Page 96 of On Brutal Thrones

My blood turns to ice. I scramble back just as the surface of the lake explodes. A blade slices through the space where my throat was a heartbeat earlier.

I stumble, nearly falling, catching myself at the last second as my mind fragments the next few moments into tiny, impossible pieces. The glint of a dagger. Water droplets suspended in the air. Black eyes. A hand breaking through the surface.

Then the woman rises.

Not climbs.

Rises.

Water pours from her as she unfolds from the lake in one smooth, unnatural motion, her limbs seeming to lengthen and take shape as she rises, as though her body is being formed rather than simply finding its feet.

I can’t move. I can barely breathe.

When she’s finally standing across from me, she looks me up and down. My face. My body. My dagger. Then she tilts her head and laughs.

The sound is mine, which might be the worst part. Because I’m not laughing. I feel like I’m going to be sick. Like the universe has been saving one final, horrible joke just for me.

The person standing across from me, water still streaming from her hair, arms, and legs, is me. Except she doesn’t look the way I feel. There’s none of the fear I’m struggling to swallow, none of the uncertainty or desperate hope that I’ll find the others. She doesn’t seem kind or thoughtful or worried about anyone but herself.

At first glance, she looks like the kind of person who could win the Trials.

Nobody has ever thought that of me.

“Stay back,” we say at exactly the same time.

The sound of my own voice coming from her mouth sends a chill crawling over my skin. I raise my dagger, and she does the same, matching the movement so perfectly that it’s like I’m standing in front of a mirror. But then she laughs, low and cruel, and takes a step toward me.

Her feet drag slightly through the wet sand. There’s a faint scraping sound with every step, and yet it doesn’t slow her in the slightest. Water drips from her fingertips, pattering softly against the ground.

“What are you?” I whisper.

She lowers her voice, sweetening it into a mocking imitation of innocence. “Who are you?”

The question seems to reverberate through the air.

Who are you?

My grip tightens around my dagger. I don’t know why the question unsettles me so much, but suddenly, looking at her, I’m not sure I have an answer. Who am I? The woman who left home to save her sister? The woman who’s killed and bled and fought her way through these Trials? If this thing is me, or some version of me, what does that make the person standing here?

Before I can untangle the thought, she attacks.

One second she’s standing there. The next, she’s rushing at me with her dagger raised.

I spin to the side, sucking in a sharp breath, but she pivots at precisely the same time. Her left foot plants in the sand, her body turns, and instead of avoiding each other, we slam together.

Pain bursts through my shoulder. My teeth clack hard enough to make my jaw ache, and an oomph tears from my lungs as we tumble into the damp sand.

I land half on top of her.

If I were Thorian, I’d use the advantage. Straddle her. Pin her down. Drive my fist into her face until she stopped moving.

But I’m not Thorian.

And my dagger is gone.

Panic surges through me. I scramble away, sand grinding into my palms as I search wildly until I spot the flash of metal. My fingers close around the hilt, and I spin back toward her.

She’s already standing. Waiting.