Page 21 of A Court of Thralls and Thorns

Silence hung in the air, thick and heavy.

Jax coughed once, blinking up at the sky, stunned but not broken.

Zander, for all his ruthless efficiency, didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk.

He simply stepped back, voice unreadable as he said, “You left too many openings.”

Jax let out a dry, breathless chuckle. “Yeah? Well, I landed a hit.”

Zander didn’t deny it. Didn’t argue.

Instead, he simply turned toward me, holding out a gloved hand.

For a second, I didn’t understand.

He wanted his jacket back.

I hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.

Then I tossed it to him, and he caught it effortlessly, sliding it back on with the same arrogance he did everything with.

Jax sat up, still catching his breath, but when I looked at him, he didn’t seem angry. Frustrated? Sure. But not angry.

“Alright,” Jax muttered, rubbing his ribs as he climbed to his feet. “Next time, I’m using a knife.”

I smirked. “I think he’d still win.”

Jax sighed dramatically. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Major Kaler approached us as Zander fastened his jacket. “It is time for the Trial by Fire.”

Chapter

Six

Korham’s Temple in the Hollow was ancient. A place untouched by time, where the trees grew taller than the castle spires, their twisted limbs stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. But that was how the God of War liked it.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, decayed leaves, and something older—something watching. Mist clung to the gnarled roots, swirling in slow, deliberate tendrils, as though the Hollow itself was breathing.

We had ridden hard to get here, the journey through the dense forest brutal on horseback. The undergrowth had been merciless, snagging at my boots, the uneven terrain jarring with every gallop. My thighs burned from the effort, and even though we had dismounted an hour ago, my hands still curled tight around the reins, muscles stiff with tension.

The air felt different here. Heavier. Pressing against my skin, humming with something unseen. Magic.

The chamber itself was carved into the hillside, a hidden wound beneath the thick canopy of oaks. Its entrance yawned wide, dark and jagged, its stone edges slick with moss. It looked like a beast’s mouth, waiting to devour us whole. The deeper wewent, the more the world outside faded—swallowed by flickering torchlight and the lingering scent of burnt herbs and old power.

The ritual room was circular, the walls covered in ancient runes that pulsed faintly beneath the torchlight, their symbols shifting as if alive. The ceiling arched high overhead, ribbed with thick roots that had broken through the stone over centuries, curling like veins of some slumbering beast. The temperature was suffocating, the weight of expectation pressing against my chest.

At the center of the chamber stood the brazier. A wide basin of blackened iron, cold and waiting.

“Riven, you go first,” the major motioned to the brazier atop the altar.

She stepped forward without hesitation, the soft scuff of her boots against the stone the only sound in the stillness. Her red hair was pulled back into a tight knot, her expression unreadable, jaw set with determination.

Major Kaler nodded, the gesture barely perceptible. Riven lifted her hands, closing her eyes, and exhaled slowly. Reaching.

The moment she called on the magic, the air changed.

A sharp hum filled the chamber, a ripple of unseen energy, making the runes flicker brighter for half a breath. The brazier flared to life—golden flames roaring upward, licking at the stale air, casting sharp, flickering shadows against the walls.