Page 109 of The Heart Trials

“Do it, you waste of space.” She presses her shoulders back, edging her chin up as if the feelings she and Jace share now are real—and it’s made her bolder. Stronger in a different way. The guard touches the almost faded bruise on her face, the bruise she came with, smiling. She snatches her head away from his hand.

Rhythe watches Talia and Jace comfort one another with creases hardening above his brow. He doesn’t like it. Losing Lira has shaken the ground beneath her, tipping her into Jace’s arms—the opposite impact Rhythe hoped for when he ordered Kade to kill them. Maybe now Talia will believe I was telling the truth about Rhythe plotting behind the alliance’s back with Ivy.

The longer we walk, the more groggy I feel, like I haven’t slept in several nights. Caelus joins us at the entrance to the palace, taking his place in line beside me rigidly. The scent of him sharpens my stride.

The Benevolent is plotting to have him killed during the third trial. But we are going to survive this, whatever it takes. Even if I have to get rid of Kade myself.

“Into a transport, everyone.”

The transports are small, only big enough for a few of us each. Rhythe breaks from the lines first, stepping into the first vehicle, cutting a sharp glance at Talia and Ivy, signaling them to join him. Kade lingers behind like the snake that he is. Dorian and Mae are already inside a different transport with only two seats left. Kade pulls Callie along to take the seats, but I squeeze Caelus’s arm gently and side-skirt them, stealing the open seats. This is my chance to talk to Mae. I try to exhale but can’t as the doors to the transport shut.

When the door closes, Mae leaps into my arms for another hug. “Did you sleep? I couldn’t sleep at all.”

“I slept okay.” I was up most of the night worried. Rhythe plans to “deal with me.” Syra is convinced Caelus won’t survive the tournament. Kade has a kill list.

Caelus is deathly still beside me, staring out the window with a fear in his eyes I haven’t seen before.

“Hey, we have to think like winners,” I tell him.

“I am. You will be fine.”

“We will.”

“Right, that’s what I meant,” he says, but I don’t buy that he believes the words he’s saying.

The transport groans in motion beneath us as we leave the Citadel, turning sharply east toward the mountains of Ethyria. The usual warmth in Dorian’s brown eyes has frozen over. His shoulders are bunched tight with tension, and each bump in the road jerks his frame like a doll on a string. “Mae told me Orrick and Lira were targeted by another contestant,” he says, looking between us, as if searching for the truth.

“Yes,” I say. “And you’re on the list too.”

Mae turns to Dorian. His jaw grinds as if he’s trying to swallow the truth whole. I rush to explain—about Rhythe and Kade’s conversation, Ivy and Rhythe’s secret love, and how Lira and Talia whispered about getting rid of Ivy. When I’m done, no one speaks. Dorian stares out the narrow viewport, his reflection ghosted in the dark glass.

“They’re probably after me as well, if that makes you feel any better,” Caelus mutters.

“Dorian,” Mae whispers. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, too quickly, pressing his shoulders back into his seat as if he could will himself to relax. “I just have to be smart.” But the way his throat tightens around the last word betrays him. Mae folds her arm across her stomach. Dorian pulls her closer.

“Caelus and I are going to make sure you both win this,” I say.

Mae’s head tilts. “Don’t you want to win yourself?”

“I mean, yes. I meant, survive. May the best”—I clear my throat—“couple win. But we will do everything we can to help you both stay safe.”

“Thanks,” Dorian says, smiling tightly before moving his forlorn stare back to the window.

We continue our descent in heavy silence. Through the narrow window, the spires of the Citadel shrink behind us. For a moment there’s peace in the whitewashed streets and gardens we pass, an order held tight by steel and tradition. But then we reach lower Skyhaven, where Caelus and I strolled during our date the other day. Someone has painted messages on the walls of the outer watchtower in pale gold:

No Crown Without the Prince

“What’s this place called again?” I ask.

“The Industry Quarter,” Caelus says.

I press my nose to the glass. As we descend the winding mountain paths, the signs multiply—scrawled across stone fences and etched into frost-flecked windows:

Pull Him Before They Kill Him

Succession Matters