Page 122 of The Heart Trials

“I was five when it happened. My father made me march with the Mercyenforcers who did the executions.” His stare simmers with something bitterly disgusted. “I watched as he made the children dig the graves. Then he slaughtered the rebels right in front of their children.” His voice falters, raw around the edges. He stares past me like he’s still seeing it.

I can see the line of vacant stares in those photographs. They still burn the back of my eyelids.

“I couldn’t do anything. I just—watched.” His eyes are glassy, full of ghosts. “As the children dug, they chanted, ‘Let it bloom.’ ”

I rub my hands over the cover on the journal where those words are.

“But the rebels are dead,” I say, finding it harder to swallow. “Those children grew up and—”

“Axira, you’re not naive.”

“Ivy and Rhythe know each other,” I admit.

“Rhythe, whose mother blew the whistle on the rebellion in exchange for Rhythe’s life. What if he’s still in contact with the survivors?”

Rebels, Ivy and Rhythe? Is it possible the movement still exists, so many years later, after all but a handful of traumatized children were killed in the Redwake? A fire couldn’t spark from such few embers, could it?

“That’s impossible.” But the minute I say it, I know it’s not true. The closer I get to the end of this tournament, the more it feels like Ethyria is sinking its claws into me. The idea of escape, of finding a ship and slipping away, is beginning to feel more like a dream than a plan.

A hum explodes in the recesses of my mind, like a memory just out of reach.

“Let it bloom.”

Then it comes to me. In my father’s voice.

Bury the name where the silence grows,

Cover the truth where the cold wind blows.

Hold it close in the ash and gloom,

Love is a seed—let it bloom.

“I know that phrase,” I say, remembering. “I heard it from—”

But I can’t say it. My father’s voice is whispering treason into my mind. The frame the Benevolent gave me on the first night of the tournament, branding him a traitor. A rebel. My head throbs. If Ivy and Rhythe are rebels, why would they enter the tournament?

“They’re planning to assassinate the Benevolent at the Ascension Ceremony,” I realize aloud. My fists clench. As much as I hate Rhythe, it’s exactly what the Benevolent deserves.

“They could be.” Caelus squares his shoulders. “Regardless, my father cannot get word of this journal. If he suspects rebels have infiltrated the tournament, it will become a bloodbath. We have to pivot.” He paces in a circle, raking an angry hand through his moonlit hair. “We have to get to the summit, get that antidote for me so we can both climb down safely. And then you have to leave. Immediately. Skip the Ascension Ceremony.”

“I don’t understand. The magic—”

He grabs my shoulder gently. “Listen to me, if my father finds out rebels are in the tournament—there won’t be a winning couple. There won’t be an Ascension Ceremony. It will become a second Redwake. He’ll kill everyone, and he won’t stop at the contestants. He will level all of your villages.”

The world unsteadies beneath me.

“Maybe we can beat Rhythe and Ivy to the antidotes and turn them in,” I say. “If Mercyenforcers apprehend them, maybe they’ll see them as an isolated threat and spare the rest of us.”

“My father won’t take any chances. So neither can we. Axira, you have to go. We cannot win this. I’ve been outsmarted, I’m sorry.” His gaze burns hotter than fury.

“No, no, we can still do this.” My voice shakes, but I clench my fists at my sides. “We can beat them to the antidotes. Dorian and Mae are still out there. Rhythe and Ivy aren’t in love. Callie’s dead, and so is Jace, which leaves Kade and Talia alone. If the Benevolent has to pick a winner, it’ll be Dorian and Mae, as long as they make it to the top.” I jab my finger toward the distance, like the peak is right in front of me. “And then we can take the magic we came for.” I turn to face Caelus, heat flushing up my neck. “Doesn’t your father deserve to see his power taken from him?” I close our distance. “You can rule in his place.”

He steps back. “That was never the plan,” he says, his lips pressed thin.

“Well, what was?”

“The people can pick someone.”