Page 42 of The Heart Trials

Cheering, clanging metal, and the screech of steel on steel reverberate violently through the arena. Bumps race across my arms beneath my gloves. It sounds like all of Skyhaven could be here. Garlands and flowers styled into heart shapes ornament every platform and railing, covering the rigid, sharp edges of the arena. Bright, colorful lights trace the contours of the topless dome before spotlighting us one by one as our names are called and we walk toward a podium arced in chairs.

The first contestant called who I recognize is Talia. She marches forward, spotlighted. She takes a seat in the first row of chairs. A dozen more are called.

“Courage. Loyalty. Strength.” The chant rolls like thunder across the arena, pounding in my chest and burning my ears.

Ivy—Wraith Girl—is the second one who is called that I recognize. She’s already moving forward but pauses mid-step and falters in that way Serafina does when she’s actually scared but trying to be brave. Her shoulders are pressed back too tight, like armor that doesn’t quite fit. Her fists are clenched at her sides as her eyes flick to the sea of strangers shouting her contestant number like they know her. Every glance spurs her feet faster. She likes to watch. She doesn’t like to be watched. She hangs her head, keeping her hair around her face as she slinks across the arena floor.

When Contestant Seventeen is called, I look at Mae. For a second she doesn’t move. She inhales like she’s swallowing nerves, shaking off Heartfiller withdrawal, and exhales something steadier. There is a flush in her cheeks and a shine in her eyes as she bows to the Ethyrian flag before moving. The crowd’s noise surges as she walks forward, shaking her fists in the air, cheering, beaming. She twirls in a full circle, arms thrown wide. She’s been waiting for this moment her entire life. The crowd screams louder, feeding off her energy. She gives it right back.

Many more go after her. My heart speeds up when the half-shaved contestant who can’t stop staring is called. Apparently Rhythe is his name, and I definitely don’t recognize it. He’s a handful of heads in front of me. Not long after, a hush rolls through the crowd. He doesn’t look at them or engage them. He also doesn’t smile, walking unhurried, as if nothing owns him and nothing ever will. Heat flickers low in my chest at his arrogance.

Ronan is next.

“Contestant Fifty-Four.”

I step forward, and a coppery scent hits me. The whole place reeks of blood and roses. Of death and hope. A little Skyborn who is smaller than Serafina throws petals as I pass. I keep my eyes on the armored statues flanking the podium and walk as fast as I can. When I reach my seat, my pulse is still thundering.

The crowd hollers as more contestants fill the seats.

We are all quiet. The excitement has faded, like someone’s drained all dregs of Heartfillers all at once. We watch the Benevolent rise as Kade, the last contestant called, takes his seat. The morning tumbles through my mind with fresh panic at what’s ahead of us. This arena is dressed in flowers, but it feels like another prison. The seat beside the Benevolent’s is empty, and I wonder where the prince is.

I scan the competition. Kade’s not here for love. Ivy is hard to read. She doesn’t look interested in being here at all. Rhythe is an enigma. Talia took a literal beating to be here. Maybe she just wants to be loved that badly. Mae, Dorian, and Finn—sure, they seem to be here to try to win the competition.

But of the handful I know a little about, most of them give me the eerie feeling that I’m not the only one here with ulterior motives. I don’t need to just pick a match. I need to outsmart, outsurvive, and outmaneuver all of them. Suddenly, I feel surrounded by new enemies, rather than friends.

14

The Benevolent takes the stage, and the entire arena cheers. The throne he sat in when I last saw him swallowed him, but here he seems bigger somehow. He stops to wave, cupping his hands and cheering right back at them. We, the contestants, are dead silent. Once he settles the audience, he takes his place at the podium, then gestures at a door opposite the arena from the way we came.

Caelus enters.

The audience leaps to their feet, stomping, whistling, some screaming the prince’s name. Faces light with excitement as thunderous clapping roars through the arena like a storm. The cheers for the Benevolent were whispers compared to this. I search the Benevolent for some hint of jealousy, but the ruler of Ethyria extends his hand to his son, unflinching.

“My son, your prince, Caelus Altair,” he says.

Caelus is dressed finely, finer than I’ve seen him before, with tall leather boots and a deep blue coat sewn with a fist holding a heart. His long white hair is neatly tied back. He waves once at the masses before making his way to the chair beside his father on the dais.

Two Mercyenforcers stand on either side of him. Caelus’s smile, once steady, flickers—too tight, held too long. The creases do not reach his eyes. He sits back in the chair, then leans forward a bit, his shoulders rising before sinking, as if he can’t get comfortable.

Something’s wrong.

He skims the contestants’ faces but purposely avoids mine.

I shrink in my seat, trying to slow my skittering pulse.

“Thank you all.” The Benevolent’s voice echoes around the steel walls, and the entire place quiets.

“Welcome to the capstone of our decennial celebration—the Tournament of Hearts, commemorating fifty years of peace in Ethyria.”

Fifty? There have been five Tournaments of Hearts, one every ten years for the last half a century. But the Redwake happened five years before the last one. He’s just going to glaze over that part of history and the thousands who died.

The crowd chants again, “Courage, loyalty, strength.” No one corrects him. It’s his island. He can say what he wants. While people starve, Skyborn are oblivious, misinformed, or maybe they don’t care. I’m not convinced any of those are actually different.

I watch Caelus for some hint of what’s going on, why he seems so nervous, but he stares down at his lap. I scan for the exits with a reckless urge to bolt out of here. If we are discovered…

The thought chokes me.

“Many of you were too young to remember the last tournament,” the Benevolent says. “But it was a glorious exhibition of Ethyrian courage, loyalty, and strength. As it was then, a breeding pair, that is—two of you—will prove yourselves the same way and embrace love freely as a Skyborn.” He turns to his son. “But before we review the rules, some words from your loyal prince.”