Chapter Six

Shadowy tendrils glide sensuously down my ribs, the cool touches featherlight and teasing. Ashes below, they even know what I like . . . and how I like it. They’ve memorized every inch of me and mapped my body like uncharted territory they plan on conquering.

And conquer they have . . .

My wrists are tethered above my head and smoky tendrils ease my legs apart, shackling them to the bedposts like some kind of carnal offering to their god and master. And suddenly, I can sense him standing there—my faceless shadow lord—always watching, a voyeur who can’t help himself.

“Join us,”

I coax, tapping my fingers down my bare stomach to my spread thighs, bands of shadow holding them wide. “This is all for you.”

“I cannot.”

His voice is the growl of a beast.

But I am not afraid. I feel that harsh rasp like the nip of teeth over sensitized flesh and I want more. I writhe against my bonds, taunting him, hoping he’ll break whatever self-imposed rules he seems to be bound to and finally give in.

“Destroy me,”

I beg in a shameless whimper. “Please.”

“Gods!”

His shadows burst apart and coalesce, crowding me in an instant and pleasuring me everywhere at once—a sleek, thick tendril plunging in and curling deep with ruthless, erotic precision—and I tip violently over the edge.

And then he’s gone with a furious roar that rattles my bones.

I fly awake and it’s to a flurry of movement in my room as my handmaidens bustle into my bedchamber. I blink the sleep-crusted grit out of my eyes and resist the urge to stuff my head under the silk pillows, my heart and core still reverberating with pleasure.

What the fuck was that?

My dreams have never been this chaotic and heated, fueled by an inhuman presence—a striking, towering male shrouded in shadow—and though my memories are clouded, the details slipping away, my skin is tight with awareness and my nightclothes are sticky with sweat.

It’s not the first time I’ve had these dreams—Laleh constantly bemoans my fondness for my fictional, nocturnal men—but this is the first time one has ever felt so visceral. In fact, I’m more than convinced that I climaxed in my sleep. Thank you, shadow lover. I can still feel the caress of his magic on my overheated body, and the visceral memory of that last sensual touch has me blushing. I lift a hand up to my head and groan.

Solo sex hair. My favorite.

With a disgruntled sigh, I sit up. “What’s happening?”

I ask one of the maidservants as she hurries in with a tray. The smell of hot roasted coffee fills the air, and that is more than enough incentive to crawl to the side of the bed and onto unsteady feet. With a yawn, I hurry over to the overladen table near the window.

“Breakfast, my lady,”

my handmaiden says, and offers me a steaming cup of coffee. “Before the gladiatrix contest.”

I nearly spit out my mouthful. I shake my head. Foggy as I was, perhaps I’d heard her wrong. “For a moment there, I thought you said gladiatrix contest.”

She nods and points to a scroll on the side of my breakfast tray. “An exhibition of combat is the next challenge.”

Her face is full of pity as if I have little chance of surviving such a round. She’s probably right. “People are already making wagers on who might die,”

she adds morbidly.

My mouth dries. The crown plans to put a few dozen girls into an arena and say, Fight it out, may the best one win? And any of the women who didn’t get to eat last night would be at a disadvantage today. How sadistic.

And shrewd, my mind supplies.

The riddle challenge from the night before could have been intended to reduce any combat advantage that the women from the House of Antares might have on the sands. They aren’t exactly devoted to knowledge, prioritizing muscles over mindfulness and all that. Well, with the exception of Clem, though she hadn’t succeeded, either. My skin prickles with nerves—in any combat scenario, Antares would definitely have the advantage over the scholars from Regulus or the artists from Fomalhaut. Or craftsmen like me.

Even if I’m strong from working the forge, I haven’t trained to battle from birth.

“Did the girls who didn’t get the questions right last night . . . make it?”

I ask my handmaiden with trepidation, knowing that the servant grapevine would be buzzing. Everyone in the kitchens at the Saab Inn always has a finger on the pulse of gossip.

“They are alive,”

she says, but doesn’t expand.

With numb fingers, I set down my cup and reach for the instructions. The first line—by order of the queen—has my stomach churning. I don’t even know why I am surprised that we would be expected to fight. Astride that gorgeous horse, she’d been the epitome of a warrior. She wouldn’t abide a soft woman for her son—a gladiatrix contest would sort the wolves from the sheep. Perhaps she was originally from the House of Antares.

