8. Chapter 8

8

F uck.

Now she was officially screwed. Maxwell was here, which meant he would stay for the entire trial, and afterward, he would be a part of every stage of The Striving. Clearly, the shifter intended to keep his eye on their new elven initiate every second, without fail, until this was over.

He would be the first to notice anything amiss if Rebecca tried to step in again. She knew it without a doubt.

Some power becoming the Roth-Da’al had given her, huh? She couldn’t even save a friend from her own idiocy, because doing so would only make things worse.

Once Rowan reached his destination under the strict guidance of his security entourage, Maxwell’s team made sure the elf man stepped over and into the boundaries of the casting circle before they unlocked the chains binding his wrists and diffused the dampening wards keeping his inherent magic at bay.

Over all the whispers floating around the gym, the hushed voices, and the violent ferocity of bated breath while everyone waited for the trial to begin, Rebecca couldn’t hear what Rowan had said to his security handlers. She did, however, have a much better view of him when they all stepped aside, rolling their eyes or shaking their heads, each of them refusing to respond.

He looked like he might have been laughing, even when he offered the last security guy a perfunctory nod and a shallow bow that probably would have looked like a gesture of gratitude and respect coming from anyone else.

When Rowan did it, though, it transformed into a mocking insult.

That was definitely familiar.

Rowan showed no sign of fear or even slight concern inside that circle.

Rebecca hadn’t been afraid either when she’d been led to that exact same place to move through the same trials six months ago.

Then again, no one had known her personally six months ago. No one had felt a need to rig The Striving to ensure she failed. No one had had a reason to even try. If they had, they wouldn’t have stood a chance in hell of besting her that way.

Not with the Bloodshadow magic coursing through her veins.

But Rowan?

Rowan had her, someone he’d known all his life. Someone he’d called a friend. Someone who knew him inside and out.

Someone who could bring him to his knees with something as simple as adding a little change to the ritual potion he would eventually consume tonight.

Would he have looked a little less full of himself if he’d known she’d just meddled with the ceremony to keep him at arm’s length?

Or was he already expecting it?

There was still a chance that even after all this time apart, Rowan still knew how to predict Rebecca’s next moves. He’d grown rather skilled at it, centuries ago.

It was still possible that he’d anticipated her interference and had somehow prepared to face it anyway.

Whatever Rowan did or didn’t know right now made no difference.

Rebecca’s hands were tied. She couldn’t do a damn thing to reverse what she’d added to that glowing blue potion in the flask. She could do nothing to reverse the course along the path she’d set for him.

If Rowan failed the way she’d wanted him to, if he didn’t survive the way she hadn’t known was possible until five minutes ago, she wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about that, either.

She’d ordered The Striving for Rowan Blackmoon. Shade’s Roth-Da’al had no choice but to see it through to the very end, no matter what that end meant for Rowan.

As soon as the last security member stepped out of the largest outer spellbinding circle surrounding Rowan and the casting circle in the center of the gym, Maxwell spun. With his back to the crowd, he faced that central circle to stand at attention beyond the confines of the magic holding Shade’s prisoner in place.

The casting circle painted on the floor illuminated with a brilliant flash of green light. It pulsated in the same dark, ominous hues as Bor’s first set of flames, brightening into a pale, leafy-green glow that didn’t hint nearly so forcefully at terrible things yet to come.

The signal for those gathered here tonight that it was finally time to begin.

The same light flashed within the circles on the gym walls, but as soon as the glare faded away, Maxwell turned his head toward Bor sitting at the corner of the dais and nodded.

Rebecca didn’t realize he’d settled his gaze on her next until her flesh prickled with the warm weight of his attention and his presence, even from across half the room.

She flicked her gaze back toward him and was almost as alarmed by what she saw in the shifter’s expression as she was by her own stupid decision to force Rowan’s failure.

Maxwell’s silver eyes were wide, their inner glow reflecting the shifter’s unique brand of magical ability—all of it aimed at her, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.

Or was it confusion?

When he tilted his head and his frown darkened, Rebecca couldn’t tell what emotion plagued her Head of Security. She was certain it unnerved her just as much as knowing Rowan could very well die tonight because of her.

She pulled her gaze away and shifted in her seat, trying to look a little more casual and apathetic about the whole thing.

If Maxwell had looked at her like that because she’d been giving away her own thoughts with her unguarded expression, he’d know something was different. He’d know something was wrong, and he would approach her about it.

She had to act like she knew what she was doing. She had to pretend none of this bothered her, that she didn’t care nearly as much as she did about the outcome of The Striving tonight and what happened to its initiate afterward.

She knew what she had to do, and it shouldn’t have been as hard as it felt—to sit still and pay attention without squirming, without being physically sick, without interfering in the ritual that had now officially begun.

