Page 49 of The Heart Trials

“Restrained?”

“I mean—” she says hesitantly. “People could get angry, right?”

But people are already angry. Shoving has started. Someone falls to the ground and the others stumble over them, kicking them out of their way, arguing over one another, pointing blame. Dreth and his men jab stingers at them to shut them up as Mae and I shuffle forward in line. I know I have the required number, but I still show my journal with shaking hands when it’s my turn.

When he nudges me toward the contestants staying, I exhale. Mae joins me, followed by Kade, the angry blond Talia, Stick Boy Orrick, and several others I recall from breakfast. When the mysterious Saltblood with a staring problem, Rhythe, stumbles through the line, the Mercyenforcer quirks a brow at his journal page. But he hands it back to him and waves him through to our group.

When they are done, half of the contestants are gone. Half. Just like that.

And the first trial hasn’t even started.

Elimination wraps, and we’re ushered toward a long table that stretches the length of the stone courtyard, its linen cloth rippling like a pale tide beneath tall-stemmed silver glasses and dripping candles. Bowls of stewed plums and roasted meats gleam beside green garlands and soft pink roses, their fragrance tangling like salt in the wind. The sea unfurls in the distance, restless, like I feel. I still can’t loosen my grip on my journal. I have to pick someone to betray, and I’m no closer to figuring out who that should be.

We eat. Most of us. Kade doesn’t touch his plate. And Rhythe skips dinner, opting to go back to his room. Talia eats with her frenemy Lira. They whisper together over giant bowls of noodles, sitting directly across from me.

“Those two will have each other’s back,” Mae says beside me, scooping her soup into her mouth.

“We can have each other’s back,” I say.

“Not if you want the prince.” She shows me her journal where his thumbprint is.

“Why would I want the prince?”

“His father spared you. There’s a reason for that. Everybody’s been whispering about it all day.” Her brows bounce.

“The reason wasn’t Caelus.”

“Mm-hmm. I saw you leave the reception earlier, right before he left.” She slides a bite of food into her mouth, and I lose feeling in my hands. We have to be more careful, even sneaking around.

“Are you alright?” Mae asks.

“I’m fine. You’re just wrong about the prince.”

“Well, regardless, things have changed. He’s the prince.”

“If you want to win, pick someone else, Mae. Trust me.” I hope she can sense my earnestness. Betting on falling in true love with Caelus is a waste of her time. She will end up without a match or failing her trials and dead. “You deserve a real match. A good match.”

I massage my temples, the rough fabric of my gloves sliding against my face.

“You can tell me if you’re scoping the prince out for yourself.” She flips to a new page where we can take notes beside a long list of characteristics about each person we’re interested in exploring more one-on-one time with.

“Is that a joke?” I set mine aside.

“I’d understand. Can’t say I won’t go after him myself. I might be more his type. But you can tell me. You can always tell me.” She squeezes my arm. There is a kindness in it. I don’t move away this time. “Everyone expects you to be stiff competition,” she adds, fixing her chain at her mouth, which got caught on a bit of lettuce. “I’m so ready to take this off, aren’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Is there anyone you wanted to talk to but didn’t get a chance to?”

I could claw my eyes out at her persistence. “The veteran guy, maybe. Kade.” He’s the first person I see as I scan the room. He’s sitting alone, well out of earshot. Mae seems satisfied with the lie, finishing her food in silence.

By the time dinner is over, thanks to some well-positioned eavesdropping, it appears Talia and Lira are both here planning to find a match and try to win. I’d add Dorian to that list too, if he wasn’t drawing pictures in his journal.

Orrick, who still looks like he could use one more scrub, is sitting with Ronan and Finn. Somehow his clothes have become disheveled and his hair looks like there could be branches and leaves growing in it. Instead of writing in his journal as he eats dinner, he is ripping out the pages, folding them into different shapes. But occasionally, he steals glances at the notes Finn and Ronan are making.

“Groups are forming,” I say.

“Looks like it.” Mae nudges me with her elbow playfully. “I was just giving you a hard time about the prince, by the way.”