“You’re okay,” she says, her voice shakes. She forces a small, wobbly smile. “You’re strong. You’ve got this.”
Then, movement behind her. Her former duenna steps forward, hands on her arms, pulling her away. Eva doesn’t fight her.
I am glad for it. Let her take my friend to safety, far away from whatever I have become.
“You’re a natural,” the hooded stranger says, stepping closer. “Maybe there’s a chance for you yet.”
Finally, I look up and take him in.
He is massive, broad-shouldered, cruelly calm. Dark, tousled hair falls in wild locks around his face as if he’s emerged from pelting wind and rain. A storm, bound in the body of a man, waiting to break free and wreak its havoc.
Under his black cloak, he wears a worn, black leather vest. Hismuscular chest is bare.
Shadowy chains crisscross his torso, shifting between tangible links and intricate tattoos that pulse with a sinister energy. They solidify for a moment before dissolving back into dark ink, an eerie metamorphosis that blurs where the chains end and the tattoos begin.
“My name is Kaelzar,” the stranger announces, “and I am—” He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts against my skin. “What’s your name?”
My throat tightens. My body trembles, nerves fraying at the edges. “Raylane Troubelle,” I whisper.
He cocks his head, nose wrinkling in bemusement, as if my name is the strangest thing he’s ever heard. “Trouble? Fitting.” Then, his lips curve into something almost amused and he finishes loudly, “—Raylane Trouble’s Godbeast.”
“It’s Troubelle,” I murmur weakly, as the weight of my choice settles like iron in my chest. What have I done?
And then the second part of what he’d said settles in.
My Godbeast.
The words beat inside my skull, repeatedly, unable to settle.
My gaze flies to the dais, where the other participants stand, their Godbeasts at their sides—a wall of scales shielding the king and their Champions.
This can’t be right. Godbeasts aren’t men.
I wrench my eyes back to him. “You’re not a beast...”
Kaelzar doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink. This isn’t possible. He can’t be mine. I’m supposed to have a creature—a beast, a relic of the gods, a thing of magic and might. Not… a man.
A man who looks at me like I’m less than dirt, who speaks to me like I’m a burden.
I shake my head, taking a step back. “This is a mistake.”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face. Kaelzar exhales sharply, then lifts his left wrist, flipping it palm-up. A mark is burned into the inside of his wrist, as if pressed there like a brand.
A jagged, interwoven sigil—an upside-down triangle lined with outward-facing spikes and blood-like droplets poolingwithin—marks his skin. The symbol of Calista, the Witch Goddess.
I force myself to look at my own throbbing left wrist, knowing what I’ll find. The same mark. It wasn’t there before. I rub at it, as if I can erase it, but the skin is smooth, unbroken. The sigil is part of me now.
Kaelzar watches, unimpressed. “Each champion and their Godbeast bear this shared mark. A contract sealed in blood.” His tone is unbothered, as if we’re discussing the weather, not a bond that has just shackled my fate to his.
I swallow hard, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in my throat. I can’t undo it. I am bound.
I have a Godbeast.
I havethisGodbeast. He has no fangs or claws, not so much as a sword, that I can see. Even so, threat radiates off him like a serpent, coiled and ready to strike. Either way, I have no other choice.
The Challenges have begun and I cannot turn back now.
Mael pushes forward with colorful curses, shoving the guards who try to stop him aside. “The festering doesn’t touch the stones, you imbeciles,” he snaps at a particularly stubborn one still blocking his way, clearly not thrilled about being forced closer to me. “She has it under control.”
