I nearly swallow a mouthful of damp dirt. My eyes flutter open
and I cough into the wet soil beneath me, soaking my clothes and causing them to cling uncomfortably to my body. I roll onto my back, crunching on moss, twigs, and rocks as I blink against the sunlight streaming through looming, tall trees.
Plagues, where am I?
The melody of chirping birds awoke me from my heavy, deep sleep.
Drugged sleep.
Trees crowd the vibrant blue sky above, most of them tall, ominous pines that extend fingers of foliage high into the clouds—and I’d know them anywhere. One becomes familiar with the trees they’re forced to scale countless times to overcome a fear of heights.
The Whispers.
I’m in the bloody forest.
I stand to my feet, feeling dizzy, drained, and drugged. An odd pressure at my right forearm has me looking down to see a thin leather band wrapping around it, the ends fused together tightly. It would be cutting off blood circulation completely if it were any tighter, leaving my arm utterly useless.
The sun beats down on me as I spin slowly in place, scanning my surroundings. There is nothing and no one but trees, rocks, and uneven
forest ground beneath me, caging me in with foliage.
Why the hell am I in the Whispers?
Obviously, I knew the Trials were still on. That, and the Resistance were all we talked about for hours last night. The throne room is where I spent my evening and early morning, along with Kitt, the king, and his advisers.
My throat is hoarse and scratchy from the long hours of arguing and debating the best course of action with this Resistance, this threat. And now, more than ever, my men and myself are tasked with finding these Resistance members and putting an end to them.
I attempt to brush off the clumps of dirt still clinging to my clothes as I take in this familiar, yet frightening, place. The Whispers is no whimsical forest. Deadly beasts lurk on its huge terrain, and even deadlier plants sprout from it. I would know, seeing that I spent many nights training here with my father barking orders like I was his soldier and not his son.
But why am I here now?
I expected to at least be able to wake up in my own bed, maybe interrogate some prisoners before I had to make my way to the Bowl for the first Trial. But I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to be drugged and dragged to the forest.
Different.
That’s what Tealah had said. There’s never been a Trial that has taken place outside of the Bowl where an audience couldn’t be present to jeer and cheer at us.
A twig snaps and I whirl, sinking into a fighting position. I stare at the thin man a few dozen feet away, garbed in plain white clothes that contrast against his dark skin. He stares back, his eyes glazed and unmovable.
A Sight.
I feel it then. The tingle of his power beneath my skin. I was too occupied with my thoughts to feel his ability, the power to record as well as project what he sees with nothing but his own two eyes. And that is exactly what he is doing now.
I’ve always found them unsettling with the way they stare, unblinking, when recording what they are seeing, but I’ve grown used to them since dozens are always present at the Trials. They run around the Bowl, documenting the events and contestants while using their abilities to project what they are seeing onto large screens high above the Pit floor.
And it seems that they are doing the same for this version of the Trials. Except, he’s not projecting what he is seeing and is instead storing the images away for a later time. There must be dozens of them, all running around the forest, following contestants and documenting the first Trial to play back for the audience when this is all over.
I don’t take a single step towards him. It’s forbidden to interact with the Sights, touch them in any way during the Trials. They are simply the eyes and ears for the audience that can’t be here to witness themselves.
The man finally blinks, his eyes clearing slightly after apparently getting all the footage he wanted of me. He moves to step away, no doubt to go collect other images or stalk other contestants. But he pauses mid-step and slowly pats his long, dark fingers against the pocket of his pants, holding my gaze before scurrying back into the forest.
I stare after him before tearing my gaze away and looking down at my own pocket. They threw me in here with only what I had on when I staggered into bed, apart from the shoes they so generously slipped onto my feet. Other than that, only one accessory was added to my body—the strange leather band around my arm. I silently thank the Plague that I kept my thin shirt on last night, too exhausted to pull it off.
I reach into the pocket of my thin pants, fingers closing around a rough scrap of paper. I unfold it carefully, revealing precise, looping penmanship:
Welcome to the first Trial, In the Whispers you will be. We hope you stay a while,
In this game of honor and dignity.
The goal of this game is quite clear, And for the winner we will cheer.
Become victorious by collecting the bands,
The ones that rest high above your opponents’ hands.
