Page 48 of The Heart Trials

“I can hold a conversation with anyone,” she says. “I even refused a few requests.”

I tell her about how I went back and got Ronan’s, but how he isn’t a match for me. Too much of a do-gooder, is the excuse I give her. I also got one from the Stonebound who was sticking food in his pocket. Orrick is his name. He traded me his fingerprint for a piece of bacon. I’m pretty sure he is just here for the food. Still, oddly, I could see myself talking to him again.

“Did they say when the elimination will be?” I ask.

“In a few hours, before dinner. Everyone who survives the cut will have dinner together over there.” She points at decorated tables on the far end of the courtyard with a picturesque view of the island.

A Citadel official draws our attention to the front, trailing through the throng of contestants with balls and wooden sticks in her hands.

“Line up here, everyone, with a partner.” The sticks are handed out, and what proceeds is the strangest game I’ve ever played. We take turns, blindfolded, trying to follow their instructions to strike the ball, which is somewhere on the ground. It’s supposed to build trust, they said, and explore if we have a natural connection. But all it accomplishes is me getting frustrated by my teammate’s poor instructions and swinging my stick so hard I end up bashing someone in the shin. My stick is taken away. My partner still offers me their thumbprint. I take it because I’m desperate, but I have no intention of talking to Hershel or whatever his name is again.

More games with the sticks and balls follow.

Along with more bruises.

I manage to break someone’s spectacles by accident. He refuses to give me his fingerprint. I can’t blame him. My feet are stepped on so many times, I lose feeling in my toes. I haven’t made many more friends or prospects. I’m not sure if it’s because I find all this forced fun to meet and greet one another pathetic or if fate isn’t on my side and I am doomed to fail. When Caelus finally joins the group he is promptly swarmed with people. I expected no less.

As the sun dips in the afternoon sky, the announcement comes. “Eliminations in twenty minutes!”

The crowd erupts in commotion. I thumb through my journal. I need one more print. One. For a minute I’m stuck there wondering if asking Caelus is worth the risk. No. I shouldn’t. We have to steer clear of each other. I shift on my feet, trying to decide who to approach. My shoulders are in a knot when I walk up to a contestant with burnished skin cracked from sun, lingering alone, watching some of the others play. I clear my throat. He turns to look at me. He doesn’t mention anything disgusting in the first few moments, nor does he smell. So far, this is going well.

“I’m Axira. Saltblood. A stick and a ball is so fun.” I’ve learned quickly that leading with my name and a statement instead of a question is a safe bet. It’s less pressure for them to respond if they’re nervous.

“Not interested,” he says before turning his back on me.

Okay, I take it all back. I’ve learned nothing from the humiliating last two hours of screwups and rejection. I can scale the walls of a palace and rob someone under their nose, but I can’t convince someone to have a conversation with me. This is going to end terribly. I tighten my fists, forcing myself to exhale. Then, I approach someone else. A Stonebound.

“Hi—”

“I’m in the middle of a conversation,” he says. “Can’t you see that?”

No one is standing with him…literally no one. The closest person is dozens of paces away. I back away slowly. When I spot the black-bearded fellow whose glasses I shattered, I grab my chance. He at least played a game with me, before I became known as the person to avoid. Maybe I can salvage it.

“Hi, I’m really sorry about your glasses, Stephen.”

“It’s Sylvan.” He stuffs his calloused hands into his pockets.

“Sylvan!” My cheeks heat. His nose is bandaged. “A-and your nose.” I hit him harder than I realized. “I just, uh, wanted to see if you’d like to talk more? Before my stick caught you in the face, we were doing pretty well.”

To my relief, Sylvan smirks and rubs his nose. “Still hurts. But they have a salve that should heal it by morning. I’ll be alright.”

“I’m so glad.” I am. I really am. “Maybe we could sit together at dinner?” Maybe you can sign my journal and we never have to talk again? I can’t break his nose and betray him.

“How many prints do you still need?” he asks.

“One.”

His mouth tugs sideways. “Open up.”

I hand him my journal and watch with bated breath as he presses the finger that was just on his bandaged nose to my paper, just as the Citadel official calls for us to gather around.

We are lined up in rows and asked to present our journal. Mercyenforcers look at the page and jab a thumb in either direction, muttering, “go” or “stay.” Like they’re choosing what trash to throw out and what to keep. Dreth is back, managing the swelling group of those cut. Some try to plead with the Mercyenforcer, explaining unconvincingly that they only needed a few more minutes or that there was someone else who was going to give them their fingerprint for sure, they just had to find them in the crowd. But the guards don’t even entertain the protests with a response. The contestants who are cut are now being put into restraints, their hands tied behind them.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Mae says beside me.

“I’m not sure. They didn’t commit any crimes.”

“Maybe they’re just trying to ensure they exit the palace in a civilized manner,” she says.