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His words fade into the background as movement in the Sorrows’s box draws my gaze.

Kallias.

He’s thrust into a seat at our father’s side, a golden circlet resting on his nest of dark curls, dressed in a cerulean tunic like a loyal son presenting himself for the grandeur of the arena. Lord Malis appears and positions himself at Kallias’s side, placing a hand on the back on his chair.

My chest hollows as if struck by an invisible blow. The air trembles around me, and a gust blows through the arena.

Lyxander’s fingers brush gently against my wrist, their warmth pulling me back to awareness and dragging my attention downward to the sands. The High Acolyte has finished his speech, and the crowd applauds as the champions are brought out by more white-robed figures.

And then she’s there.

Nyssa steps into the arena and everything dims—the roar of the crowd becomes a low drone, the sounds of my companions are drowned out—until all that remains is the cascade of her dark cinnamon curls and her russet skin. She’s been dressed in the same ceremonial battle garb as the other champions around her: a bronze cuirass, fringed with leather strips that form a skirt and short sleeves, covers her torso, and greaves guard her shins. It’s more decorative than defensive.

The Acolytes retreat, the heavy iron doors shutting behind them with a metallic groan and sealing the champions within.

The High Acolyte called this game the Hunt. But what are they hunting? The other champions? Or are the champions themselves the prey?

My gaze flicks over the eight champions—two from each kingdom—before one of them starts moving.

A man, lean and wiry, prowls the arena’s edge, his eyes scanning the weapons littered across the ground. The woman with auburn braids coiled tightly against her head crouches low as if searching for something in the grit beneath her feet.

Some champions cautiously reach for weapons; others hold back, watching, tension coiling in their postures like serpents preparing to strike. My focus, though, lands elsewhere.

To where Nyssa is frozen amid the chaos.

Move, Nyssa. Get a weapon, do something.

I want to scream it at her. But she isn’t watching the arena floor or the champions around her. She’s looking up. Toward the Sorrows’s box.

I follow her gaze and find my brother’s face turned toward her. Then, suddenly, a low groan rises from the earth itself. Iron scrapes against stone, and the ground trembles. My heart seizes, every muscle in my body tensing as the noise grows. Four enormous grates in the center of the arena shudder open.

A beast crawls into view.

It’s grotesque and all too familiar, a twisted fusion of predator and monster. Its haunches twitch with menace while three serpent-head tails coil and uncoil rhythmically.

“Chimera,” Lyxander hisses beside me.

But it’s not only one. More emerge, snarling and hissing, until eight prowl the arena. The crowd roars around us; some scream, their fevered frenzy pounding in my skull.

“That solves the mystery of the chimera moving into the mountains,” Kato mutters, his calm voice cutting through the chaos. He stands with arms crossed, amber eyes attentive as he studies the creatures. “They were trying to evade capture.”

Keres turned predators into prey. And now he’s brought them here—to have them kill, or be killed, for sport.

I turn to Lyxander, finding his eyes are already on me. His brow lifts slightly, the faintest question in his expression.

“She’s mine,” I whisper, my fingers brushing the feather chain at my throat. The touch grounds me, and I can only hope it conveys my meaning.

A voice breaks the stillness between us. “Then she is also ours.”

I turn as Rhaya steps forward, her amber gaze fixed on me. The others all look prepared, their eyes scanning the surroundings, each of them poised and ready to act if needed.

None of them waver.

I hold on to their resolve as the first roar fractures the air.

Chapter 50

Nyssa