A young man lies dead in the arena, prompting the Danes to rise slowly from their seats. Many of us in the audience are at a loss seeing our worst fears realized—orphans pitted against one another like tools in some demonic game. Are we dragged through the wringer of a sad life only to raise our grit… to awaken the warring dark?

  Lies of the world around us and suffering through scarce resources. That’s what we’re fed in our black-skied houses. Here in this moment, I’m disgusted with what’s in front of me.

  It didn’t have to go this way. Renesta gave Asmen a chance to live.

  Now what?

  His blood is spilled everywhere, still pooling under his body.

  The light peeking through the ground is the same faint pulsing as it was before the fight.

  What’s its purpose?

  I’m angry watching from the balcony, looking at Layla and Jurso beside me. “It shouldn’t be like this.”

  “You said it yourself, Hale. It’s the way of the warring dark,” Jurso says solemnly.

  “Do you feel something? Because I don’t.” I show them my palms. “No magical presence, no awakening. Nothing. The only thing we learned is that beautiful witch over there can turn our shadows against us.”

  “Renesta is a strange one,” Jurso agrees. “She always has been. Come to think of it, the last time this happened—when all of my brothers and sisters ran back into the house library all frazzled—they told me a brute tried to kill her in a skirmish and that she choked him unconscious with his own shadow. They looked to me for answers back then… and I had nothing. Maybe there’s a lesson to be gained here, Hale. Her attunement might be connected to fear, or combat. Adrenaline, perhaps?”

  I latch onto that. Piecing together the puzzle is the only distraction from one simple fact—I might be next on that floor.

  Layla shakes her head. “We don’t have anyone like that in our house. Thought this magic chasing was all dragonshit, honestly. If it wasn’t for those Kyard shards summoning out of thin air, I’d probably call this whole charade an excuse to cull orphans. Now look at me. My eyes playing terrible tricks. In a dingy dungeon, shadows come to life and elemental magic wraps us into submission. Pinch me, Hale. Wake me from this insanity.”

  “Enough time has passed.” The center Dane holds up a hand, then snaps his fingers to send a wind whip, lifting Asmen’s body. We all hold our breath again as he magically rips the sword out—leaving it teetering over the stone where it finally settles. We’re all wondering who’s next.

  A small crevice below the balcony across from me lifts, just enough for a body lying flat. The Dane slips Asmen in with precise accuracy, and again, their heads bow.

  “This is fucking sick.” I grit my teeth.

  A flame ignites inside the crevice, and before I can even register that they’re cremating him, the slit thrums shut.

  “Renesta Fowler, your performance was not enough to awaken the warring dark. However, your victory and attunement are both duly recognized. You will ascend to an assigned second house upon the closing of this ceremony. Perhaps your talents are yet to prove useful in defense of Miria.”

  Renesta addresses the Sept with less poise than before. Her hands quiver at her sides, and her lips are tight. She didn’t want to kill Asmen. Hearing her scream proved it.

  I think of my brother, Kane, in this instance. My blood brother. He and a group of others were marched from our house five years ago. I think of how he must’ve reacted during his trials. Tall and strong, yet cunning and kind. He’s everything I’m not. A natural-born leader. All of our house siblings made jokes behind his back—to my face—that there’s no way we’re of the same blood. Surely he found a way to rally the orphans and prevent a massacre.

  Or did the Danes prevent even him from escaping this fate? Did he have to take life too? Or did the casualty event swallow them all, like House Mother said? My mind runs in circles thinking of his fate.

  Toward the end of his tenure at House Kavoh, Kane started to obsess about the sky, about seeing golden blades of light shine through that weren’t there. He questioned everything, while my face was buried in books, believing the connecting pieces to our puzzle were at our fingertips.

  I wonder now… was he taken away because he was onto something? Maybe building up some kind of resistance to the magic that confined us?

  Thinking of the map a few of the other inquisitors and I pieced together from mythos, it showed a land of mostly barren fields except for the known houses and the spires that touched the sky. Everything was so far separated… so rural. Where are these second houses the Danes speak of?

