin.
A tall, muscular guy who appeared around my age stepped forward. He looked like a carbon copy of all the Royal Guards in Wendover, with his dark brown hair shaved close to his scalp. A sentry ready for orders. He clenched his jaw as he stared at the king. “Kelvin Amhurst.”
My eyes widened—his nasal tone was a striking difference from the king’s deep, robust voice.
“Calandra Edgeworth,” the slender girl beside him announced.
I turned to put a face to the meek voice, but she fell back into line as quickly as she came forward. I only caught a glimpse of a soiled leather shoe.
A shorter, stocky guy stepped up next. His tapered blond curls bounced with each step—his shoulder blades practically touching as he puffed out his chest. Pretension seeped off him, and I scrunched my nose. “Aeron Beckworth,” he said with his chin held high.
My bones turned to water as the other competitors announced their names, anxiously awaiting my turn.
Jeston Willows, Irving Munoz, Martell Colt, and Sage Sulwyn, all of whom appeared to be in their late teens—Martell, possibly in his late twenties—and like everyone else, their clothes were dirty and tattered.
The guard nudged me forward, and my knees almost buckled from beneath me.
King Harkin glowered at the sight of me, and the room spun as I found my voice. “Elowyn Rosewood.”
“Looks like you two are already off to a great start,” the guard whispered as I wobbled back into line and bit my cheek.
I held back my thoughts on where he could shove his patronizing comments and could’ve sworn he chuckled.
The tall girl—the one muted from earlier—stepped forward, her face still swollen with tears. “Breana Flint.” Her guard jerked her back into line, and she let out a voiceless yelp.
My heart twisted. I didn’t know what everyone did to end up there, but I couldn’t imagine a death sentence was warranted punishment.
A small boyish voice broke me from my thoughts. “Lewis Fields.”
Lewis Fields?
I recognized his name.
Leaning back onto my heels, I glimpsed his towhead and remembered the story of the young boy who disappeared from Wendover earlier this year. The town’s paper wrote about how his mother searched endlessly day and night for weeks. Months. Refusing to give up. They later admitted her into the asylum, going mad with grief. Had he been there the entire time?
