Page 39 of On Brutal Thrones

“We’re going to have to cross it.”

Of course we are. Because apparently almost being swallowed by the earth wasn’t enough for one morning.

I glance behind us, half expecting to see another crevice opening beneath the trees, but the slope we descended is gone. Grass stretches as far as I can see, with no sign of the path that brought us here. Of course. The Trials have never allowed us to turn back.

Another uncomfortable thought settles over me. If this is a challenge, the other teams should be coming. Except there aren’t other teams anymore. There’s just one.

The warlocks.

My stomach tightens. “What about Magnus, Halwin, and Antone?”

“They’ll have to cross too,” Thorian says.

“Unless they find another route,” Fenric adds.

Talon finally speaks. “There won’t be another route.”

His voice is so flat that we all look at him. He’s still staring at the blood, and I don’t like the color in his eyes. I don’t like how rigidly he’s holding himself or how his hands keep flexing at his sides. Most of all, I don’t like that Talon hasn’t made a single inappropriate joke about the fact that the gods apparently expect us to wade through a field of blood.

Thorian notices too.

“Everyone ready?” he asks, but his eyes remain on Talon.

Talon gives one sharp nod. Fenric makes a disgusted sound through his shirt. I manage a much less convincing nod.

Without really thinking about it, I reach for the men on either side of me. Fenric’s hand closes around mine immediately. Thorian looks down at our joined hands for a fraction of a second before taking my other one, his fingers wrapping firmly around mine.

I want Talon’s hand too.

But the strain in his expression makes me hesitate. He looks as though every bit of his concentration is going toward maintaining control, and I’m suddenly conscious of the blood moving beneath my skin. He fed from me last night, but surrounded by all this blood, I have no idea whether touching him would help or make things worse.

I stay close enough that he knows I’m here, but I give him space.

“Stay close,” Thorian says.

“I was planning to.”

Fenric squeezes my fingers. “We’ve got you.”

The words help. A little.

Both men squeeze my hands. Then Thorian takes the first step, and his boot sinks into the red muck with a wet sucking noise.

My stomach turns.

“Gods.”

“Don’t look down,” Fenric advises.

“That seems like terrible advice.”

“It probably is.”

I take a breath through my mouth and step forward. The substance closes around my boot instantly, and I nearly scream, creeped out to my soul.

It’s warmer than I expected. Not hot, but horribly close to the temperature of skin, and thick enough that when I try to lift my foot again, it clings to me. A sucking noise follows as I wrench my boot free and force it forward.

Another step.