Collect from those who have been banded, And be warned if you return empty-handed. If you wish to win you must have the most, Then of your glory, we’ll brag and boast.
But the end is drawing near, With only six moons to play.
Welcome to the Trials sixth year, And pray to the Plague that you will stay.
The task of stealing as many bands as possible seems fairly simple; that is, if you can survive in the forest for a week. But I read between the lines of the poem.
They are forcing us to fight one another.
No one will give up their band easily. Blood has been spilled over much less than a leather strap in these Trials. I crumple the paper in my fist, shoving it deep into my pocket before glancing at my own strap of leather encircling my bicep. Tight. So tight that the only way to get these Plague forsaken things off is to cut them from the skin, which will inevitably draw blood despite delicacy.
It’s intentional, clever.
Father has outdone himself this year.
Sweat trickles into my brow, stinging my eyes. The heat could rival that of the Scorches, and I peel off my shirt to wipe at my slick face. My throat is already dry, parched from baking in the morning sun.
Find water first. Opponents second.
I stop, my feet crunching on the vegetation and rough dirt beneath me. Sighing, I look up at one of the menacing pine trees standing in my path. I shake my head, my shoulders, trying to shake away my nerves. Then, I grab hold of the lowest branch and swing my legs up.
Yes, I’ve scaled these trees multiple times, and yes, I’ve conquered my fear of heights. But just because a fear has been conquered, doesn’t mean it’s enjoyable to be confronted with again and again. And yet, here I am, climbing up the tree, taking each branch at a time.
The wind blows and the sun blinds as I continue up the pine in search of water. Minutes, maybe hours later, with limbs aching and heart racing, I finally reach the top. Well, the last branch that will hold my weight. I’m a couple hundred feet in the air now, suspended there by nothing but a large twig beneath my feet. I look down only to instantly regret it.
Keep it together, Kai.
Falling to my death during a Trial would be a pathetic way to die and would completely ruin my reputation, even in death. With that in mind, I
clutch the now thin trunk of the tree beside me as I peer through the leaves and over top the canopy of trees.
I feel like I’m back in the ballroom, looking out into a sea of several shades of green. Branches full of leaves swaying in the wind like the finely dressed women swaying on the dance floor only yesterday.
There.
My eyes sweep over a break between the line of trees, a pause in the dance of their leaves. A sliver for a river, a brook, a source of water. At the moment, I don’t care if it’s a damn puddle.
I painstakingly make my way back to solid ground, my breath coming in quick pants. By the time my feet meet the soil, the sun has inched its way across the sky, informing me that it is already late afternoon.
And then I’m off. Off in the direction of the water every contestant craves after being drugged and having to trudge through the forest for hours. Father has woven a trap for us, one we are all willingly walking into.
Hours. Long, tiresome hours of trekking through foliage is what my life has come to. I’ve encountered several poisonous snakes and plants, both of which daring me to draw close.
I’m so bloody bored.
My eyes and body are alert as I trudge forward, though my mind wanders as much as I do. I think on the Trials, the contestants—
And then my thoughts are on her. Stop.
If Paedyn is so determined to hate me, I could make it very, very easy for her. It wouldn’t take much. But I’m selfish, weak, and unwilling to make it anything but difficult for her to push me away.
She’s bewildering as much as she is beguiling. That pretty mouth of hers says one thing, but those ocean eyes say another. She pulls a knife from my back only to say she’ll bury another one there. She’s confusing, captivating, and we’re completely wrong for each other in all the right ways. She’s a flame, and I’m going to get burned. An ocean and I’m going to drown.
I run a hand over my face, wanting to blame my dehydration for whatever the hell is wrong with me.
I’ve never been so affected by a single girl, and it’s absurd, absolutely annoying. But then I grin, remembering her heartbeat hammering beneath
my fingers, her breath catching every time I touch her, her eyes drinking in every smile and dimple she supposedly hates.
The feeling of absolute annoyance for being so affected by someone is most definitely mutual, though I’m sure she’d deny it with a dagger to my throat.
So very vicious, that one.
Something glints in the light of the sinking sun, catching my eye.
There, hanging from a branch to my right is a sheathed sword, its silver handle winking in the light as I step towards it. It only takes me a moment to climb up and untie the belt from the branch before hopping down from the tree.