The discomfort of Maxwell’s gaze on her didn’t let up, even when he left the central casting circle to head for the wall beside the double doors and take his place with the rest of his security team for the duration of the ceremony.

For now, their job was to ensure nothing got too wildly out of hand.

The Striving could be endured and—if one was worthy—successfully completed by one soul at a time. Once the casting circles and the spell bindings had been activated, as they were now, the person standing at the center of that casting circle was on their own.

There was a whole security team stationed right there to make sure it stayed that way.

No matter what Rebecca might have wanted to do between now and the moment Rowan’s Striving came to an end.

Her mouth had gone so dry, it felt like every breath stuck to the inside of her throat and her lungs, like her next inhale might close up her airways and end her right there before she witnessed the worst of what she’d set in motion.

That didn’t change when the fires in the iron sconces along the walls and the central brazier flared again with a roaring whoosh and a crack of attention-grabbing magic. Shadows danced among green flames artfully morphing back to orange-yellow.

A round of eager, anticipatory cheers rose from the magicals gathered around the room. Then Bor rose from his stool on the dais to make his slow, shuffling entrance.

He stopped at the edge of the miniature stage to address the gathering from there.

The second the old giveldi lifted both crooked hands in a slow, sweeping gesture, every conversation around the room fell into an abrupt silence. Every mouth clicked shut. All eyes centered on the old-worlder among them who’d taken it upon himself to oversee every Striving within this room.

“Initiate!” Bor’s barking voice boomed across the gym as he spread his arms even wider.

Rebecca could have sworn the mere force of his vocal command set the flames in the wall sconces to flickering wildly, as if he’d tried to blow them out from across the room.

“You stand here before us, your witnesses, to enter The Striving of your own free will. To test your strength, cunning, wisdom, and fortitude. To bare yourself within the sacred fire so that you might be marked as one worthy of a new calling. Do you accept?”

His final word echoed far longer than the gym’s acoustics warranted, but he’d modified his voice for that.

A hush fell over the spectators while the question lingered in the air.

Standing casually in the casting circle with his hands hanging carelessly at his sides, Rowan lifted his chin with another small, challenging flicker across his lips. “I accept.”

The amusement in his voice made Rebecca want to call off the whole thing all over again.

They were here now, this was happening, and still, the elf man acted like he’d just walked in on amateur hour.

He had no idea.

“Very well.” Bor acknowledged the reply with a dip of his head before continuing. “Your task is simple. Survive all four stages of The Striving within the allotted time. But break from the spellbound circle around you, and you forfeit your claim. At midnight, the challenge will be complete. Any questions?”

A low chuckle burst from Rowan’s lips to echo around the room before he replied, “Not at present.”

“Then state your name, initiate.”

The surprise behind Rowan’s widening eyes at that question—the request to state his name for all to witness together—made Rebecca’s gut sink.

It sank even lower still, like her insides were trying to spill out onto the floor and bury themselves in the earth, when Rowan looked up at her and met her gaze for the first time since being ushered into the gym.

Surprise still glistened behind his eyes, joined by an off-putting amusement. Like he’d expected her to have already told the entire task force all about Rowan Blackmoon and how they knew each other and who he’d been to her once upon a time.

Who she’d been to him .

Like he was challenging her to call out his name instead, just to prove to everyone that she could.

Rebecca held her breath as she stared back at him. She wouldn’t give in.

Then Rowan finally returned his attention to Bor and delivered his answer loudly and clearly, announcing himself in front of everyone, all hints of amusement and light-hearted joking now vanished. “Rowan Blackmoon.”

Oh, sure. He could stand up here and give his full name, his true name, out loud to everyone without worrying about the repercussions or what it might bring down on his head afterward. No one was out there in this world looking for him . No one was chasing him down.

As far as Rebecca’s true enemies were concerned, no one even knew who Rowan Blackmoon was.

An alarmingly intense wave of envy surged through when she thought of how long this elf in front of her had been free to come and go as he wished, to do as he wished, as himself, without fear of making the wrong move at the wrong time.

Without striving not to bring whole armies down on his head at any moment.

No, that had only been her fate, not his. And here they were.

Maybe he’d been thinking something similar. Maybe his mind was elsewhere. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. But when Rowan looked back up at her in her makeshift throne and dipped his head—so openly and brazenly in front of everyone, where they could all see it—he looked so downright smug about the whole thing.

She almost started to feel better about the personal challenge she’d added to that potion flask. The giant surprise waiting for him at the very end.

Then Bor’s booming voice barreled through the room one final time, and Rebecca didn’t know how she felt about any of it anymore.

“Rowan Blackmoon… Your challenge begins!”

As his words echoed through the gym, Rebecca’s chest tightened, the weight of her decision fully settling. There was no turning back now. Not for her, and certainly not for Rowan.