  I’m holding onto their every word, wading through the sea of lies I’ve been fed.

  “Proceed to the victory dais beside the doors you entered. Reflect on why the warring dark did not choose you,” malice rips through the center Dane’s voice. He’s disappointed. It’s obvious.

  Renesta heads where she’s told, swaying up the stairs with her eyes to the floor.

  “Jackle Sovernblade.”

  As his name is called, he’s wrapped in a wind web and flung to the crimson circle to be judged.

  “House Mother Aldinia Marontail describes your presence as forgettable and a disgrace to your once-legendary family name.” A new Dane near the edge stands, a rattle in his voice. “Your blood is meek. Your life is worth no question. And you will not have the great honor of participating to awaken the warring dark.”

  “But, Master Dane—” Jackle’s lips are sealed shut by the same wind magic.

  “You will remain in an exiled first house with the other unworthy, off-map, never to be acknowledged again.”

  A stone in the floor directly across from the victory dais rumbles open, creating a small black hole in the ground.

  “Once trials conclude, you will trek the spiral from which you came. Reflect on your lack of effort.” He flips through the parchment in front of him. “In your life, you refused to participate in orphan activities or variant labor, refused to evoke intrigue, to temper fear, garner strength. A shelled vessel will never awaken their own soul, let alone that of another. Be gone!” With a swift backhand, the Dane whips the orphan all the way to the back near the giant doors and stops him directly over the open space. He harshly releases his web and lets Jackle fall into the body-sized hole, leaving only the top of his head showing above the nose.

  “Embarrassing.” Layla grits her teeth.

  “Yet a kinder fate than a dueler on the wrong side,” Jurso says.

  A few more verbal lashings commence, and the pits of shame grow a little fuller. Now ten sets of eyes stare out of holes in the floor, while only one victor stands solemn on her dais.

  A female brute was just summoned to the arena—Hovnami. She chose a golden broadsword as her weapon and challenged the Danes by asking if she could “be a champion of this Miria you speak of.” They reluctantly replied yes, and I think of what a waste some of these orphans are.

  I hold onto the stone triangle on the balcony in front of me, half-hoping my grip will be enough to combat the wind web if it’s to bind me again. It’s a stupid thought, but it’s the only physical defense I have.

  “Shit,” Jurso yelps, and a powerful quintessence lifts the hair on my neck.

  In my short hour down here, I’ve come to know the feeling of elemental high magic—something I didn’t even know existed.

  Before I can blink, Jurso is invisibly tied and lifted over the balcony ledge.

  Not against her. He’ll fucking die.

  Wait…

  “Jurso,” I call on his way down. “They start you thirty paces apart. Test your aim.” I remain cryptic enough so the brutes won’t understand, but this little inquisitor will. Grab a gods-damn bow and hope you can put enough holes into her before she swings that gigantic sword your way.

  I can’t tell if he heard me as he’s centered over the crimson circle.

  According to mythos, Jurso possesses curious blood, like I do. That’s what assigned inquisitors are at the house—problem solvers. The Danes won’t let that go to waste. Which means… he will definitely be chosen to fight for his life.

  An awakening depends on it.

  Layla looks over at me, her kind blue eyes conflicting with her bulging biceps.

  “He’s a good man,” I say.

  “You gave him a chance to live,” she reminds me. “But now I’m worried about you.”

  I turn away, peering at Jurso, who’s shivering in his ethereal chains.

  “This ceremony is going on longer than I thought. What if your stone wears off?” Layla says.

  “Then a coughing fit will be accompanied by a blade through the heart,” I say.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Plead with the Danes. Take shame over death, Hale,” she speaks low.

  The lack of faith burns like a dagger to the heart. But I know deep down it comes from a caring place. She’s seen me at my worst, stomped out and battered by my siblings. And that was with piles of hay to hide behind. Here, in a circular arena with no obstructions? I have no chance. The duel is in favor of the strong.

  A part of me considers her plea. But now that I know the sky, that endless black expanse above, is fake, how can I go on in exile, never knowing any bit of truth? What’s more, it’s a sure way never to reunite with Kane, or to learn his fate.

