“Enter.” The head Dane’s voice magically amplifies throughout the massive stone chamber, sending shivers down my spine.

  I guess they aren’t barren of magic.

  The lot of us are frozen stiff. Witnessing the ground breathe is not something an orphan encounters every day. My mind races through all the mythos I’ve combed through at House Kavoh. Dark magic exhales cerulean blue, sometimes black, but then why are there hints of amber?

  Doesn’t matter. Signs of magic has ensured the spillage of orphan blood tonight.

  There’s no pleading our way out of this one.

  Reaching into my secret pant pocket gives me a sliver of relief, at least. While playing with the sediment of my preece stone, I say a silent prayer to the black sky back home.

  “Ready, Jurs?” I beg his gaze toward my hand. “Now’s the time.”

  He nods at me, and we both ingest our Arkitus medicine.

  Immediately, the harsh dungeon air melts into a cool mist in my throat. Is this what normal feels like? I ask myself this every time I swallow a stone. Not having to concentrate on pain for even a minute is a miracle in and of itself. On its way down, I can trace where the sediment breaks apart to soothe the inflammation. When Jurso exhales with the same blissful expression, I know we share a familiar torment.

  “I’ve never—” Jurso’s eyes close like he’s about to take a nap. “So potent.” He caresses his own throat.

  “Look alive.” Layla elbows us both out of our high, motioning to the brutish boy shouldering past the crowd to be front and center.

  “You heard the Dane,” he scowls and punches his chest. “Don’t make us look like cowards.”

  The daydream’s over. We all hesitantly step inside—past the giant archway—hearing the echo of the pulsing ground at our feet. Twenty steps away shows a wide circular arena with light seeping through the cracks, and farther beyond, a high council dais where the cloaked men and women remain seated. They appear just as drawn in mythos—long black cloaks, clawed armored fingertips overlaying black mesh gloves. Diadems crown their hooded heads with a singular crystal on each one.

  This really does feel like a ceremonial sacrifice now… and I’ve never felt so ill prepared.

  The center Dane stands once we’re all inside, his eyes glowing white like that boy with the silken hair. He straightens his arms toward us, then makes a tight fist.

  Not a second later, a gust of wind whooshes past all of us, and the fifty-foot doors bellow shut at our backs.

  I stiffen entirely, as do many of the other weak.

  “High magic.” Jurso’s teeth clatter.

  Suddenly, I feel all of my studies have been a waste. Piecing together a puzzle that was intentionally botched stirs anger in my gut, mixed with a stew of fear.

  “Hale?”

  “I don’t know, Lay.” I shake my head.

  “Step forward,” the Dane’s godly voice makes me feel two feet tall.

  There’s unrest among the council, I can tell from all the side whispers. Are they concerned about the dark magic awakening? Or were we lied to all along about this five-year hiatus?

  “Jurso,” I whisper. “In the Eye of the Bridge Lords mythos, did you see anything about the Sept wielding high magic?”

  “No.” He holds onto my torn-up shirt with a tight grip, like a little brother would. “The Sept were never mentioned. The only thing I remember about elemental wind magic… um, wielders called Whippers from faraway lands blessed with a golden sun.”

  “More old civilization garbage,” Layla sneers.

  “Look in front of you, Lay. It’s all alive.”

  The center Dane opens his fist, beckoning all attention, then waves his hand slowly in a circular motion as if feeling for something. Once he finds it, his fist clenches once more, the metal ting of his clawed fingertips echoing throughout the room.

  More rumbling beneath our feet follows, the breathing ground flashing more intensely.

  Crrrk!

  It closes shut, and the lot of us jump a step back.

  What power is this? I squeeze Lay’s shoulder.

  In two lightning-fast motions, the center Dane’s cloak billows as he whips his arms, sending visible gusts of wind undulating in our direction. We try to scatter, but we’re held still by an incredible force, like I’m wrapped in a spider’s invisible web.

  “I can’t move!” a brutish orphan bellows, his voice cracking.

  Groans of panic follow when we’re pushed, scampering on our feet in a near-weightless state like we’re being carried. I’ve never felt so out of control in my entire life. Even stuck under a dark sky in a barren field, being beaten bloody, at least I could put my arms up to defend myself. Now, with shortened breath and no use of my tied limbs, I glimpse desperate expressions in even the strongest of us.

  The group is split and separated to either side, leaving the arena bare.

  “Lot five-four-sixty,” a female Dane on the corner of the row reads off a sheet of parchment. “Awakening potential, maximized. Warring magics of the dark depths acknowledged on this night, twenty-eight of thirty, in the cellars of northern Froe. Duels to commence.”