Recalling my promise to myself about making the best of a bad situation, I scan the missive again. The only instructions the scroll offers are to be ready by noon. Which gives me two hours to find the library or the forge. I decide on the second. I’ll go to the library later, with Clem, if she’s still here and up for it. I send up a prayer to anyone listening that she is alive and well.

I hurriedly stuff one of the pastries from the tray into my mouth, wrap a second into a napkin in case I see her, and inhale a second cup of coffee before rushing to the bathing room to complete my morning ablutions. When I emerge, I see the handmaidens have set out the attire I’m meant to wear: dark forest-green leathers with bright bronze accents bearing the crest of Aldebaran—a branching tree and a pair of scales—that are soft and polished, and beautifully tailored trousers and a tunic.

Considering the house insignia, I suspect all the women will be wearing something similar. Once dressed, I squat and jump and then twist my body in midair with a pleased grin. Supple, too.

“A single high tail, please, with looped intervals,”

I tell the second, quieter handmaiden when she tackles my hair with a brush. I’ve been in enough scraps in the tavern to know that loose hair, especially as thick as mine is, can be a problem. The tail will keep it off my face, and once I know what I’ll be facing, I can either twist the looped sections into a bun at the top or tuck them into my shirt.

When she’s done, I hop up, snag my knee-high boots, and swiftly tuck my dagger into the inner sheath. I thrust the pastry for Clem into my pocket, and then I am heading for the door.

“My lady, your face!”

the first handmaiden chides.

I pause on the threshold. I’m sure that face paint isn’t going to help me win any battles, but I don’t want them to get penalized for not doing their jobs. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for you to make sure I’m presentable,”

I say, closing the door before they can protest.

The palace halls are bustling with servants, some carrying armfuls of linens, others breakfast trays. Though a few of the other chosen are milling about the corridor outside their quarters, no one pays me much notice—but then I am talented at being invisible when I’m not around deceitful, aggravating princes. Shoving him from my mind, I take a moment to admire the massive gold-framed murals of both battle and bucolic scenes that line the walls, detailing some of the history of Kaldari. Everything about this palace is drenched in opulence . . . and yet something feels off.

I pick up my pace, and in a few minutes, I enter the great hall and dart across it, exiting into the courtyard.

Finally, freedom!

“Excuse me,”

I say to a young boy carrying a bucket of oats. “Where is the palace forge?”

His eyes widen, presumably since I’m one of the chosen, but then he points toward some well-manicured hedges and scurries away. I suppose a general direction is better than nothing. I head off to where he indicated and find myself at the entrance of a lush garden maze. A delighted laugh leaves my lips. I recognize this place! The maze is painted on the leftmost side of the picture back home.

Mama and I used to pretend that we had to find the jewel at the center of it. We’d trace the lines on the painting, making choices on which way to turn. While I’d gotten hopelessly thwarted at first, she’d known exactly how to get to the center, having been inside this actual maze herself.

I breathe in the fragrant air, wondering if she, too, had once stood in this spot. I step past the first hedgerow and hesitate. But as I stand in the sunlight, the path to the heart of the maze comes back to me in a rush. I see it in my mind’s eye, and I follow the turns we’d mapped together, enjoying the solitude and the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves around me.

I know I’m nearing the center when I hear the muted splash of a fountain.

And voices.

One fluttery and high-pitched, and one belonging to . . . Prince Javed.

With a sharp inhale, I flatten myself against the leaves and peek through the nearest gap in the hedge. The prince has one of his chosen, the redhead from the courtyard, pressed against a column, his hand up her skirts. She doesn’t seem to mind; her giggle fills the space as his other hand gropes the front of her bodice. If seduction is part of the prince’s whole selection process, count me out.

“Your Highness,”

she squeals, and bats his hand away.

With a growl that makes the hairs on my nape stand straight, that same hand lashes to her throat. “Did you just strike the heir to the throne?”

he snarls.

Her face goes crimson as his fingers tighten. “Of course not, Your Highness.”

I can’t see his expression, but I can see his fingers cinching her slender neck and hear the tiny, panicked wheezes of her breath. Fuck this. I can’t just stand by and let him hurt her! But before I can take a step forward, a hand closes over my mouth and an arm bands about my waist. A scream throttles in my throat as warm lips graze the shell of my ear. “Don’t be foolish. He’ll execute you.”

It’s the voice belonging to . . . the second prince.

