“Up you go. It won’t get easier the longer you stare at it,” a Veil standing at the foot of the ladder orders. She shakes the rope for added emphasis.
I swallow down my fear.
Here goes nothing.
I grip the first rung and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from pleading for mercy. The taste of copper floods my mouth from how hard I am biting down, but I don’t let up. I can do this.I can do this. I’m the daughter of Maeve Caderyn, one of the greatest Veils to ever grace the halls of Kintoira Academy.
I start my ascent and pray to Lansointh, the god of fortitude, that I have the strength to keep going. If there was one god who’s been present in my life without fail, it’s him.
The climb up the rope ladder to the grass-covered podium is slow and steady. Honestly, though, the fact that my legs are moving at all is progress. The chill from the mountainous winds bites through my bones, but regardless of how frigid the air is, beads of sweat still fall over my brow. I’m sweating and freezing at the same time, and my legs feel like jelly.
It’s time to face theDeath Giveras it’s been so kindly named by the prospects before us. The agility portion of Asylamation. The part I’ve been dreading. And apparently for very good reason. I knew I was going to hate this. Iknewit. And here I am, being all right and stuff, hating this.
It couldn’t be the last portion of it that ended with us in the sky. No, it had to be the very first. I think I’m almost halfway up. I’ve kept my face forward, or rather upward, and haven’t madethe dire mistake of looking down again, so I can’t be sure, but it feels like I’ve made a fair amount of progress.
After what feels like forever, I finally crest the top and release my cheek from the painful bite. The taste of blood washes over my tongue. The coppery tang surrounds my taste buds. Upperclassmen sit in the stadium seating that surrounds us, throwing taunts and jeers our way, but I go to that place in my head where I can block them all out. There’s only me and the distance it will take to get from this podium to the next.
I grind my teeth and wipe my hands on my shirt, the buttons now askew. I think a few might even be missing.
Cracking my knuckles, I focus on the task ahead of me.
Wooden spikes, sharpened to a lethal point, line the entire floor between the two podiums. A dark substance stains the tips of many. It isn’t hard to imagine what made those stains. It’s at least an eighty-four-foot drop to reach the spikes.
I will not contribute to those stains.
Head up, chin up.
I can do this.
I gulp down any remaining moisture and blood that’s left in my mouth and count the rings between the podiums. There are twenty in total. It would be hard enough on its own, but add in the frigid temperatures and the fact that I had to remove my cheap gloves to prevent my grip from slipping on the rings, and I’m starting to feel like it’s a lost cause.
I’ll need to jump high enough to grip the first ring firmly with both hands and then swing myself with enough momentum to grab the next. That’s the part that makes me nervous—the momentum. Too little and I won’t make it, falling to my death. Too much and my hand will slip, again, falling to my death.
I step from foot to foot, trying to expel some of this nervous energy as I wait for my turn, watching the other lieutenant cross the rings. I met him on the first night of Asylamation. He’s theone with floppy brown hair and thick, large, rimmed glasses that appear just a little too big for his face. Aksel, I think his name was. He’s more than halfway across and has a steady rhythm to his swinging. He’s making it look so easy.
I chew on my nails, the black polish chipped and faded.
As a child, this would have been cake. As an adult, my arms are more like limp noodles. They serve a purpose but are also useless in most situations.
He effortlessly swings himself to the next ring. His brows are drawn tight in concentration, but his eyes aren’t holding any tension. He’s confident in his ability. The veins in his hand flex with the assertion of holding on for so long, but he’s almost to the end. There are only a few rings left.
Maybe this won’t be so hard after all.
As long as I keep looking forward and not down.
He rocks his hips back and forth, chasing the last bit of vigor needed to land on the opposite podium. His hand reaches out and grabs the next ring, but I don’t miss the way he flexes his finger over the top. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s trying to work the cold out and get the blood flowing, but there’s just no escaping it. It’s a mind-numbing kind of cold.
I’m sure it was intended this way, to host Asylamation during the most bitter months of the year, just to add another layer of agony to the already treacherous task. We don’t even get winter gear, just our standard-issued prospect uniforms.
I rub my arms vigorously as my veins chase a sliver of warmth.
My eyes follow his movements as his entire body is thrown into the next transition, eager to be finished. I can’t blame him. He’s so close he can probably taste it. The sweet taste of escaping death and being one step closer to his goal.
I do my best not to blink or take my eyes off Aksel as I shove the wayward hairs out of my face. The ferocious winds are blowing them all over the place, escaping the severe bun I putthem in, causing them to smack me directly in the mouth and eyes. Eyes that currently narrow in on Aksel, watching his facial expressions.
If I weren’t staring at him at exactly the right moment, I would miss the way his eyes widen, and fear overtakes his features right after he lets go of the ring with his left hand. He knows immediately he overcompensated and doesn’t have the precise control needed to grab onto the next ring. His arm catches his glasses mid-swing, knocking them off into the pit below. I watch in horror as his hand frantically grabs air, searching for the ring.
A pulse of dread ripples beneath my skin.