  The stone foundation of the high dais grumbles as the central section slides open like a wide, dark mouth.

  Now what?

  “Night twenty-eight of thirty, first recording of awakening potential in four years, eleven months,” another Dane on the far side specifies, hidden excitement in his voice.

  So there’s some truth to House Mother’s words. These awakenings really are rare, and we’re witnessing one as we speak.

  The arena ground still shivers like it’s fighting the center Dane’s hold. My breathing has steadied since the medicine is now in full effect, but that’s about the only thing stable in this chamber.

  “Temperament analysis, commence.”

  The invisible web tightens around my body as I’m flattened against the stone wall at my back. The brutes in front of me are lifted like insects and organized in a line beside me. One look at Layla shows fear in those kind blue eyes, but something else too. Determination.

  “All this time, Lay. We were nothing but aging blood for this moment… for the Sept,” I say sadly.

  “Something’s coming back to me,” Jurso says from my other side. “There’s an old mythos I read. One that I tried to forget since the Danes were always a terrifying concept. It claimed the Sept are searching for power, and those who can wield it will be the next generation’s—”

  Before he can finish, we’re all slid up a ramp along the wall in the same fashion we were pushed here—wind whips—and finally settle on a high balcony right beside the Dane’s curved dais. Up close they radiate power. Auras. More high-magic dragonshit that’s not supposed to have existed in the last thousand years.

  My orphan brothers and sisters across the way are just as unnerved, fidgeting in their invisible webs. Then, with an exhale in both my ears, we’re released at once.

  The weight of my body becomes my burden again.

  “Privileged candidate from House Sivus, Renesta Fowler,” a female Dane near the center reads off her name.

  I lean forward, grasping the triangular balcony ledge, watching in awe as the beautiful woman is wrangled and launched off the balcony by a very powerful, accurate magic. The whirring wind slices at my ears as she’s hoisted and dropped to a harmless hover over the miniature crimson circle below the dais. It’s like she’s on trial at some judicator’s chambers.

  But that’s not what this is supposed to be.

  “House Father Trias Baldren describes Renesta as touched by the warring dark, as evidenced by the glow emitted from freshly summoned Kyard shards in her presence. He claims the beginnings of an awakening are at work. Renesta… what say you?”

  Everything is happening so fast, egging my mind to keep up. If this is a temperament test, then they’re hoping she’ll act a certain way. It is a trial. They want to see if her blood would be worthy to awaken the darkness. All mythos points to decisive instincts, and lust for conflict. But she doesn’t possess the latter, based on her demeanor on the steps.

  In fact, she tried to deescalate the situation with Grondus.

  Has she been groomed on what to do here?

  Will she lie?

  I’m on my toes with anticipation.

  “Master Dane, I experience visions of a dark world beneath the depths of these very dungeons, where souls at rest rile whenever my vision lands on them. They dislike my presence, but… they do recognize it,” Renesta speaks like she’s unbothered by all of the theatrics befouling us.

  The Danes don’t scare her?

  Why?

  Not only does it calm me down a little, but I’m that much more infatuated with this woman. The way she scans the Danes, as if judging them. She’s fearless, truly. Green eyes are like the emerald dragons drawn in mythos. Her tan skin makes me think she was reincarnated from a land of golden sun.

  Her answer must be sufficient, because she’s immediately released from her invisible web.

  The Danes whisper without their magical amplification. On the contrary, their words sound normal at first, but as they pierce my brain they become jumbled. More magic that isn’t dark.

  I’m starting to think the Danes aren’t part of the depths at all.

  “Premonitions.” Layla folds her big arms over the triangle next to mine. “Reminds me of Xelv when his eyes would roll into the back of his head.”

  I scoff, chuckling away some of the nerves. “You kept accusing him of lying about his seizures.”

  “Until he spoke in two voices at once.” Layla snaps her tongue.

  Jurso tentatively inches up to my other side.

  We both look at him.

  “Well?” I ask.

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  “You were saying something about the Danes?” Layla reminds us.

  “Forget that. Is she really attuned?” I motion toward Renesta.

  He nods. “She quotes mythos from other houses, affirmed by rival mothers and fathers.”

  “Yet she was born in Sivus?”

  “Nineteen years ago, yes. Sometimes it’s like she’s possessed by a knowing, peaceful spirit. Others swear she already awakened the warring dark.”

  “Nah, then she wouldn’t be here, with us,” I say.

  “I agree. But she wouldn’t have earned a foreign diadem without some inkling.”

  “What kind of inkling are we talking?” Layla asks.

  “House Father crowned her after some Kyard stones materialized in an orbit around her, as she rattled off signs of dark magic not privy to our tomes. Some swear she lifted her shadow into a manifestation.”