“I’m going to release you now,”

he whispers. The moment his arms loosen, I shove my elbow backward hard, taking pleasure in the soft grunt that comes from him, despite the pain shooting up my forearm. What is he made of? Flaming rocks?

“He’s hurting her!”

I whisper savagely back to him.

“He’s the crown prince.”

Rage fills me. “That doesn’t mean—”

“Yes,”

he says softly. “It means he can do anything he wants. Don’t worry, he won’t harm her, but if you barge in there, I cannot guarantee that you will not meet that fate. Besides, watch.”

There’s a gravelly inflection in his voice that makes goose bumps rise all over me.

I turn back, and both of Prince Javed’s hands are occupied—one still wrapped around her throat and the other pressed between her legs. Her head is thrown back, and she looks like she’s in the throes of . . . pleasure. Not pain. Well, maybe a little pain. Heat winds up my neck.

“More,”

she gasps out.

My cheeks are on fire as Prince Roshan leans in. “It’s called breath play. And some of the chosen hope to get ahead of the game to gain his favor.”

“I know what it’s called, you ass. Don’t prince-splain me.”

Not that I have actual, empirical experience, but those shadow tendrils in my dreams came pretty starsdamned close last night.

The prince grins and crooks a finger for me to go with him. I glance back to the fountain one last time, because I wouldn’t put it past Prince Javed to bypass consent altogether. But the lady is . . . dropping to her knees, and that’s my cue to turn away. No judgment, but getting an eyeful of the crown prince’s jewels is not how I want to remember today.

In silence, I hurriedly track Prince Roshan’s footsteps until we reach another glade in the depths of the maze. Inside a whimsical folly with slender marble columns and a gabled roof, a small, ornate bench sits between two statues. Vines and fragrant roses curl over them.

“This was my mother’s favorite place,”

he says in a normal voice. “Don’t worry, we can speak freely. The hedges are enough of a sound barrier.”

I frown at him, realizing how close he’d been behind me earlier. I hadn’t heard a thing. “Were you following me?”

“I live here.”

“You live in the maze?”

I say dryly, and glare at him. “You let me believe you were a servant.”

Prince Roshan raises an imperious brow. In hindsight, I don’t know how I managed to assume he was a gardener. Even his expressions are pretentious. “Did I, though? You believed what you chose to believe.”

“And your remarks about the queen?”

He smiles. “Oh, that’s true. She hates me. And no, I don’t live in the maze, though I do pass many peaceful hours here in this spot.”

The prince’s face softens. “Both my parents treasured it. My father”—his face tightens with a strange mix of anger and sorrow—“used to come here, too, but not since he became ill.”

I’m still cross about the fact that he duped me, but I can’t help reacting to the unguarded, vulnerable look on his face. “Are you and your father close?”

His throat works. “We were . . . are . . . it’s complicated.”

He lifts a hand to his hair, raking it through the dark strands. “He always wanted better for Oryndhr, and I fear . . .”

I wait, but he doesn’t say any more, though his fists clench at his sides. “You fear?” I prod.

He shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “Ignore me, I’m in a strange mood. This glade always makes me sentimental. Where were you going in such a hurry before?”

he asks, changing the subject.

“To find the forge,”

I reply honestly. No harm in telling him the truth. His eyes widen in surprise.

“You like . . . bladework?”

I raise a brow. “Does that shock your princely sensibilities? That a woman like me can hammer a sword?”

“I’m impressed, actually. But more importantly, I had the measure of you in the courtyard, admit it.”

I almost laugh at the ego on him. “You said I was the daughter of a blacksmith. I’m the daughter of a tavern owner.”

“I deserve the glory and you know it, don’t be stingy.”

I do grin then, but only because he’s disarmingly charming.

“Look at that, you can smile!”

It drops immediately. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge, Lady Suraya.”

His amused gold-flecked gaze travels my entire body, from the collar of my tunic to the burn marks on my hands to the tips of my boots, where his eyes light with curiosity. “One of yours? May I see it?”

Following his stare, I blanch at the sight of my very visible dagger. Stars above, I must not have secured it properly! Would he recognize the jādū? Of course he would. He’s a prince who probably has a thousand element-imbued blades of his own.

I think about refusing, but that would only make things worse. What are the odds I’ll be thrown into the palace dungeons for possession of a forbidden blade?

Torn between taking my chances and running away, I reluctantly pull the dagger from its sheath. He stares at it for a long time but doesn’t move to touch it. Strange. In trepidation, I peer up at him, but his face is sphinxlike. “Nice work,”

he murmurs.

