Page 128 of Heart of Mischief

Breathe.

Relax.

The pain isn’t real.

Not real? How could this searing torture not be real? It was all-consuming. It was the realest thing to ever exist.

I’m here, Charlie.

It will be over soon.

I’m waiting for you on the other side.

The voice’s words were so soothing, like a splash of cold water on a red, raw burn. From somewhere within the fog of pain, she thought she heard herself sob. Thought she heard that sob even over the jeers of the crowd.

The jeers of the crowd.

The crowd.

The Trial.

She was in the middle of the Trial. Yes. A Trial that she hadto get through if she wanted to make it out of Helheim alive. A Trial that she could not fail—if not for herself, then for the sake of Mason, Sophie, Lou, Abigail, her mother… She knew the pain caused by premature death, and she wouldn’t inflict that upon her loved ones. Not now. Not ever.

She understood, then, that this pain was not real. Not physical. Her bones had not shattered. Her skin had not split open. Her blood remained in her veins. She was still whole, still standing at the center of the Trial arena, hands gripping Gungnir. The pain—excruciating as it might have been—was mental. It was entirely in her head.

And she knew what to do with mental pain.

She and mental pain were old friends. They’d met as children, when a group of boys threw dirt at her twin sister, calling her Silent Sophie and asking if she even knew how to talk. They met again when that same sister was in the hospital and her mother said everything would be fine but the fear in her eyes said something completely different. And when the grief descended, that cold, suffocating cloud that turned every color in her life to gray, Charlie knew that mental pain was no longer just an acquaintance; it was her life partner. Her roommate, her bedfellow, the worst best friend she’d ever have. It wasn’t going anywhere.

So she learned to shut it up. To push it down. To distract herself from its presence by whatever means necessary.

And that’s exactly what she needed to do now.

Because why was this mental pain any different from the kinds she’d felt before?

It wasn’t. So, she’d deal with it just as she always did—with one of her three distractions:

Research, train, recite.

Here, with her hands glued to Gungnir and her eyes blinded by pain, she could neither research nor train, but there was still one option left for her. The one that she could do anywhere. That shehaddone anywhere. That had gotten her through weeks of terror and barely suppressed panic. The one that had become a mantra, a song, a prayer:

You will make yourself strong.

You will find Elias.

You will kill Elias.

You will never trust a boy with your heart again.

But the mantra didn’t work anymore. It wasn’t true. And if she was going to make it through this pain alive, she needed something new to recite.

She didn’t have to think hard about what that something new would be. The lines came to her of their own accord, as if they’d been hiding in her head all along, waiting for their chance to break free.

You are strong.

You found Elias.

You forgave Elias.