Page 94 of The Heart Trials

“What a remarkable occasion to celebrate the final twelve,” he says.

Twelve would include Caelus.

Rhythe lurks at the edge of one of the tables alone.

“You have shown grit,” the Benevolent goes on. “Forsaking others to follow through on your commitment to the tournament. To this great island. To me.”

He applauds.

The crowd joins in obediently.

“What better way to prepare for the third and final trial than a night of revelry?” He gestures at the doors, and they groan open.

A stream of lowborns flood in: Saltblood, Grainfolk, Stonebound, their chests glowing with the faint light of a Heartfiller. Their clothes hang loose, patchy and worn, thin from too many washings. Most keep their heads down. Others tug at their gloves, stitched so tight it looks like fabric grown into their skin. A few gape at the surroundings in awe as they shuffle forward.

Orrick emerges from our ranks to greet a woman who looks just like him. She has bland brown hair with leaves woven gracefully through her braid. She hands him something.

They’ve brought people from our villages here? But where—

My heart speeds up just as I see her. Miss Omon.

“Contestants, welcome your special guests; tell them about your courage and loyalty. Tonight you and your guests will dine and celebrate like Skyborn.”

The contestants stare at one another in disbelief. Horrified, Talia gapes across the room at a woman I suspect is her mother. The mother who beat her trying to stop her from coming here. I spot a boy who must be Lira’s brother. Jace’s father is here.

A low, metallic hum rolls through the hall—music. It then transforms into a triumphant fanfare blaring. The Skyborn guests tangle their hands, spinning in loose, dizzying circles. Arms twist, legs stumble in half-remembered steps, hips swaying. Bodies orbit each other, keeping some part of themselves connected with a partner, fingertips hooked to fingertips like lifelines. Glasses clink, overflowing with fizzing gold bubbles down their wrists. In corners and shadows, some press too close. Hands trail along necks and linger. Mouths hover near ears, then slide lower.

The lowborns stand still at the center of the room—eyes wide, shifting on their feet, uneasy and awed, watching something forbidden and divine and angering all at once.

I elbow through the crowd to Miss Omon. Her chest glows. I told her no more Heartfillers. Her watery gray eyes fill with more emotion than I’ve ever seen. I burn with an urge to hold on to her for a moment. She tenses, holding her hands tight against her sides, and I wonder, for the first time, if she’s ever bent the rules.

“You’re here. You’re really here,” I say. A knot wells in my throat. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more happy to see someone from the orphanage in my life.

“They brought me up this morning,” she says, and I’m haunted by the second trial all over again, pinching myself to make sure this is indeed real.

“Was the journey okay?” I ask. “Did they treat you well?”

“Well enough. Thanks for sending the medicine. She is improving slowly. But she will need more. Can you get some?”

“I’ll try.”

She looks at me without blinking. “You look so different, Axira.”

“It’s still me.”

Scanning the Skyborn dancing, she whispers, “Can you really see yourself living here?”

“I am Saltblood; I will always be Saltblood.” I pull her away from the commotion, retreating to the cold corners of the throne room for more privacy. She follows, her gloved arms one around the other, hugging herself. “Listen to me, there’s so much you don’t understand.”

“And this must be your mother?” Kade has found us. A vein at his jaw pulses.

“Her caregiver,” Miss Omon says. “And you are?”

“Kade. Contestant Eighty-Seven, from Grainfolk district.”

Miss Omon glances at me. “Axira, is this your—”

“No.” I can still smell the blood all over the arena floor.