“Nice work?”

I echo in disbelief. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What would you like me to say? It’s a beautiful dagger. The craftsmanship of the simurgh on the pommel is exceptional.”

My eyes widen. Doesn’t he notice the craftsmanship of the blade or the forbidden runes etched there? My brows slam together as I replace the blade in my boot, securing it so it’s no longer visible. “It’s illegal.”

The smirk that appears on his face should also be illegal, and I fight the sudden breath-stealing tightness in my chest. “Would you like me to arrest you, my lady? I do enjoy seeing a feisty woman in restraints from time to time.”

At his provocative tone, deep down, a flicker of interest pulses to life, and I draw back in instant alarm. No, no, no, this cannot be happening. Not for him!

By the maker, get ahold of yourself, Suraya!

“Are you trying to shock me, Your Highness?”

I ask with a haughty tilt of my chin, keeping my voice even and squashing my suddenly too-interested libido.

He studies me. “I get the feeling it would take quite a lot to shock you.”

“I work in a tavern.”

My brows lift. “That’s not a huge leap of imagination.”

The prince laughs, and the warm tenor of it takes me by surprise. “What if I say it was flirting?”

My cheeks heat, but I give a light huff. “Then I would say you’re sorely in need of some lessons.”

“Are you volunteering?”

he counters, eyes twinkling.

I nearly curse at the flutter of my pulse that hasn’t abated in the least. “No.”

With a stern shake of my head, I focus on the issue at hand: my dagger and potentially being thrown in the dungeons. That’s what is important, not the rich, rumbling sound of his laughter or his teasing banter or his stupidly pretty face. Why wouldn’t a prince of the realm report me at once? Does he intend to use the knowledge against me later? Or will the punishment come when I least expect it? My emotions are roiling all over the place, between alarm, desire, and unease.

“Come on, let’s go visit the forge,”

the prince says. “Before the combat rounds.”

“Oh, fuck, the gladiatrix contest!”

I say, and he gives a low chuckle at my language, a sound that burns through me. “What time is it?”

“You have about forty-five minutes,”

he informs me after checking a pocket watch attached to his emerald-threaded vest. “More than enough time to show you the forge and make it to the competition grounds.”

I let out a groan. “Not if you have handmaidens who will murder you in your sleep if you don’t let them make you presentable. Apparently, that’s important when you’re about to fight to the death in some arena.”

“Appearance is everything in the Imperial House,”

the prince says. His hand lands on the small of my back, and he guides me gently toward a narrow path between the hedges. I pretend I don’t notice the warm press of his fingers against my spine. “You did well with the riddle last night.”

I nearly stumble as we walk briskly back toward the palace. Has he been watching me? “Thank you, but I was lucky. And what even was the intent of that challenge? Riddles prove nothing. Intelligence comes in many forms.”

“Ah, but the ability to think under pressure is a wonderful indication of mental fortitude,”

he counters with that crooked grin.

“Where did the girls who failed go? I heard screaming.”

“They slept in the dungeons,” he says.

“That’s cruel. They’re women, not criminals.”

The prince nods, and his tacit agreement makes fear wind up my spine as if this kind of practice is nothing new to him. “Focus on the next challenge. As you’ve just seen, one can never be too sure of the crown prince’s intentions or humors. He’s a fan of bloody sport.”

“Are you serious?”

I was joking about the fight to the death portion, but clearly if there’s blood involved, fighting to survive might be the order of the day. Then again, women were sent to cells in the dungeons for failing to answer a fucking riddle.

He doesn’t answer, and soon we reach the outer edge of the maze. I realize once I get my bearings that I’m not far from where I started. The cupola of the southernmost turret of the palace is visible, and I can almost imagine my mother at the window peering down upon me. I wonder what she’d think of this whole wretched, misogynistic affair.

With a low bow, the prince’s lips brush my knuckles and heat travels up my arm into my chest, punching the air from my lungs. “I am not privy to the specifics or what’s expected of you in the arena, but place yourself at a defensible corner if you can.”

Inscrutable warm brown eyes hold mine. “And stay alive.”

“Why are you helping me?” I ask.

“Perhaps for the same reason you sought to help that girl with my brother,”

he says. “Moral obligation. Be safe, Lady Suraya.”