There’s likely weapons and other items hidden all over the Whispers for us to use.
Easier to draw blood that way. Easier to make things interesting.
I sling the belt and sheath low on my waist before drawing the sword to chop through the thick foliage.
Almost there.
The ground is covered in shadows, and I now have a rabbit that needs to be cooked along with a stomach that needs to be fed. I’d come across a single throwing star lodged deep into the bark of a tree and used it on the unsuspecting rabbit now tied to my belt.
I pause, hearing it before seeing it.
Gurgling, glorious water. Then a small, shallow creek emerged from the trees, running water skipping over the rocks that occupy it. I hesitate, eyes scanning the seemingly peaceful place.
All was clear—for the time being.
I creep to the edge of the creek, sinking to my knees before it and darting a look over my shoulder every few seconds, not wanting to leave my back exposed. I splash the cool water on my face, letting it drip down my skin and bare chest.
The bubbling brook flows from a small pool a few dozen feet away, the water clean, crisp, and cool.
Man-made.
And fresh. The work of Hydros, no doubt, allowing us this small favor of fresh water. I thank the Plague that the water is so clean, so purified, that it saves me the trouble of having to boil it somehow.
I’m scouring the area for kindling and firewood when I nearly smack my head on something hanging from the tree above, hidden in shadows. Canteens. Two of them, swinging in the evening breeze.
I find myself thanking the Plague once again.
Whittling two sticks together is about as fun as it sounds, but with years of practice and patience, I soon have a fire crackling before me. And though skinning a rabbit with a longsword is as difficult as it is damn annoying, it’s soon roasting over the flames.
And then—
A trickle of power tingles through my body, igniting my nerves and sending a familiar chill down my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, feeling that power, that strength, flood my body.
Someone’s coming. And I know who.
A twig snaps to my left. Then another.
I don’t remember when I stood up, but I’m now dancing on the balls of my feet, unable to help that familiar itch for a fight and looking forward to that dance of dominance and destruction. Fighting is my favorite waltz, and I know the steps by heart.
Braxton barrels through the line of trees, eyes wild when they land on mine. He saw the smoke from my fire and figured he’d ambush whoever had lit it. But unlucky for him, I felt him coming before I even heard him sprinting through the forest.
I see him hesitate as if he’s debating turning back around rather than risking a fight with me. But the uncertainty flickers from his face as he begins slowly striding towards closer. He steps into the ring of firelight, his silhouette large and lumbering.
“Hello, Brax. Nice of you to stop by.”
He tips his head towards me in that same way he always has. “Evening, Kai.”
The Brawny has never been one for talking, instead choosing to patiently observe before uttering a word, making both him and Sadie oddly similar. We slowly begin to circle each other in silence, sizing one another up.
“So, I’m assuming you’re here for my band and not a friendly chat,” I sigh, taking a step towards him.
“Your assumption would be correct.” He tosses a glance at my cooking rabbit. “If you offer it to me, I’ll leave and let you get back to your meal.
There’s no need for this to get messy.”
I don’t see any weapons on him, so I refrain from reaching for mine. We’ve known each other since we were boys, and I’d like to keep knowing him if I can help it. “You and I both know I can’t let you have my band, Brax.”
Because it’s my mission to win these Trials.
I think I see him nod in the growing darkness before he is suddenly charging at me. I drop low and use his momentum to throw him over my shoulder, hearing him hit the ground with a heavy thud.
I’ve trained with Braxton for years. He’s predictable, but that doesn’t make him any less powerful. He’s back on his feet in a flash, fists raised and ready to knock my teeth out.
And then calculated chaos ensues.
Fists fly, heads bob, feet weave. A dance. A brutal, bloody, beautiful dance. We are currently equals in ability, seeing that I’ve let his power escape from my veins and flood to the surface. My blows are brutal and swift in the flickering firelight.
His fist connects with my jaw, nearly breaking it, causing hot blood to pool in my mouth. I stagger back as he steps behind me and he wraps his massive arm around my throat in a chokehold. I can feel his hesitance before my head snaps back, skull meeting his nose with a sickening crunch. Now he’s staggering, blood streaming from his nose and into his mouth.
