A grin played on Elyria’s lips. She looked like she was about to toss another jibe in Gael’s direction when a cold voice suddenly cut back in.
“Were you not leaving?” Kit said.
Elyria flinched but before she could respond, a clangorous gong suddenly reverberated through the hall.
The champions turned in unison toward the source of the sound. A hush fell over the crowd. The ethereal light of the Gate shimmered. Then, as if it were some solid, tangible thing, it started to shake. Threads of light vibrated until they combined into a seemingly solid mass of luminance—an incandescent curtain.
The Gate was open.
From behind the curtain, a white-cloaked figure emerged.
“Champions.” The voice was somehow many voices at once—thunderous and tranquil, rasping and smooth. “I am the Arbiter.”
Whispers echoed through the crowd of spectators. Every champion’s mouth was clamped tight, all eyes locked on the Arbiter.
“Tell me,” said that multifaceted voice, “who desires to enter the Arcane Crucible?”
13
GET TO THE GATE
ELYRIA
“Who will committhemselves to the Celestial Sanctum? Who will test themselves in the Crucible?”
The Arbiter’s face was obscured by a gleaming white hood and the shadows it cast, but Elyria thought she couldfeelthe being beneath the billowing robes smile as they surveyed the gathered champions.
She had a vague recollection of seeing the Arbiter when she had accompanied Evander here last time. She grasped at the threads of her memory, trying to discern what had occurred, the words that were said, but they slipped through her fingers. All she could recall was how Evander had looked—so confident, so beautiful. How the last thing he’d done before stepping through the Gate was look back at her.
“I commit myself.” Paelin’s voice cut through Elyria’s reverie. He took a step toward the Arbiter before falling to one knee, his fist clasped over his heart. “I desire to enter the Crucible and prove my worth to the realm.”
“Then so you shall,” said the Arbiter, their multi-tonal voice echoing in Elyria’s ears. “But before your trials begin, know this. The Arcane Crucible offers deadly tests of strength and power, yes. It will test your resolve, the depth of your spirit. But most importantly, it tests your propensity for harmony—for unity.”
Elyria balked. She did not remember anything like this from last time.
Looking to the side, she tried to catch Kit’s eye, as if perhaps she’d be able to speak to whether this was some new revelation, or if Elyria had just blocked everything out from before. Kit’s gaze was unwavering, fixed on the Arbiter, her expression unreadable.
“Unity?” The voice that came from the shadows was strangely familiar. Soft and hard, masculine and feminine. The midnight-skinned nocterrian stepped out of the shadows along the far wall, and Elyria gaped at them. Black hair. Curved horns. The same one from the jail.
Their red-black eyes flicked to Elyria’s for the briefest moment as they passed. “What does that mean?” asked the nocterrian. “That the crown cannot be won by a single champion? That we have to work together?”
“And harmony between who?” asked Gael. “Are we to choose allies inside the Sanctum? You cannot possibly mean to say”—she ran her eyes over the trio of human champions huddled together on the floor and let out a derisive snort—“we areallexpectedto work together.”
The Arbiter did not respond. Uneasy murmurs ran through the crowd. Several champions openly scoffed.
“Surely you cannot be serious,” said one of the humans. Not one of the ridiculous, short-tempered twins, but the third—a woman with dull brown hair, an upturned nose, and hazel eyes that were set too far apart. Their leader, it seemed, and the one who had just declared her intent to do whatever theoppositeof harmony was once the Crucible officially began.
“I’m not usually one to turn down multiple partners.” A fae with long, straight cobalt hair, parted deeply on one side and shaved underneath, stood between Gael and Paelin. Cyren, if she recalledcorrectly. “But this is asking a lot, even for me.” He tossed a wink in Elyria’s direction.
The discontented murmurings grew into a symphony of complaints.
“I’ll travel to the fourth quarter of hell before I trust one ofthem,” spat the leader of the human trio.
“And what does this mean for the crown?” cried someone else.
“Yes! What have we been training for if not to win the crown for our people—for glory?” asked Paelin.
“This is absurd,” said the dwarven champion, his eyes briefly falling on the chestnut-haired knight, his jaw tight as he quietly observed the others.