Curling my hand into a fist, I watch as he disappears back into the maze. I shake my hand as I walk rapidly toward the palace, the brand of his mouth seared into my skin. I feel fluttery and unsteady. The press of his lips had been so soft, the touch chaste and perfunctory—a salutation commonly used in court I’d read—but the storm it had stirred inside of me wasn’t virtuous in the least. What would those lips feel like elsewhere? I touch two fingers to my own lips and feel my cheeks burn.

Focus, you dolt, you’re about to die, and you’re fantasizing about kissing!

I reach my room with twenty minutes to spare, and both handmaidens give me matching glowers. Despite my desire to tell them I don’t require makeup, I know I will need them on my side for the near future . . . or for as long as I’m here, so I force a bright smile. “I’m so sorry, I was detained by the prince.”

I don’t specify which prince, but their eyes widen and the disapproval fades like magic. I grin internally—I’ll be sure to throw that excuse around more often!

I sit demure and still as my mussed hair is recombed, the three rows of braids along each side of my scalp deftly rewoven and regathered into a high tail intersected with gold clips. My skin is lightly contoured with powder, my eyes darkened with extra bold kohl, my eyelids and lips made brilliant with a glossy stain. I prefer Laleh’s hands—she managed to do my makeup and still allow me to feel like myself—but I have to admit, I look badass, like a warrior princess.

At least I’ll look the part, which might be half the battle.

Fight me at your own risk.

Once they are satisfied with my appearance, we join the line of contestants being herded outside to the waiting carriages. I once again search for Clem in the crowd, but it’s a sea of unrecognizable bodies.

As I suspected, the other chosen are dressed in leathers similar to mine proudly bearing the crests of their houses: dark green with a tree and scales for Aldebaran, burgundy with a burning torch and a furled scroll for Regulus, navy with a laurel wreath and two birds for Fomalhaut, and gray with a snarling wolf with a crossed sword and ax for Antares. No doubt, the latter will dominate this challenge, but I’m certain there will be other tests of mental acuity as well as practical trades, courtly conduct, and artistic abilities. Each of the houses must be given a fair shot, after all.

This round, I’ll just have to try to keep my blood in my body where it belongs.

My heart thuds in my throat as we leave the palace courtyard and drive around the outskirts toward a veritable colosseum. Its immense marble columns are interspaced with multicolored flags as well as pennants from each house. An enormous banner hangs at the entrance, the sun, crown, and flared wings that symbolize the Imperial House shining gold.

When we stop, the handmaidens depart, and we are ushered by a line of grim-faced palace guards to the center of the structure. A quick scan confirms that quite a few dozen of the chosen look pale and tired, likely from a night of hunger spent on a cold floor, and there are definitely fewer women than there had been yesterday. I feel cold as I search the faces in another effort to find Clem. But it’s futile—either she’s not here or I can’t spot her. And I cannot afford to be derailed by fear before I even set foot on the sands.

I focus instead on studying the others and notice that some of the contestants seem to have formed groups and alliances, some within their houses and others in a mix. I am one of the few standing by myself. I also spy the woman from the maze who’d been with the prince. I’m somewhat relieved to see she is in one piece. One satisfied piece, if her flushed cheeks and tousled hair are any signal. Guess Prince Roshan wasn’t wrong about gaining favor by any means necessary. I suppose if I wanted to win I’d use any tools in my arsenal, too.

Parvi and Fatima are both still here I notice with some small, if misguided, gladness. But when I lift my hand in a wave, they quickly look away. I try not to let their pointed rejection hurt. Clearly, they still don’t want to be associated with me, which means I’m on my own for this challenge, too.

One small group glares scornfully in my direction. The woman from the glade with the prince joins them, and I tense when she saunters over, tossing her waves of red hair, a malicious smile pinned to her face.

“Still here, rat?”

she taunts.

Canting my head, I smile back. “Rats are hardy creatures.”

Better than sly serpents who try to fuck the prince for extra points, I want to say, but I keep my pettiness in check.

“We will see, won’t we?”

she says, her eyes promising that I will be her target for whatever’s coming in that arena.

One of her minions, the brunette who is also in Regulus, snickers. “Rats should be sitting on your crest instead of scales.”

They all laugh, but I ignore them. Words can’t hurt me.

But whatever’s in that arena can.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth to keep calm. Fear is healthy; panic is deadly. If the prince likes blood sport, then it’s safe to say that mortal injury is possible. I honestly don’t know what to expect, and Prince Roshan’s somber words have left me hollow.