I use the split second to pepper him with swift blows that he can barely block. He recovers quickly, jabbing at my ribs with a powerful fist. I duck under his next swing and land a blow to his jaw.
It’s a vicious cycle. I hit him. He hits me back. To his credit, I’m impressed. I’ve never seen him so focused, so determined. This is the best fight I’ve had with him to date. It’s a shame I’ll have to put an end to it.
A dark hand comes flying straight at my face. I easily take a step back, my heels connecting with something, as heat warms everything from the back of my legs to the nape of my neck.
The fire.
He’s cornered me against the fire.
Clever.
I bob under a fist intended for my nose and bury my own deep into his stomach. He grunts, doubling over but grabs my arm in one swift movement. Then he twists, pulling both my arm behind my back and my
chest towards the fire. Pain laces up to my shoulder as the flames glow in front of me.
Maybe I should have tried harder.
He kicks in the back of my knees, hard, before the even harder ground sends a jolt up my legs when I collide with it. The flames are close to me now, nearly licking my bare chest.
“Just let me cut off the band, Kai,” Braxton says from above me, sounding like a plea. It’s good to know that he doesn’t exactly like the idea of burning me alive. “This can all be over.” His voice is deep, but I catch the slight quiver in it. He’s caught off guard, shocked that he has me hovering over the flames like the now burnt rabbit beside me.
I was sloppy and tired, a fool who underestimated him, but now he has the future Enforcer at his mercy. “This is the best fight we’ve ever had, Brax. I’m impressed, truly,” I pant, the heat of the fire drawing beads of sweat down my face. “But you’re going to have to burn me before I let you have my band.”
He heaves a sigh. “I had a feeling you’d say that.” A pause. “And I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
Flesh meets fire.
Skin meets searing, hot flame.
I expect a scream to tear from my throat, but nothing but a strangled cry slips past my lips. Braxton’s knee drives into my back, angling my body and forcing the left side of my chest into the flames.
I’m burning, boiling, blistering as he holds me there before finally pulling me back, allowing cool air to wash over me. I’m gasping as he reaches with his other hand towards the sword at my side, ready to draw it from its sheath and cut the band from my arm now that I’m dazed with pain.
Oh, but I’ve known pain far worse.
His arm reaches beside me, and I grab it, standing to my feet in the same motion, adrenaline drowning out the ache of my burned flesh. I pull his arm over my shoulder and tip my body forward, using my momentum and Brawny strength to lift him off the ground and send him flipping over my back and straight into the flames.
He lets out a cry but doesn’t linger for long before rolling out of the flames, yelping as he wriggles in the dirt to smother the fire eating away at
his clothes, his skin. Smoke is curling from his burned clothing when I crouch over him.
“I wish it didn’t have to be this way either,” I say softly as he pants heavily beneath me. “But you have something I need.”
I slice the band from his forearm, unable to stop from nicking him and drawing more blood. His breathing is raspy as I search his pockets for any other bands he may have stolen on the way, finding none. I stand, staring down at him and uttering one word. “Go.”
He stares up at me for a moment before grunting in pain as he scrambles to his feet, limping into the woods as quickly as his charred body is able. I watch him leave, hearing him struggle to navigate through the dark woods, knowing he won’t dare to come back. Then I turn, looking directly at the Sight I knew had been documenting the entire fight.
“Hope you enjoyed the show,” I say with a mock bow of my head. As soon as the words left my mouth, the women in white blinked and vanished into the forest.
I tuck Braxton’s band into my pocket as pain racks my body. Blinding, blistering pain. I look down at the red, inflamed patch of skin right above my tattoo.
The adrenaline is gone, and I’m left with nothing but pain coursing through my body. I stagger over to my canteens, unscrewing one and pouring the cold contents over the burn. I hiss through my teeth when water meets burned flesh, but it’s a relief, however small it may be.
I grab my crumpled shirt from my pocket and tear a large strip of cloth from it with my teeth before beginning to gingerly wrap the fabric under my arm and over the burn. The result is a makeshift bandage to try and lessen the chance of infection. But it won’t do for long. I need to find some herbs, something, anything, to clean the wound.
Because dying is not an option.
And losing these Trials certainly isn’t either.
