Page 23 of Stormbreaker

“Fiama,” I say, hoping no one picks up on the wobble in my tone.

Devon steps to the side, revealing a small pen with a thin, wiry man sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Then your first test is to fight hand to hand with this man who has committed egregious crimes against Society. He has agreed to a combat to the death for a lesser sentence. If you win, you’ll move on to the next round. If you lose, your future becomes far more uncertain.”

I barely absorb his words; my brain is stuck on “combat to the death.” They don’t really expect me to kill someone, do they? My palms sweat as I study the man. He watches me with a neutral expression, as though a battle for his life is of only passing interest. I can’t tell if that means he isn’t afraid of me—or if I should be afraid of him.

My nostrils flare with indignation. “Was he actually given a choice? What did he do?”

“He hurt innocents,” Devon answers, which is really only half an answer. “Our sworn duty as House Fiama is to ensure New Manhattan remains safe and under control. We do that by eliminating those who refuse to follow our laws. Criminals deserve no mercy, thinking only of themselves and not the greater good.”

It takes me a moment to process his words. I understand that it’s Fiama’s duty to keep order within our city, but surely not like this?

The atmosphere tenses, and I feel like I’m missing some important detail.

“Who would come up with such a test?” I demand, suddenly furious on the man’s behalf.

A pause hangs in the air before Devon slips off his mask, something uncertain passing over his expression. “I mean . . . your father, of course?”

Of course. Every scion devises their House tests, changing things up every year to maintain some level of secrecy. Of course, my father would be one to devise a test so barbaric.

I understand he rules with an iron fist. That he’s often lauded for how safe he keeps the city. His predecessor failed in his duty, and riots led to countless deaths. I know better than most what kind of man he is, but maybe I never truly understood how far his cruelty stretches.

“I won’t do it,” I say, lifting my chin. I notice several people in the corner shifting uncomfortably on their feet.

“You have to,” Devon counters.

“You said I had a choice. I choose something else.”

His brows furrow. “Well . . . technically you do, but . . . you’re the scion’s daughter.”

Of course, he’s right. What am I even saying?

I shake my head, tears gathering in the back of my throat. My father would never forgive me if I didn’t pledge to House Fiama.

But could I ever forgive myself if I kill this man?

Criminal or not, he’s still a human being.

“I don’t know if I can. I’ve never taken a human life,” I whisper.

Devon’s uncertainty morphs into hardness. “You aren’t taking a human life. You’re taking a criminal’s life.” He shifts to his other foot and points at the man trapped inside his cage. “You want to pledge to House Fiama? Then it’s time to grow up. This is the only way we protect everything we have.”

Those words become a cold dose of realization injected through my veins.

He’s being completely serious. They want me to kill someone.

Even when my father isn’t in the room, I feel his controlling hand. I run a finger across the scar on my cheek as my stomach lurches. I think I might be sick.

Kill a man or face my father’s wrath.

I call up a memory of his fist swinging toward me, then shove the image away.

This test is my father’s choice. It would never be mine. I drop my hand.

“No. I choose a different test.”

Devon’s gaze shifts to the other three student leaders, who all shrug.

“Then which one?” Devon asks.