Find a defensible position, I remind myself.

We don’t have long to wait as the bellow of trumpets announce the arrival of the royal family. The guards lead us out into the arena, a wide circle with rocky outcroppings dotting the sand. Marble pillars line the periphery in concentric circles built in ascending order, and thousands cram the stands, raucous cheering filling the space. It can’t just be Kaldarians here—there must also be citizens of the nearby cities of Eloni and Veniar come to watch the spectacle.

But they aren’t what catches my eye. It’s the enormous scaled beast held down by chains standing in the center of the sands. I gasp, and several of the women let out cries of fright.

Holy mother of sandstorms. Is that a fucking azdaha?

I’ve only ever read stories of them, a creature from the wilds beyond the northern borders of Oryndhr. Rumor is they can fly, but this one’s wings have been brutally clipped, the webbing between the bones stripped so that they resemble twisted twigs. An enormous iridescent collar, made from jādū and carved with arcane runes, is wrapped around its neck, and two similar bracelets encircle its taloned limbs. Its teeth are razor sharp, but even scarier are the intelligent, reptilian eyes that hungrily track our progress when we’re led toward the royal dais where the king, queen, and crown prince are sitting.

The queen lifts an imperious hand, and the crowd immediately falls silent. The crown prince stands.

“Welcome, my precious chosen,”

he says in a possessive tone that makes me want to cringe. “Do you like my pet? We’ve starved him especially for this event.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. A handful of women start to scramble back the way we came, trying to get to the exit. In a blink, they drop like stones, felled by arrows from the guards stationed at intervals along the top of the arena. I cover my mouth to stifle a scream, my eyes locked on the women’s writhing bodies and the scarlet splatter of blood marring the pristine sands. Ice-cold dread sluices through my veins as others around me begin to cry. None of the women have been fatally wounded, as far as I can tell. But that doesn’t make it any less chilling.

Or heartless.

We’re people, not flaming animals!

“Don’t try to run or you’ll be shot down,”

the prince warns with a cruel grin. “The only way out is to be one of the last twenty standing. The gong will sound signaling the end of the round. Weapons are over there.”

He points to several racks of weapons at the far end of the circle, conveniently set past the azdaha, who has now risen to its haunches at the prospect of a good meal. “May the hardiest of you win.”

The odds aren’t there for more than three-quarters of us, now that the dozen wounded have been removed from the sands, a mix of mostly Aldebaran and Fomalhaut. I sneer at the guards with their longbows and nocked arrows. This is fucking inhumane. What is the prince trying to prove anyway? Does he truly expect to find a smart, fearless, confident wife through all of this, or is it just some form of sick entertainment at our expense?

Are we that disposable?

I look away from Prince Javed, and my gaze snares on the cool expression of the bastard prince who has arrived to stand behind his half brother. His face is shuttered, giving nothing away, and I tense at the remoteness there. It’s hard to reconcile the man who had kissed my knuckles and laughed in the maze with this cold noble viewing the arena with such impassivity.

Then his dark eyes find mine, and I recall his reminder.

Place yourself at a defensible corner . . . stay alive.

The first is doable enough, the second, much harder. But before I can scout for potential safe locations, an ominous gong sounds, reverberating through my body. What is that? Does it mean we’ve started? Those closest to me scatter, and I find myself nearly jostled to the ground as women weep and grasp each other in fright. The azdaha roars, a thunderous noise that makes the hair on my neck stand and my ears ring. People are going to die here. I just have to make sure I’m not one of them.

The majority of the chosen rush in a panic toward the weapons, but a few stay back, observing. One is the redhead who’d called me a rat. Suddenly, the azdaha’s jādū collar goes dark and his head snaps forward. In an instant, a few of the unfortunate forerunners are gone, swallowed up in a single, crunching bite that echoes wetly over the sands. Bile rises in a choking wave at the sound of snapping bones, and I struggle to keep it down as I dart toward one of the rocky outcroppings and crouch, grabbing my dagger from my boot. It nearly falls from my numb, trembling fingers, but I grip it hard and hold it across my pounding chest.

Fuck it. If I’m going to be that monster’s meal, I’m not going down empty-handed.

“Breathe, Suraya,”

I remind myself.

But my rallying cry holds no weight as my breath gusts from me in panicked heaves. If I don’t calm down, I’ll pass out and that will be the end. I force myself to inhale for four counts and breathe out for four. I do it again and then again, until my lungs stop squeezing and my jaw unlocks.