  “Dragonshit.” Layla pushes him.

  “Very well. Your blood has been recognized.” A new 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.”

  “Choose wisely,” a female Dane coaches from the corner.

  Renesta side-eyes the coach, then averts her gaze on the high council directly in front of her. “I want to ask if my real parents were attuned with magic, but that would leave a gaping hole in my soul about too many other of our mysteries.” She boldly turns away from the Danes and instead stares up at her fellow orphans.

  My belly does a somersault when she reaches me. Then it backflips when she lingers.

  A part of me thinks my mind is playing tricks, but when Layla and Jurso look my way, I realize her gaze is stuck like she became tethered.

  “The fuck, Hale?” Layla whispers.

  “No idea.” I bite my lip.

  Renesta blinks and turns back to the Danes. “I’m going to ask you something that has plagued me since I first opened my eyes in this world. Is the sky of the first homes real, or is it a veil molded by dark magic, meant to keep our blood contained?”

  Her question tugs at my heart, because deep down, I’ve wondered the same. The thought is so ludicrous I could never bring myself to ask the question out loud, let alone to the Sept.

  “The sky of the first homes… is a manifestation.”

  My eyes widen. Layla, Jurso and I all exchange looks, as do all of the other orphans. It’s like our entire lives have been shattered. That’s why all the mythos are conflicting. It’s as I thought. They’re meant to be that way.

  “No fucking way,” an orphan shouts.

  More disbelief follows.

  “Do the house parents know?” Jurso pulls at his blond hair.

  “Where are they from if they do?” Layla’s hands clench around the ledge.

  Unease is everywhere. It’s palpable. Which makes me think… did Renesta mean for this to happen? Or was she just genuinely curious?

  No. She knows things that others do not. She’s riling our blood… on purpose.

  Nothing here is what it seems.

  “Guys, I don’t trust her.” I narrow my eyes, analyzing her calm stature. Such a revelation would have me asking a hundred follow-up questions. Yet she just stands there, staring at the center Dane. “I don’t trust any of this. Let’s just try to remain calm. Lay. We need to watch very closely to what happens next. Our lives might depend on it.”

  “But, Hale… our sky?”

  “If you get chosen, what would your question be?” Jurso poses the question to Layla.

  “What the fuck is above our sky, if not the sky?”

  “Excellent. I was thinking the same. If one of us is chosen, we will ask.”

  “What good is that knowledge if we have no plan to survive after it?” I challenge.

  The dark mouth in the stone foundation suddenly lights aflame on its own. Sconces illuminate weapon racks of ornate design, holding even more pristine artillery. Blades shine of enchanted steel—deep greens and black carbon, both ripe for magic, according to what I’ve read.

  Gods, what am I thinking? I can’t trust anything in my own head.

  All of the orphans lean as far over the balcony as they can when Renesta struts forward to choose her weapon. I can’t help but notice her backside carved like a ripe fruit under her mesh skirt. The diadem shines gold in this light, making her appear like a princess wading through a secret passageway. She chooses a sword. An epic, green-hued sword with no curves and one deep indent down the middle. The handguard looks like a flame spreading over rock, and when she tests it, I lose all my confidence.

  “She’s been trained,” Layla says it for me.

  “We all have,” Jurso affirms. “Haven’t you?”

  “House Mother would throw wooden mock weapons into our stables and have us fight until we were blue in the face.”

  “Or in the belly,” I add, eyes still only on Renesta.

  “Mm. House Father thought it best if we trained with actual steel, so as not to be fearful of an edge if the time came.”

  “Sounds like your father was infinitely wiser than our mother.” My lips tighten.

  “Or had more coin,” Layla says.

  Once Renesta emerges from the weapon cove with that green-tinted sword in hand, she’s magically whisked straight to the breathing arena, where the cracks are still held shut.

  “Ahk!” A brutish orphan beside us suddenly becomes confined by an invisible web, fidgeting and complaining with far less grace than Renesta. He’s hurled over the balcony and stops inches from the floor, just above the same crimson circle.

  “House Mother Aldinia Marontail describes Asmen Seck a fierce warrior reincarnated as a digging slave, meant for great tidings if ascended to a second house. She claims harsh words should be overlooked for great strength. Asmen… what say you?”

  Asmen grunts and spits on the floor, still trying to break from his ethereal chains. “I say you wrangle me with the weak, drag me miles under the surface, for what purpose? So you can witness me crush a tiny woman’s skull?”

  The faint light coming from the arena cracks grows more resplendent, leaving the Danes to whisper again to one another.

  After a short deliberation, the same Dane looks up from her parchment and stands.