  “Hale. If you duel a spicer, you’ll die. There’s no way to reason with one.”

  “I like you better when you’re tough on me.”

  A smirk creeps up her face, her heavy hand finding my shoulder. “Guide and guard.”

  I nod. It warms me to remember our friendship over the past few years. She is my guard. And I am her guide. It’s sad that it’s almost over. Riding to a second house together is a fantasy. She’s right.

  “Jursento Astervon the Third.”

  “Hell of a name, friend,” I say aloud as I watch as the Danes’ magical eyes shine through their cowls.

  “House Father Trias Baldren describes Jursento as an inquisitive youth whose curiosity has led him on his march away from his first house. Trias claims mythos available is no longer enough to keep the orphan’s mind bound, as evidenced by his newly discovered method of harvesting Kyard. Jursento… what say you?”

  I find that tidbit of information about my new friend interesting. He’s able to piece together mythos like I am. I had a similar discovery.

  “Master Dane,” Jurso’s voice quivers. “It is true, I was able to dive deep into mythos in order to identify soul auras, which ultimately resulted in efficient Kyard harvesting for my house. Father praised me for it.”

  The temper is curiosity and actionable decisiveness. It should please the Sept.

  “Very well. Your blood has been recognized.” The Dane near the center stands. “You will fight for an awakening. Your life is worth one question, and once asked, you will pick your weapon and be escorted to the arena.”

  Jurso shivers so violently his dirty blond hair waves. “I would ask what’s above the manifestation of our sky, but such a vague question might be met with a vague answer. Unless, you will respond—um—with factual detail and not philosophical undertones such as ‘my fate awaits me.’”

  My eyes nearly pop out of my head. The boldness amidst fear. Had no idea he had it in him. Thinking back to descending the spiral steps, he alluded to meekness being his way to survive. Yet here he is demanding something of the Danes.

  Unintelligible whispers echo throughout the stone house.

  “A longwinded, bizarrely phrased request—”

  Jurso bites his lip.

  “—However, we will answer. Above the manifested sky of the first houses, contains the beginnings of a tiered world. You currently reside in the pits of Miria, as uninformed creatures with potential beyond your knowing.”

  Jurso exhales audibly, bowing almost to the floor. A strange, unexpected smile curves up his lips as he turns his head to us. I feel it too—that surge of excitement. Truth.

  Something never quite clicked growing up. The uneasiness extended further than faulty information of mythos. House Mother was hiding information too. Every time she’d turn away when I asked a deep question, the way her mouth twisted after she’d tell us about how high magic was dead. She helped pull the veil over our eyes.

  Now, bit by bit, it’s becoming clear.

  I nod to him. If one of us lives, we’re armed with the most groundbreaking information anyone in the houses has ever known. You’re brave, Jurso. Now live.

  He’s released from his web as the barracks lights with fire once more.

  Take the bow…

  It’s clear he’s bypassing the main sword rack, disregarding stringed daggers—which would be my weapon of choice—and heads for the archery station. Putting myself in his shoes makes my extremities instantly go numb.

  “Bring him! Bring the runt!” Hovnami taunts him from the arena. “An inquisitor must learn the hierarchy of things. Hah!”

  Judging her… if I had to guess… she isn’t spicing. Which on one hand means she would fall faster with arrows sticking out of her belly. But on the other, she’s smarter, and wouldn’t run in a straight line to take him down.

  Jurso emerges with a bow proportionate to his size and a quiver with six feathered edges sticking out. I’m worried because his grip is not in the right spot. Hopefully it’s just the paralyzing fear and not a lack of experience. Yeah, his blank eyes tell the story. He just has to get past it.

  “Snap out of it, Jurs!” I yell over the balcony.

  Layla claps hard. “You’ve got this, runt!”

  His shoulders rise once and drop after hearing our words. Deep breaths, friend.