Peering around the rock, I immediately see a woman from Antares cutting down one of the other competitors with an enormous ax before nodding to the redhead. An alliance, then, just as I had thought. I feel sick as I do a quick count of our numbers. There are about thirty of us left, give or take. Some contestants have taken cover at other outcroppings.

Where in the pits of Droon is Clem? Is she here? Is she even alive?

I see Parvi standing frozen in the open, face pale, and when the Antares warrior prowls toward her, I make one of the stupidest decisions of my life. Running from my hiding spot, I sideswipe the attacker and kick her legs out from under her. She hits the ground hard, and I yank Parvi back to the rocks with me just as the azdaha turns its baleful glare on the fallen woman. The squelch of flesh and crack of bones bring the bile up once more, nothing I ever hope to hear again in this lifetime. I swallow the bitter phlegm and take huge gulps of air and try to remind myself that the woman had murdered another in cold blood with her ax.

“Did you see Fatima?”

I ask, turning to Parvi, whose clammy hand is still in mine.

Tears are streaming down her face. “She’s dead. She tried to get to the weapons. Why did you do that? Save me?”

she blubbers. “When I’ve been so beastly to you.”

“None of us deserves to die,”

I reply, my heart sinking at the thought of Fatima, once so fearless, now a corpse to be mourned by her poor parents. “Stay quiet. We can wait this out and be one of the twenty when the gong sounds. And then we can get the fuck out of here!”

But of course, my words damn us. Or my rival has it out for me after I took out her accomplice. Much too late I look around to see her and her cronies converging on our sheltered position, their movement drawing the attention of the monster, too. The roaring of the crowds fades as my senses sharpen. Eight on two is a lot, but I ready my dagger anyway. Parvi’s tears are falling faster, and her body starts to shiver.

Make that eight on one, because she’s a sandsdamned mess.

“Parvi,”

I say urgently. “When I say run, you go in that direction.”

I point to the far side of the arena. I’m guessing that the azdaha’s leg chains won’t extend that far, but I could be wrong. She gives a jerky nod, and I take a deep breath, ready my dagger, and wait. One heartbeat . . . two heartbeats . . . and then, as three of the women converge on us, I scream, “Run, now!”

Parvi dashes off in the direction I’d indicated, and no one follows. I’m the target. They swarm me like a group of hyenas. A woman with a foxlike face palms a knife, but before she can throw it at me, an arrow impales her hand in midair, and she clutches it to her chest, screaming as her blood spurts onto the sand. A cloud of inky hair catches my attention, and I glance to the right, finding the profile of a familiar sharp face.

Clem!

She’s holding a bow, a quiver of arrows on her back, a second arrow nocked. She might not claim Antares, but she sure looks like a miniature warrior goddess right now. Another of my foes drops with a shriek as an arrow skewers her calf. Two of the women charge in Clem’s direction, leaving four behind. Much too near, the azdaha screams.

“Hello, rat,”

my nemesis sings, and swings a long sword in a wide arc. Not jādū forged, thank the flaming maker, but that doesn’t mean it can’t kill me.

Clutching my dagger, I feel my palms start to tingle.

Not now, damn it!

But the danger is closing in on me, and my panic is causing whatever it is inside of me to coalesce. Everything feels like it’s on fire, immolating from the inside out. My skin tightens and pulls as sweat beads on my forehead and drips into my eyes. My foe’s gaze falls to my dagger, and I glance down to see it’s begun to shimmer with its telltale iridescence, the decorative runes I’d carved glinting brighter under the sun.

What the fuck?

“Where did you steal that?”

she sneers, eyes widening. “Not that it will save you, little gutter rat.”

“I am not your enemy,” I gasp.

She laughs coldly. “Oh, but you are. You can die on my blade or in the jaws of that beast. I’ll let you choose.”

The azdaha roars as if in agreement, the odor of raw flesh souring the air. The woman swings just as the monster charges our rocky outcropping, much faster than I’d expected. I dodge and duck, my much smaller blade clashing with hers—and then sinking through it, as easily as butter. Panting, we both stare at her shorn blade. Her face darkens with rage. I sense movement behind me, but before I can turn, two of her friends rush me from behind, and suddenly, I’m shoved into the path of the oncoming beast. I brace for the bite of teeth with my dagger held tightly aloft as my last line of defense.

