Page 138 of The Heart Trials

No shiver of light, no hint of connection.

Only the brutal sound of Ivy coughing, bent over at the waist, and the guttural rasp of Rhythe’s breath as he glares at the floor like it betrayed him.

The Benevolent scowls. “False. Add them to the other to be interrogated.”

The guards toss them beside Talia, letting them crumple to the base of the platform like discarded dolls. Ivy curls in on herself, shaking. Rhythe doesn’t move, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. Again, he glares at the sky.

The Benevolent doesn’t even look at them. His gaze sweeps over the crowd, slow and heavy with judgment.

And then his gaze finds us.

Me.

Caelus.

46

Caelus steps forward before I do.

My heart lurches, slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.

Rhythe hasn’t made a move. And now he’s being held by guards like a dog with its tail between its legs. If he isn’t going to try to execute the Benevolent, Caelus and I will need to create our own distraction in order to steal the magic and run.

My neck is slick.

Caelus must be able to sense my sudden panic, because he gives the slightest nod. A silent promise. My breath quickens. Each inhale feels too shallow, each step too light to be real. And yet—I’m moving. Somehow, my feet carry me forward, past Dorian’s body, up to the stage, even though I don’t remember putting a single step forward.

The crowd blurs, a sea of beaming faces and applause. The light gleams off polished stone and bloodied metal.

I catch sight of the Mercyenforcer who picked up the bloody spear that impaled Dorian. I veer, giving him a wide berth. The stage rises before us, solemn and final. The two refilled chalices are waiting.

We stop, side by side in front of them. And for a breathless moment, time hangs suspended. Rhythe eyes me coldly, and I feel it in my bones. I could swear he shakes his head. But I blink and he’s not looking at me anymore. I can feel all the contestants watching me, waiting to see if Caelus and I have what the rest of them claimed to covet.

I grab a chalice. Caelus does too.

“On my say, you will drink,” the Benevolent announces, his voice clipped, each word sharpened with venom, spite curling at the edges. I loosen my stance, letting my limbs hang open, ready for the shards. I don’t know where they’ll form or what shape they’ll take, only that they will. My gaze stays fixed on the royal escape tunnel. The Benevolent signals the Mercyenforcers suddenly. They tighten in a circle around us. I search their faces, looking for some hint that one of them here is on our side. But they are unreadable, their movements synchronized, the circle closing like a noose. I feel it in my chest—a rising pressure, like the air itself is narrowing.

The audience watches in hushed silence.

“Now,” the Benevolent says.

I lift my chalice. My hands don’t shake. Not because I’m brave, but because fear has locked every muscle in place. We turn toward each other and Caelus’s eyes meet mine, a promising sea beneath a glittering sky. We will get out of here. If it kills me. He told me that once and I didn’t understand it. But I do now. I feel it in the marrow of my bones, a determined strength, something supernatural that’s instinctually human.

I will make it out of here.

Because I cannot live through whatever is waiting on the other side.

We nod once—together.

And drink.

The liquid is warm. Sweet at first, cloying, like honey left too long in the sun. Then—bitter, metallic, and wrong. It hits my tongue like rot and fire all at once, and I want to gag, but I force it down. My throat burns. The warmth spreads, fast and ruthless down my throat, curling into my gut like coiled smoke.

Then it turns.

The warmth becomes fire. Not heat, but hurt—searing through my chest, radiating outward in jagged lines. I double over with strangled breath, clutching at my ribs as the pain stabs deep, like something inside me is being cut open, exposed raw.

Beside me, Caelus stumbles, gasping. His hand slams to his chest.