  Visible winds slowly wrap around the small orphan, lifting his quivering body and propelling it past the brute, who snaps her jaw as if pretending to try and bite him as he flies by her. He’s dropped abruptly, thirty paces apart, like the last duel. The arrows tap together as he fumbles to pull one out. He’s one awkward motion away from spilling all six on the floor. But at least his grip is correct now. Dominant hand on the string, and the other right under the center wood piece. That’s how I was taught to wield our cheap bows in House Kavoh.

  “Hmph. You can’t save him,” a familiar voice grunts behind me. “The weak are meant to bleed.”

  I turn my head to the brute who taunted us on the steps. Well, one of them. The one from my house sporting a long red-and-black braid draped down his shoulder. The ring in his nose reminds me of a stable beast, and a scar spiraling all the way down his bare arm from a torture session similar to Layla’s makes me recall how tough the bastard is.

  “Fuck off, Rogo,” Layla hisses.

  “I don’t know why you defend him, Scar,” he taunts, reminding her of her own punishments. “They’re like the cattle we eat. A source of nourishment so we can fight in this Dane army they’re creating.”

  “So you’re fine with being a senseless tool for their bidding?” I challenge.

  “Beats digging for Kyard.”

  The center Dane releases his grip on the arena, allowing the cracks to breathe, begging everyone’s attention. “Orphans. Tonight you are pitted against one another to awaken a forbidden power, safekept against our collective will. If you are successful, you may one day don the honor of defending our great faction, Miria, lest we see it fall.”

  Miria, said to have crumbled at the hands of the Dokovon Empire, buried in dragon fire thousands of years ago in the war of Tibeth. Are we headed into some kind of time loop magic? No… they just fed us lies for a purpose. To test our curious blood.

  “The runt stands no chance.” Rogoshel shoulders in between us. “Look how the fool holds a bow. His arrow shakes. When he releases, it will go sideways for everyone’s entertainment.”

  Glaring at the brute, I want to yank at his braid and rip that stupid fucking ring out of his nose. “Jurso is more valuable than you could ever be, Rogo. Density of the brain will limit you to a grunt’s work for the rest of your days.”

  “At least my days will extend beyond today, runt number two. Ever since you lost the protection of your big brother, you’ve been the running joke of our house.”

  Layla grabs the tail of his braid and yanks it hard to expose his neck. “He’s found a new guardian,” she hisses in his ear. “Want to test how far she’ll go? I’m sure the Danes wouldn’t mind a little extra blood.”

  Rogoshel smiles wide, showing his teeth. “You defend a corpse, Scar. It’s you and I who should be making a pact.”

  “May your spilt blood fuel the warring dark.”

  My insides twist when the Danes speak again. Every second here is a countdown to Jurso’s death.

  No. Don’t think like that.

  Center Dane clenches his fist. “Duelers… ready.”

  “Poke her full of holes, Jurs. You have to,” I whisper, ignoring Rogo.

  “Begin.”

  Jurso’s expression hardens, posture straight as he nocks his first arrow and releases it without a hitch.

  It flies way off its mark, causing Hovnami to dig her sword into one of the cracks and spread her arms, laughing. “This is what you offer me, Danes?” she bellows, turning to the crowd above her. “How do you expect me to awaken the warring dark like this?”

  My jaw clenches hard. C’mon, Jurs. That’s a free shot in the name of her arrogance. Take it!

  His quavering grip steadies slightly. I can almost feel him talking himself out of paralysis. You can do this, Jurs. Let it fly!

  Hovnami punches her chest. “I’m right here, little man.”

  Fshew!

  The arrow causes the brute to sidestep, flying only a foot away from sticking her. Her laughter dies as she reclaims her sword.

  Hope fills my lungs, but it’s short-lived when the brute charges with her massive golden blade.

  “Good, runt. Now you’ll be my ticket!” she shouts.

  Twenty paces.

  Jurso fumbles for the next arrow—two spilling out of his quiver, making her laugh chaotically again.

  Fifteen paces.

  “She’s a showman, but not a killer,” one of the orphans down the way says. I’m eavesdropping hard. “Couldn’t even put a deer out of its misery at the stables.”

  “Her? No way. She’s about to cut him to pieces.”

  Five paces.

  Fshew!

