He heaves a sigh. “I had a feeling you’d say that.” A pause. “And I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
Flesh meets fire.
Skin meets searing, hot flame.
I expect a scream to tear from my throat, but nothing but a strangled cry slips past my lips. Braxton’s knee drives into my back, angling my body and forcing the left side of my chest into the flames.
I’m burning, boiling, blistering as he holds me there before finally pulling me back, allowing cool air to wash over me. I’m gasping as he reaches with his other hand towards the sword at my side, ready to draw it from its sheath and cut the band from my arm now that I’m dazed with pain.
Oh, but I’ve known pain far worse.
His arm reaches beside me, and I grab it, standing to my feet in the same motion, adrenaline drowning out the ache of my burned flesh. I pull his arm over my shoulder and tip my body forward, using my momentum and Brawny strength to lift him off the ground and send him flipping over my back and straight into the flames.
He lets out a cry but doesn’t linger for long before rolling out of the flames, yelping as he wriggles in the dirt to smother the fire eating away at his clothes, his skin. Smoke is curling from his burned clothing when I crouch over him.
“I wish it didn’t have to be this way either,” I say softly as he pants heavily beneath me. “But you have something I need.”
I slice the band from his forearm, unable to stop from nicking him and drawing more blood. His breathing is raspy as I search his pockets for any other bands he may have stolen on the way, finding none. I stand, staring down at him and uttering one word. “Go.”
He stares up at me for a moment before grunting in pain as he scrambles to his feet, limping into the woods as quickly as his charred body is able. I watch him leave, hearing him struggle to navigate through the dark woods, knowing he won’t dare to come back. Then I turn, looking directly at the Sight I knew had been documenting the entire fight.
“Hope you enjoyed the show,” I say with a mock bow of my head. As soon as the words left my mouth, the women in white blinked and vanished into the forest.
I tuck Braxton’s band into my pocket as pain racks my body. Blinding, blistering pain. I look down at the red, inflamed patch of skin right above my tattoo.
The adrenaline is gone, and I’m left with nothing but pain coursing through my body. I stagger over to my canteens, unscrewing one and pouring the cold contents over the burn. I hiss through my teeth when water meets burned flesh, but it’s a relief, however small it may be.
I grab my crumpled shirt from my pocket and tear a large strip of cloth from it with my teeth before beginning to gingerly wrap the fabric under my arm and over the burn. The result is a makeshift bandage to try and lessen the chance of infection. But it won’t do for long. I need to find some herbs, something, anything, to clean the wound.
Because dying is not an option.
And losing these Trials certainly isn’t either.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Paedyn
“I am going to wring your neck if you don’t shut up.”
The bird completely ignores my very real threat of death and continues to squabble on the branch above my head. It’s been squawking for nearly half an hour, resulting in me throwing at least a dozen rocks in its direction.
I’m annoyed, angry, anxious, and above all, absolutely starving. Of course, these are all side effects of waking up in the middle of the wilderness with nothing but the clothes I slept in. I look down at my tight, cloth pants and even more revealing tank. A skimpy, silky thing that I regret ever putting on, considering it will now be my only shirt for the next week.
A week.
That’s how long I must survive in this forest. In the Whispers. In this place crawling with enemies of all shapes and sizes, though it’s already midday and the only opponent I’ve faced so far is the snake that nearly bit my foot off. I’ve been trekking through the thick foliage since the moment I woke up, face down in the dirt, after blinking awake to a staring woman clad in blinding white.
A Sight. Here to spy on the opponents. Here to record this bloody Trial. Here to document what the audience is not able to witness for themselves.
I’m sure the rest of Ilya is just as confused as I am about this year’s Trials. Though, I can’t say we weren’t warned.
Different. That’s all the warning we got.
Except that different does not even begin to describe how drastically these Trials have changed. In the past three decades, there has never been a Trial outside of the Bowl walls, outside of the prying eyes of the audience. But only the best, the most brutal and bloody Trials, are fit to test the future Enforcer, I suppose. I just wish I wasn’t a part of it.
We’ve all been unwittingly thrown into the deadly Whispers, left to die by the elements or by the hand of our enemies. It’s brilliant. It’s bastardly. And I don’t know whether to clap or cry.
I should expect nothing less from the king.
My eyes dart to my right forearm where the leather strap is wrapped tightly.
“Collect from those who have been banded and be warned if you return empty-handed.”
I laugh bitterly to the emptiness surrounding me. They want us to fight, truly fight one another for these strips of leather. So, in an effort to stay alive long enough to find another opponent, I set out to find water. The trees here are tremendous and terrifying, towering high in the air and scraping the low clouds. It took me ages to scale one to find the closest water source, and the past several seriously boring hours have consisted of trudging towards what I’m hoping is a creek.
Except now I’m sitting under a tree and arguing with a bird. I chuck another rock at it for good measure before turning my attention back to the bundle of sticks at my side. I pick up another arrowhead that I’ve collected along the way, one of the generous gifts left to aid us, and fasten it onto one of the sticks. I’ve been making arrows for far too long now to accompany the bow and quiver I found conveniently resting against the trunk of a tree.
As if the Elites need weapons.
The feathers supplied by the annoying, yet useful bird above complete the arrow. I stare at my handiwork with a small smile, studying all seven wobbly arrows now filling the quiver. Thanks to my father, this was not my first time having to craft and arrow from scratch, and my smile grows at the distant memory.
I throw the quiver over my shoulder and cross the bowstring along my chest, saying my goodbyes to the bird still perched in the tree. I heave a sigh and begin, once again, heading towards the water I so desperately need. My feet are light and quiet as I tread across the terrain, my eyes peeled for any animal I can devour.
There.
A fat rabbit hops out of the bushes a few dozen feet away, completely unaware of my ill intentions for it. I pull the bow over my head and slip an arrow from the quiver. I knock it, aim, and breathe deeply just as my father taught me to. And then I send the arrow flying towards its mark.
Straight through the rabbit’s eye.
It’s dead before it even crumples to the ground. I snatch up the animal, wipe the arrowhead on a nearby plant I hope wasn’t poisonous, and return the arrow to my quiver.
Find water. Start a fire. Eat food.
And then I’m back to walking, tripping over tree roots and stumbling over stones.