  “Your blood has been recognized. 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.”

  Don’t waste the question, you spice-guzzling shit.

  Don’t waste it—

  “If you grant me an axe, will you let me slaughter this self-righteous princess and get me out of this fucking dungeon?”

  Gods-damn moron.

  The Dane lingers, making me wonder if she’s smiling under her hood. “Yes.”

  His ethereal chains drop and the black barracks illuminates once more. Not to anyone’s surprise, Asmen the brute yanks a heavy two-handed axe with a dragon’s head splitting the center of it. A weapon too regal for such a lowly creature. Barely sentient, with blood stains on his gums.

  Idiot. I can’t get over how foolish he is. Can’t he see that we’re all bottom of the barrel here, and that arming us with some kind of perceived truth would be invaluable for what’s to come? Some of us might actually survive this. But a brute like Asmen can’t see more than two feet in front of him.

  Once he’s done growling and spitting inside the barracks, he’s carried to the arena and left thirty paces away from Renesta. The visible wind magic dissipates like a satisfied tornado, and the luminescent slits beneath the ground ignite their faces.

  My heart is in my throat for Renesta. All of the stoicism in the land won’t save her from a spicer of that caliber. He’s twice her size, literally.

  The Danes all stand as one, increasing the tension. My thoughts still as whispers die. All that echoes around the vast space is Asmen’s grunt. His muscular back slithers with every breath, arms flexed.

  “This is fucked up,” I say under my breath.

  “We knew it was coming the whole way down,” Layla whispers back. “If this is a similar fate to yours, Hale, remember our fights at home. Remember what you’re good at.”

  I swallow past a lump in my throat.

  Speed and accuracy seem hopeless against a giant.

  The center Dane lifts his chin. “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.”

  “What the hell is Miria?” Layla looks at me and Jurso.

  My brow furrows. “That’s… a civilization of old.”

  “Said to have crumbled in the war of Tibeth thousands of years ago,” Jurso adds.

  “Did the Dane hit his head?” Layla glances over at him.

  “Or are bits of truth sprinkled amidst lies of the mythos?” I counter.

  “May your spilt blood fuel the warring dark.”

  All of the other Danes bow their heads.

  Center Dane clenches his fist in front of him as the others take their seats. “Duelers… ready.”

  Both Renesta and Asmen face each other, bending into ready stance. I’ve never seen such fine craftsmanship. Those weapons… the duelers look like peasants wielding blades of royalty.

  My gaze lands on Renesta, scanning her green, calculating eyes, her cool and collected expression.

  I want her to live… I want that strange confidence to be justified.

  “Begin.”

  Asmen charges hard, but Renesta holds. What the hell is she thinking? Run, woman. Hope to tire him out or something.

  I wince as they’re about to clash.

  She can be possessed by a thousand spirits, but she’s still flesh and blood. There’s no way—

  Shnnk!

  My mouth hangs open when her blade guides his wailing axe to the floor, followed by a swift kick to the face. Asmen spins, yanking the axe loose and regaining his footing.

  “Bitch!” He nearly foams from the mouth as his eyes harden. There’s a fresh red mark lining his face that makes some of us cheer. There’s a change in his demeanor now. A hesitation. Underestimating her was a mistake.

  Lightness lifts my heart. Hope. Or maybe that’s just my medicine settling in.

  Asmen roars over the light, swinging to kill.

  Whoosh!

  Renesta ducks almost to the floor, forcing Asmen’s arms to flex tight, curbing his own momentum.

  In one fluid motion, Renesta straightens into a powerful stance, thrusting her blade hard. Clank! A quick parry causes elbow-guard and blade to collide, knocking the sword off course.

  Sparks fly.

  Orphans gasp.

  And a hard booted foot presses into her chest, sending her flying backward—limbs flailing forward like flags in the wind.

  Dammit.

  She crashes down hard on the stone floor, head whiplashing, sword held flat at her chest. The positioning reminds me of my skirmishes in the stables. Layla taught me to fall like that. She said if the edge was real, I’d cut myself holding the blade any other way, marking an embarrassing end.

  Doesn’t matter. She’s still on her back, about to be cleaved.

  “No,” I say out loud, looking over to Jurso.

  He’s not as freaked as I am. Why?

  Asmen laughs, stomping over to his opponent struggling to stand. “Finally. I can leave this wretched place. No more half-rations or digging for minerals, bitch. No. More!” He lifts his axe high overhead, eyes crazed. The light coming from the cracks pulses harder.

  “Get up!” an orphan yells from the other side. I feel the desperation in his voice strike through me like lightning.

