I fear no night
I ask the shadows
To aid my fight”
—The Shadow Rite
As first uttered by Saint Tameryn the Cunning, patron saint of Astavar and shadowcasters
Rielle stood in the middle of the Flats, the first horn blast of the shadow trial ringing in her ears.
Wooden stands, draped with the black and blue colors of the House of Night, created a vast circle around where she stood alone in the whispering tall grass, cloaked and hooded.
Waiting.
Twelve platforms around the circle’s perimeter towered high above the ground. A shadowcaster stood solemn and dark on each one, faces masked and castings in hand.
The horn’s second call wailed across the Flats.
Rielle stepped free of her cloak, let it fall to the ground.
The gathered crowd lost its collective mind. Their cheers exploded, and they rose as one to stamp their feet and shout her name. Rielle threw up her arms to acknowledge them, and their cries became a roar.
She had been worried that, given the current gossip, the reception might be different for this trial.
But on the contrary—the people of me de la Terre now seemed to adore her even more.
She knelt in the direction of the House of Night, to say a quick prayer to Saint Tameryn, and could not hide her grin.
Ludivine had truly outdone herself with this costume. The gown’s snug black-velvet bodice was backless, scandalously low in front. The neckline dipped between her breasts and nearly reached her navel. Fine netting made of swirling ebony lace, so subtle it looked even from up close like a veil of shadows rather than fabric, shimmered across her exposed skin and held the dress in place. Floating around her legs when she moved was a gorgeous skirt of countless black, midnight-blue, and silver layers—silk, chiffon, Astavari lace. Ludivine had painted tiny silver stars across Rielle’s cheeks and brow, rimmed her eyes with kohl.
She was night itself reborn on the earth, a queen swathed in shadows.
And the best part was yet to come.
As one, the shadowcasters lifted their gloved hands to the sky, their castings in hand.
Rielle stood with her head bowed, arms flung out behind her like rigid wings. Her blood ran wild inside her.
This is what I was made for. The thought arose as naturally as breathing. She flexed her fingers, felt power gathering hot in her palms. No, not hot—vital. Her power was not an intangible thing, a trick of the mind. It was the power of the world itself—and all that lived inside it.
And only I, she thought, can tell it what to do.
A stirring at the back of her mind. Familiar and delighted.
She stiffened. Corien?
The horn blasted a third and final time.
The shadowcasters began.
Spirals of darkness shot hissing from their castings like snakes, then fanned out across the sky to form a dome of shadows. Darkness fell over the grass. Only a few scattered holes in the dome allowed in columns of sunlight, illuminating the Flats so the crowd could see.
Their jubilant cries turned to jeers.
Rielle felt courage rise swift and undaunted in her breast. In this place, she was their hero and the shadowcasters the enemy.
With the dome in place above, the shadowcasters made their next move. They lowered their castings to point right at Rielle—and unleashed their monsters.
Rielle’s courage vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
The magic that lived in the veins of shadowcasters gave them the power to imbue darkness with physicality, with heft and a cunning, voracious will. The shadows rushing at Rielle across the plain carved new roads in the ground. The shadows took the shapes of horned black leopards and winged wolves, bears with spiked spines and great hawks that breathed dark fire. With each running step, they sucked the air out of the Flats until Rielle was forced to stagger, gasping, to her knees.
A hawk reached her first, swooping low over her head. Cold ruffled the ends of her hair, frosted her scalp. She sucked in gasp after greedy gasp, but the air was growing thin, brittle. The hawk latched to her neck, squeezing with hard, thin feathers that sliced lines into her skin. The spike-spined bear skidded to a stop at her feet. A massive scaled paw struck her across the face and knocked her to the ground.
And she did nothing.
Head reeling, she let them come.
Sweet saints, she thought frantically, I hope this works.
The winged wolf pounced, baying, onto her chest. Once it touched her, the wolf morphed into a shapeless veil that wrapped around her head and mouth, until she had to claw at her own face in order to breathe. Her nails pierced her skin, drawing blood. Shreds of shadow fell away at her touch, misshapen and muttering, before dissolving into the ground and re-forming into a buzzing flock of arrows. Cold fear slammed into her chest. The metal trial. Some shadowcaster’s joke, she supposed.