  As soon as the arrow impales her calf, Jurso leaps out of the way of the massive broadsword, losing a swath of his already torn shirt.

  “Yes!” I yell. “Run!”

  “Hah! Revenge of the runts!” Rogo yells before Layla shoves him back.

  “He can win.” Layla looks me in the eye. “But now that you gave him the idea, the same trick won’t work twice.”

  “Shut up, Lay.” I shove her to better see Hovnami curse and snap the arrow at the base.

  She rises effortlessly. “I didn’t know you had it in you, little man. Good. Maybe we shall be worthy.” She cups a pool of blood dripping down her leg and flings it into the pulsing cracks at her feet.

  Fshew!

  She swings her sword artfully, literally slicing the askew arrow out of the air. “You’re empty.”

  While she’s showboating, Jurso knows as well as I that she’s losing blood in her leg. It’s a long shot, but every second idle is one in his favor. Keep your distance.

  He holds his bow up defensively as she charges again. I hope for hidden magic like Renesta’s, but my new friend isn’t so lucky.

  Sllt!

  She swings the sword from a comfortable distance as he dives away, a vengeful slice cutting open his shin. Blood mixes all over the stone, and Jurso struggles to rise.

  “Shit.” Layla punches the balcony.

  Get up. Get up.

  Jurso’s knees are about to buckle while Hovnami struts forward. They’re nearing the edge of the arena, and as they do, visible winds shoot up to block Jurso’s escape. He’s cornered.

  My lips are sealed shut in fear for him. When he pulls a concealed dagger at the last second, my heart skips.

  But he’s too slow, and too choreographed.

  Hovnami backhands him in the face, grabs his fist, and crumples it until he drops the blade. She takes him by the throat and stares him down hard with clenched teeth. “You fought well, little man,” her voice echoes.

  Fuck. I turn away, unable to look.

  Were those two orphans mistaken about her nature? She seems perfectly ready to kill.

  But then… why isn’t he dead yet?

  I snap back to the scene, watching the blood leak down his face as he squeezes both his hands desperately around the arm that chokes him. She scrapes the sword with her other hand as if sharpening it on the floor. Had I not heard the boys talking, I would think she’s showboating her kill.

  But maybe…

  “Mercy!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “The warring dark respects mercy!”

  I lie through my teeth. He’s a good man. Valuable in whatever comes next. He doesn’t deserve to die.

  Hovnami hears me and tosses Jurso to the center of the arena—his choking breaths reverberating throughout. She then points her sword in my direction, the wind of the arena parting beneath it. “Mercy, you ask? Is that what my audience seeks?”

  “Mercy!” I scream again, before Layla cups my mouth.

  “The Danes, Hale,” she growls. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

  In this moment, I don’t care. My heart is in my throat. This is all so incredibly wrong. I’m clawing to get her big fingers off my lips.

  “Get a hold of yourself, runt.” Rogoshel cackles. “This is the finale.”

  Hovnami struts again to the center, the light pulsing all around them.

  The Danes begin to stand.

  “Mercy?” she asks again, lifting the sword high over her head, in position to cut him in two.

  Every muscle in my body tenses. I find the strength to rip down Layla’s hand.

  “He is your brother! Offer him mercy! You are not yet a killer!” I shout.

  The moment seems eternal. My voice echoes three times. Those who share my sentiment say nothing. They don’t repeat my plea. They just watch in fear of the Danes.

  “Mercy?” Hovnami repeats. “I think I like the ring of ‘Nami the Merciful.’” She tosses the blade to the side, and the budding light seeping from the cracks dims.

  “Fools!” The center Dane whips his arm, opening two more body-sized holes opposite the winner’s dais, and shoves Nami and Jurso violently through the air, stopping them both directly above the holes. He drops them, and before I can sigh with relief, my body is constricted by the same gods-damn web.

  Layla’s brow furrows. She grabs for me, but I’m already yanked from my place on the balcony.

  I’m ripped through the air, now hovering over the crimson circle with whiplash—thirteen sets of magically glowing eyes staring down upon me.

  I’m going to be punished for my actions.

  I’ll die for it.

  But I won’t die a coward.