I attempt to brush off the clumps of dirt still clinging to my clothes as I take in this familiar, yet frightening, place. The Whispers is no whimsical forest. Deadly beasts lurk on its huge terrain, and even deadlier plants sprout from it. I would know, seeing that I spent many nights training here with my father barking orders like I was his soldier and not his son.
But why am I here now?
I expected to at least be able to wake up in my own bed, maybe interrogate some prisoners before I had to make my way to the Bowl for the first Trial. But I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to be drugged and dragged to the forest.
Different.
That’s what Tealah had said. There’s never been a Trial that has taken place outside of the Bowl where an audience couldn’t be present to jeer and cheer at us.
A twig snaps and I whirl, sinking into a fighting position. I stare at the thin man a few dozen feet away, garbed in plain white clothes that contrast against his dark skin. He stares back, his eyes glazed and unmovable.
A Sight.
I feel it then. The tingle of his power beneath my skin. I was too occupied with my thoughts to feel his ability, the power to record as well as project what he sees with nothing but his own two eyes. And that is exactly what he is doing now.
I’ve always found them unsettling with the way they stare, unblinking, when recording what they are seeing, but I’ve grown used to them since dozens are always present at the Trials. They run around the Bowl, documenting the events and contestants while using their abilities to project what they are seeing onto large screens high above the Pit floor.
And it seems that they are doing the same for this version of the Trials. Except, he’s not projecting what he is seeing and is instead storing the images away for a later time. There must be dozens of them, all running around the forest, following contestants and documenting the first Trial to play back for the audience when this is all over.
I don’t take a single step towards him. It’s forbidden to interact with the Sights, touch them in any way during the Trials. They are simply the eyes and ears for the audience that can’t be here to witness themselves.
The man finally blinks, his eyes clearing slightly after apparently getting all the footage he wanted of me. He moves to step away, no doubt to go collect other images or stalk other contestants. But he pauses mid-step and slowly pats his long, dark fingers against the pocket of his pants, holding my gaze before scurrying back into the forest.
I stare after him before tearing my gaze away and looking down at my own pocket. They threw me in here with only what I had on when I staggered into bed, apart from the shoes they so generously slipped onto my feet. Other than that, only one accessory was added to my body—the strange leather band around my arm. I silently thank the Plague that I kept my thin shirt on last night, too exhausted to pull it off.
I reach into the pocket of my thin pants, fingers closing around a rough scrap of paper. I unfold it carefully, revealing precise, looping penmanship:
Welcome to the first Trial,
In the Whispers you will be.
We hope you stay a while,
In this game of honor and dignity.
The goal of this game is quite clear,
And for the winner we will cheer.
Become victorious by collecting the bands,
The ones that rest high above your opponents’ hands.
Collect from those who have been banded,
And be warned if you return empty-handed.
If you wish to win you must have the most,
Then of your glory, we’ll brag and boast.
But the end is drawing near,
With only six moons to play.
Welcome to the Trials sixth year,
And pray to the Plague that you will stay.
The task of stealing as many bands as possible seems fairly simple; that is, if you can survive in the forest for a week. But I read between the lines of the poem.
They are forcing us to fight one another.
No one will give up their band easily. Blood has been spilled over much less than a leather strap in these Trials. I crumple the paper in my fist, shoving it deep into my pocket before glancing at my own strap of leather encircling my bicep. Tight. So tight that the only way to get these Plague forsaken things off is to cut them from the skin, which will inevitably draw blood despite delicacy.
It’s intentional, clever.
Father has outdone himself this year.
Sweat trickles into my brow, stinging my eyes. The heat could rival that of the Scorches, and I peel off my shirt to wipe at my slick face. My throat is already dry, parched from baking in the morning sun.
Find water first. Opponents second.
I stop, my feet crunching on the vegetation and rough dirt beneath me. Sighing, I look up at one of the menacing pine trees standing in my path. I shake my head, my shoulders, trying to shake away my nerves. Then, I grab hold of the lowest branch and swing my legs up.
Yes, I’ve scaled these trees multiple times, and yes, I’ve conquered my fear of heights. But just because a fear has been conquered, doesn’t mean it’s enjoyable to be confronted with again and again. And yet, here I am, climbing up the tree, taking each branch at a time.
The wind blows and the sun blinds as I continue up the pine in search of water. Minutes, maybe hours later, with limbs aching and heart racing, I finally reach the top. Well, the last branch that will hold my weight. I’m a couple hundred feet in the air now, suspended there by nothing but a large twig beneath my feet. I look down only to instantly regret it.
Keep it together, Kai.
Falling to my death during a Trial would be a pathetic way to die and would completely ruin my reputation, even in death. With that in mind, I clutch the now thin trunk of the tree beside me as I peer through the leaves and over top the canopy of trees.
I feel like I’m back in the ballroom, looking out into a sea of several shades of green. Branches full of leaves swaying in the wind like the finely dressed women swaying on the dance floor only yesterday.
There.
My eyes sweep over a break between the line of trees, a pause in the dance of their leaves. A sliver for a river, a brook, a source of water. At the moment, I don’t care if it’s a damn puddle.
I painstakingly make my way back to solid ground, my breath coming in quick pants. By the time my feet meet the soil, the sun has inched its way across the sky, informing me that it is already late afternoon.
And then I’m off. Off in the direction of the water every contestant craves after being drugged and having to trudge through the forest for hours. Father has woven a trap for us, one we are all willingly walking into.
Hours. Long, tiresome hours of trekking through foliage is what my life has come to. I’ve encountered several poisonous snakes and plants, both of which daring me to draw close.
I’m so bloody bored.
My eyes and body are alert as I trudge forward, though my mind wanders as much as I do. I think on the Trials, the contestants—
And then my thoughts are on her.
Stop.
If Paedyn is so determined to hate me, I could make it very, very easy for her. It wouldn’t take much. But I’m selfish, weak, and unwilling to make it anything but difficult for her to push me away.
She’s bewildering as much as she is beguiling. That pretty mouth of hers says one thing, but those ocean eyes say another. She pulls a knife from my back only to say she’ll bury another one there. She’s confusing, captivating, and we’re completely wrong for each other in all the right ways. She’s a flame, and I’m going to get burned. An ocean and I’m going to drown.