Page 22 of Hellbound

She had tried that already.

Varka merely folded a napkin in her lap, and it was the most ladylike thing Ksenia had seen of the woman since meeting her. “No. Not at all. Are the trials deadly? Yes. Are they insane? Yes. But are they possible? Certainly, yes! And I know you don’t trust my motives yet, but trust me when I say your survival is key to my plan as well as it is to yours—of course.”

“And what do you know of my plan?” Ksenia quipped.

“That you sure as shit don’t have one!” Varka slapped the table, overcome with laughter at her own joke.

Ksenia scowled. That was true, but her entire world had been upended in the span of a single day. Not that anyone would believe the story. She had difficulty believing her own reality right now, but her dagger point digging into the soft column of her neck earlier had tangibly renewed her fear of death.

“My girl,” Varka drawled. “You are very lucky that I do have a plan, but it involves your commitment to the trials.”

“And if I change my mind?”

TCHAKKKK!

Varka broke open the rib cage of the pheasant before her. “There is no turning back. The trials are secretive; no surviving losers, only one surviving winner.”

Ksenia failed to see the benefit. “Why would anyone want to do this?”

“For the champions: money, lots of it. Power, prestige, holding the world in your very hands, being second only to the king himself,” Varka rattled off. “For their patrons, the king’s favor, maybe an opportunity to weave their family lines with his. Surely you’ve noticed that Bohdan, as hard as he tries, doesn’t appear any closer to becoming king? People don’t think he will succeed the throne—so there’s an opportunity to gain power.”

“All right, why do you need me to do this?” Ksenia barked. This world of subterfuge and court politics was above her station.

“Because I need someone crazy, no—insane! On the inside. To get close to the king. We have the same goals, don’t you see?” Varka brandished her knife excitedly, sending jam across her plate.

“That’s a bit offensive.” Ksenia rolled her eyes. “How would you even manage this?”

“Training. Lots of it. I saw you; you’re unrefined, but with the right guidance, you can become a well-honed blade. Move into Beranek Manor, and I’ll sponsor you as my champion.”

Ksenia stared at her plate. Varka continued. “You’ve got guts; you’re not afraid of taking what you want. I’d bet others think it’s your weakness, that bull-headedness.”

Ksenia could hear Danika’s voice in her head, exasperated from being the one to clean up the mess. You always do this—leap first, bleed later. Sometimes simultaneously. One day, you won’t be able to get back up. And what will I do then?

But she had gotten back up. And she wouldn’t spoil her second chance at life.

“Well? What do you think?” Varka’s question broke through her reverie.

Ksenia begrudgingly nodded her head. She was making more pacts than she had ever intended.

7

Beranek Manor sat atop a rocky spine overlooking the mirror-black lake, a short carriage ride from the tavern. Ksenia could hear the lapping waves and the raindrops puckering the surface as she exited the carriage.

The manor was a well-maintained relic, its dark walls crawling with ivy. Ksenia spotted the telltale blue-and-gray veining in the stone, nearly indecipherable against the black. This was the most expensive estate she had ever laid eyes on. Whoever built this had built it from Grastelian ore.

Left in its unrefined state, it had likely denatured over time, losing its magical potency, but she still marveled at the grandiosity it took to create an entire sprawling manor from the most coveted mineral on the continent.

Furthermore, it told her that the Beranek family was not to be underestimated. So much precious ore in one spot should’ve made the estate a target for robberies, yet there were no obstacles between her and the building.

She hadn’t noticed her mouth was agape until Varka leaned into view, a knowing smile on her face. She beckoned her forward, and they hurried their way along the bricked path. She reached the ebony doors first and craned her neck until she cramped. They had to be three times a man’s height, the edges carved with thorned roses. Overhead, a circular window was emblazoned with the Beranek crest in leaded glass. Along the circumference, a motto was painted in gold leaf.

“‘To glory through the wound,’” Ksenia read.

Varka nodded before stepping through the doors and greeting a slew of servants waiting at her beck and call. “Beraneks come from a long line of fighters.”

Fighting. That was one undeniable weakness of Ksenia’s: she could create the instrument but lacked the experience to use it effectively.

Her waterlogged boot squelched as she walked, trailing mud over the pristine white marble floors that led into a grand foyer with crystalline chandeliers winking down from triple-story ceilings, complete with crisscrossed vaulted ribs of darkened wood. The ceiling above the windows curved into a graceful arch that seamlessly blended with the pointed windows, making the room feel as if it had been carved from a single piece of stone rather than built. A sweeping staircase dominated the center of the hall, made of dark, gleaming mahogany, with an ornate green tapestry dominating the walls.