Page 56 of On Brutal Thrones

“Exactly what it looks like,” he says grimly. “Grass.”

We stand there watching it.

Nothing happens.

Then a small brown mouse scurries from beneath a bush and scampers toward the towering grass.

It’s painfully cute. The tiny field mouse scurries between a cluster of dandelions, nibbling at a seed before sitting back on its haunches. Its whiskers twitch.

Then it freezes.

My own body goes still.

“Oh, no.”

I scan the grass, waiting for a creature to emerge. After everything I’ve seen in these Trials, I know better than to believe anything small and harmless gets to remain that way for long.

Nothing appears.

Instead, one of the enormous blades begins to bend.

The movement is so subtle I almost mistake it for wind. The long stalk lowers toward the mouse, its fibers creaking softly under its own weight.

Except none of the other grass is moving.

“What the…”

The end of the stalk continues downward.

And that’s when I realize it isn’t grass at all.

A flower head slowly turns toward the ground, its petals hanging open around a thick center. The little mouse remains frozen beneath it, either unaware of the danger or too frightened to run.

“Move,” I whisper.

The flower drops.

The impact shakes the ground beneath my boots.

The mouse disappears beneath it.

I muffle a cry and turn into Thorian, burying my face against his chest before I can see what’s left. His arm comes around me immediately, his hand moving slowly over my back.

Behind me comes a horrible wet rustling.

Then the smell reaches us.

My eyes burn.

After everything I’ve survived, some part of me keeps expecting to become immune to this. I keep thinking there will come a point when death stops hurting to witness, when I’ll be able to watch these horrors with the same cold concentration Thorian does.

But maybe that isn’t what becoming stronger means.

Thorian watches because he has to. Because every detail might keep us alive when we cross that field.

I can do the same without pretending I don’t care. Can’t I? I wipe my cheeks, take a deep breath, and force myself to step away from him.

Thorian looks exhausted. Dried blood flakes from his clothes, and the new cuts mark his face, though some are already beginning to close. Seeing them heal sends another wave of gratitude through me. At least I don’t have to worry about every injury he suffered back there becoming another problem we have to solve.