“George!” My voice is sharp, and for half a second, I think he won’t come, then his paws thump the floor beside me. He meows, an odd, clipped sound, and wedges himself between me and the invisible slope. I use him as my anchor. My hand fists in the loose fur at his scruff—not to hold him, but to steady myself—and I shove forward.
The doorframe looms closer.
I push myself over the doorjamb only for the hallway to stretch, the far wall pulling away like a rubber band. I run anyway, feet tangling in the sheet, bare toes slapping against the warped floor. The hall blurs. A shadowed arch flickers into being ahead, and something in me knows that’s it.
I dive.
The sheet snags on the edge of the arch but rips free with a tearing sound. My shoulder slams into stone, and then I’m falling forward—
—onto rough, sun-warmed ground.
The world changes all at once. The arena air hits my face, hot and sharp, smelling of ash and old smoke. Sound rushes back in, muted at first, then sharper. The low murmur of spectators spilling in. The sun is merciless, a brand between my shoulder blades.
The trial is over.
I made it.
I don’t know how, but I made it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
KAY
When I try to straighten my knees, I hit the arena sand hard enough that the air knocks out of my lungs. Grit slides against my skin as I roll once, twice, and end up tangled with the cool sheet, wrapped haphazardly around me. It’s the only thing between me and the hundreds of eyes I can feel pressing down from the stands.
I pull it tighter, but the edges gape, brushing against bare skin. Naked. Of course. Umbral didn’t let me keep anything. That place stripped me down to nothing, literally and figuratively. I should care more, should feel the heat crawling up my neck, but I’m too wrung out for shame to fully land. My body’s a knot of exhaustion, my thoughts slow and syrupy, like they’re still half-stuck in that shadow-realm.
I stay on my knees for a moment, just breathing, heart thudding like I’ve outrun something with claws. Maybe I have. It takes me too long for me to realize I’m not alone. Shapes move at the edges of my vision. I lift my head and see the other contenders.
All of them.
They’re scattered across the arena floor, every one of them looking like they just crawled through hell and barely made it back. Sweat drips down temples. Tunics hang loose, torn at the edges. Hair sticks to foreheads and necks in damp strands. Even Varo, whose control is usually so sharp it could cut glass, looks like someone dented his armor and left the mark.
For the first time since this whole nightmare started, I’m not the only one looking wrecked. That thought loosens something in my chest. Relief is a strange thing to feel here, but it settles in anyway, heavier than the sheet over my shoulders.
The air smells faintly of scorched metal and something sweet, like flowers left too long in the sun. My fingers curl into the sheet and I close my eyes for a second. Umbral’s over. Whatever it wanted from me, it didn’t get it. I’m still here, and for now, that’s enough.
When I open my eyes again, they’re watching me.
Not just the crowd. The other contenders, too. There’s no heat in their gazes, no easy calculation like before the trials started, just the same dazed, bruised-around-the-edges disbelief I’m sure is written across my own face. Varo is the first to move. He pushes himself up from one knee, slow and deliberate, like every muscle in his body’s been replaced with stone. He crosses the space between us without the usual swagger, without a smirk or some backhanded comment about me keeping up. Instead, he extends a hand.
It takes me a second to realize what he’s offering. When I do, I slip my fingers into his, and he hauls me to my feet. His grip is warm, solid—the kind of steadiness I didn’t know I needed until it’s there.
“You’re still breathing,” he says, voice rough, like maybe Umbral scraped his throat raw.
“I am,” I manage, clutching the sheet tighter.
A murmur ripples through the crowd above us, and it’s not the usual buzz of wagers and whispered derision. This is different. Softer. Curious. I glance up, expecting to see the usual half-bored expressions, but people are leaning forward, watching me with something that might almost be approval.
“Good.”
There’s an energy in the air, a strange warmth beneath the heat of the arena flame, like the crowd is sharing something between them that I’m not invited to understand. I don’t know if I want to.
Varo’s still beside me, his hand a brief, grounding weight on my arm before he lets go. He reaches forward and I almost flinch, but don’t. His fingers touch the pendant at my throat, stroking the smooth, red face. I want to look down, make sure he doesn’t rip the chain from my neck, dash the gem against the rock, but I don’t wantto look weak or shaken. I keep my eyes on his face as he drops his hand. He doesn’t say anything else, but there’s a flicker in his gaze, some calculation I can’t read—before he turns away and starts toward the others.
I let him go.
The sheet clings uncomfortably to my skin, damp with sweat from whatever that was, but my legs are steady enough now. The other contenders are regrouping in loose clusters, exchanging low words or standing apart entirely. For the first time, I see them without the shield of distance between us.