  Just as he’s about to drop his axe, I’m sure my eyes play tricks on me. Asmen’s shadow… it’s rising. Renesta’s eyes… they’re glowing.

  “What the fuck?” Layla leans farther over the balcony.

  “I wasn’t kidding before,” Jurso says. “She’s special.”

  Asmen’s own shadow clasps the blade of the axe before he can swing it down, causing his arms to flex futilely, stuck in place. His eyes widen when Renesta thrusts from her floored position.

  Asmen curves out of the way at the last second, suffering a wound in his oblique and offering a swift backhand in response.

  They both spin away from one another, Asmen letting go of his axe and holding up his fists in shock. His shadow keeps the blade floating in place, before it fades to the floor like sand in an hourglass.

  Renesta kicks to her feet, then flips her sword ostentatiously back into stance, eyes flashing white to intimidate.

  “She’s already awakened?” Layla looks my way.

  “Attuned, I think. Which is still insane.”

  “What’s the fucking difference?” She grabs my collar, now seeming uneasy. “I thought we were all on level ground here.”

  “I thought so too, Lay!” I smack her hand off of me and grab her collar back, nodding across the way. “My sense is the same for that other man with the silky hair. They’re favored. Just watch out for them in case you have to fight them.”

  Vssst!

  Sparks fly as Renesta swipes the blade over the stone, daring Asmen to try and reclaim his axe. She rounds it like a warden taunting a prisoner, eyes only on the brute warrior bleeding from the gums. The spice really appears to be activated now. Effects tend to spike on adrenaline. I’ve seen it in the stables when one of my house brother’s arms nearly snapped in half from the strength of the spicer.

  Be careful, magic woman.

  What else does she have under her sleeve? Manifesting a shadow is said to be low-level dark magic, along with cloaking oneself using shadows. The real meat I read is manipulating the matter of your own body so it’s momentarily ethereal. Imagine? But that’s all in mythos. I never thought my eyes would actually see it. And who knows what’s real anymore…

  Vssst!

  More sparks fly, causing Asmen to growl.

  “I don’t care what warring darkness favors you, bitch. I’ll crush your skull in my bare hands.” Blood leaks down his lips, which he licks back up.

  “That spice will rot your brain, kind brother. All I have to do is wait you out.” She offers a shadow of a smirk.

  “Rah!” Asmen bellows, launching himself into a forward somersault.

  Clang! Sllt!

  His elbow-guard blocks only part of the blade, while the rest slices into his skin. “Rah!” He grips the axe and swipes with all his might, only to miss and suffer a poke in the back of the shoulder.

  She tries to swiftly retract.

  We all hold our breath when he grasps the sharp of the blade barehanded and wretches her forward—off balance. She slides back into control and twists the hilt in one full rotation, causing him to scream in pain. Blood flies from his hand, but he only lunges harder, ignoring all of it.

  As his bloody hand wraps around her hair, the diadem flies onto the floor. We all stiffen at the sight. He tugs hard, and in a fluid motion she whirls in a pirouette, slicing his bicep and ducking a wild axe swing.

  “Yes!” some cheer.

  Others from Asmen’s house frown angrily.

  He’s leaking everywhere, yet still stalks as ferocious as ever.

  Clang!

  Clang!

  His strikes are powerful and wide. All it takes is one landing. Thankfully, Renesta is a woman of grace, making sure not to meet any of his blows head-on. Of course she’d lose in a direct clash. Use his strength against him. Wait him out.

  Clang!

  The axe knocks the sword wide, leaving an opening for an instant in time. He’s close, with one free hand.

  My breath hitches for her exposed mortality. The crazed satisfaction in Asmen’s eyes speaks volumes.

  Move, Renesta. Dash back!

  He grabs for her skull.

  Pressure goes to my head as if I’m living her fate. Imagining those barbaric hands ready to squash me like a bug does visceral things to me.

  At the last second, she wills her own shadow to manifest in front of her, obscuring his vision for the fraction of time she needs to artfully spin to his back—point of the blade ready to impale.

  “You’re caught. It’s over.” She’s confident, and I don’t blame her. If she stabs, it would puncture his heart directly. “I will show a crazed spicer mercy this day. We are all orphans. One blood.”

  He jerks, and she sticks him just enough to keep him frozen.

  “Find your mind and release your axe. Do it now,” she raises her voice for the first time.

  He snarls, turning his head to keep one eye on her. “You don’t have the brass.” He starts to spin, but she screams in a white-eyed glow of momentous force, sending the blade deep into him.

  He falls to his knees as Renesta lets go of the blade and takes a step back. Her lips are tight, quivering even. Those knowing spirits living inside her… they didn’t prepare her for death.