The azdaha stops an arm’s length short of swallowing me, its jaws parted and its fetid, metallic blood-scented breath hot against my face. Time seems to slow, echoing the sluggish, supine thud of my heart. A much-too-intelligent gaze bores into me, and in that charged instant, something strange happens. I feel pain that isn’t mine. I see visions of an enormous mountain range and verdant plains stretching to an endless blue ocean that match no landscape I know in Oryndhr. What is this? Nearly buckling to my knees, I sense every second of this creature’s capture and torture, and it’s all I can do not to scream and scream and scream.

I clutch my temples, and in the space of an infinite heartbeat, there’s nothing. No pain, no torture . . . only the flow of . . . something like silvery rivers of power connecting us. Time stops and tears form in my eyes. A sob claws up my chest, and I find myself drawn forward, wanting to take a step toward the creature, to press my fingertips to its bloody snout in sorrowful apology.

But then the gong sounds, and everything halts.

Chained jādū-infused whips whine through the air, and the creature flinches when the runes on its collar ignite. Time resumes, and I rear back, but I know that even without the gong signaling the end of the contest, the beast would not have devoured me. It had been almost like it had recognized me in some intuitive way. A tether of a bond born of some ancient power still humming between us.

Of raw magic. Which is impossible.

Eyes stinging, I stumble a few more steps and fall to my knees as the azdaha releases me from its stare and retreats to where several runemasters stand beside a huge portal. The monster disappears, and the thundering noise of the crowd rushes my ears and overwhelms me, as if someone had just amplified the sound a thousand times over. Prince Roshan is nowhere to be seen, but I feel the suffocating, oily glance of the crown prince pass over me. I hope he didn’t see whatever the fuck that was with my dagger . . . or the moment with the azdaha.

“Watch your back, bitch,”

my enemy mutters as she shoulders her way past me.

An uninjured Clem dashes over and nearly crashes into me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a hug that could break bones. “Sands, I thought you were dead,”

I tell her, embracing her back just as hard. “What happened to you last night?”

“Got a personal tour of the dungeons,”

she says with a jaunty curl of her lip, even though she looks tired, with thick, dark circles under her eyes. “Stupid piece-of-horseshit riddle confounded me. I knew the answer, too. Feed me and I live, give me a drink and I die. What am I?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fucking fire. But what does this genius say? Water.”

I stare blankly at her, and she punches me in the shoulder. “I’m fine, it wasn’t too bad, even if we didn’t get any food. How was the dinner? Did you eat for both of us? Because if you didn’t, I might have to rethink this friendship. I haven’t eaten since yesterday and I’m bloody starving.”

Oh! “I brought this for you,”

I say, and rummage in my pocket for the now unrecognizably flattened pastry, holding it out to her with an apologetic look. Clem pounces on the offering, unwraps it, and shoves the whole thing in her mouth inside of a second.

“Mmphankoo.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “So good! You’re my hero.”

“Sorry I don’t have more,” I say.

“It’ll tide me over.”

Clem eyes me, catching me glancing toward where the azdaha vanished at the far end of the arena. Questions swirl in her gaze as our stares collide. “Have you ever seen a monster like that?”

“Azdaha,”

I correct absently.

She makes a noise in her throat as we stumble our way across the blood-soaked sands. “So are we going to talk about how in the realms you stopped that ugly reptilian lizard from eating you there at the end? Because it sure looked like you had some kind of control over it.”

The azdaha hadn’t been ugly. It’d been beautiful in a savagely elegant sort of way. A prince of beasts with its quintet of vicious horns, talon-tipped wings, and deadly spines. Even with its tattered wings and half-starved form, I’d found it utterly mesmerizing.

And the intelligence in its eyes . . . that bright tether linking us . . .

“I don’t know,”

I mumble, feeling gooseflesh prickle on my skin. “It had to be they activated the runes on its collar or something.”

Her face is skeptical, but it’s the truth. I have no idea why in the stars that azdaha hadn’t taken a chunk out of me before the gong sounded. Either way, I’m alive, Clem’s alive, and right now, that’s all that matters. Because it means we have a chance to escape.

I turn to her urgently before we reach the others. “Clem, you know this whole bride selection thing is fucked, right? People died today.”

I lower my voice. “I don’t know about you, but I want to live, so I’m going to get out of here. Come with me.”

She gnaws her lip, eyes shadowed, and gives a single nod. “All right.”