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GET TO THE GATE

ELYRIA

“Who will commit themselves to the Celestial Sanctum? Who will test themselves in the Crucible?”

The Arbiter’s face was obscured by a gleaming white hood and the shadows it cast, but Elyria thought she could feel the being beneath the billowing robes smile as they surveyed the gathered champions.

She had a vague recollection of seeing the Arbiter when she had accompanied Evander here last time. She grasped at the threads of her memory, trying to discern what had occurred, the words that were said, but they slipped through her fingers. All she could recall was how Evander had looked—so confident, so beautiful. How the last thing he’d done before stepping through the Gate was look back at her.

“I commit myself.” Paelin’s voice cut through Elyria’ s reverie. He took a step toward the Arbiter before falling to one knee, his fist clasped over his heart. “I desire to enter the Crucible and prove my worth to the realm.”

“Then so you shall,” said the Arbiter, their multi-tonal voice echoing in Elyria’s ears. “But before your trials begin, know this. The Arcane Crucible offers deadly tests of strength and power, yes. It will test your resolve, the depth of your spirit. But most importantly, it tests your propensity for harmony—for unity.”

Elyria balked. She did not remember anything like this from last time.

Looking to the side, she tried to catch Kit’s eye, as if perhaps she’d be able to speak to whether this was some new revelation, or if Elyria had just blocked everything out from before. Kit’s gaze was unwavering, fixed on the Arbiter, her expression unreadable.

“Unity?” The voice that came from the shadows was strangely familiar. Soft and hard, masculine and feminine. The midnight-skinned nocterrian stepped out of the shadows along the far wall, and Elyria gaped at them. Black hair. Curved horns. The same one from the jail.

Their red-black eyes flicked to Elyria’s for the briefest moment as they passed. “What does that mean?” asked the nocterrian. “That the crown cannot be won by a single champion? That we have to work together?”

“And harmony between who?” asked Gael. “Are we to choose allies inside the Sanctum? You cannot possibly mean to say”—she ran her eyes over the trio of human champions huddled together on the floor and let out a derisive snort—“we are all expected to work together.”

The Arbiter did not respond. Uneasy murmurs ran through the crowd. Several champions openly scoffed.

“Surely you cannot be serious,” said one of the humans. Not one of the ridiculous, short-tempered twins, but the third—a woman with dull brown hair, an upturned nose, and hazel eyes that were set too far apart. Their leader, it seemed, and the one who had just declared her intent to do whatever the opposite of harmony was once the Crucible officially began.

“I’m not usually one to turn down multiple partners.” A fae with long, straight cobalt hair, parted deeply on one side and shaved underneath, stood between Gael and Paelin. Cyren, if she recalled correctly. “But this is asking a lot, even for me.” He tossed a wink in Elyria’s direction.

The discontented murmurings grew into a symphony of complaints.

“I’ll travel to the fourth quarter of hell before I trust one of them ,” spat the leader of the human trio.

“And what does this mean for the crown?” cried someone else.

“Yes! What have we been training for if not to win the crown for our people—for glory?” asked Paelin.

“This is absurd,” said the dwarven champion, his eyes briefly falling on the chestnut-haired knight, his jaw tight as he quietly observed the others.

“Have you forgotten about the Great Betrayal? You would have us work with the cretins responsible for sundering the realm?” shouted Gael.

“It was not our kind who carved up the continent in a fit of rage,” hissed the ginger-haired human woman.

“Fae scum,” added her brother.

Elyria rolled her eyes. Helpful contribution.

“True, you’re certainly not powerful enough for that. Your kind just committed an act so heinous that it launched a war,” said Cyren.

“The war that led to the Shattering,” Gael added.

The cries of dissent grew louder.

“We didn’t train like this. We’re not prepared for this!”

“And why have we never heard of such a thing before?”

Yes, why hadn’t they? Elyria wondered. It was a fair question. Elyria had only ever known the Crucible to be an individual competition—one where champions entered knowing they would win or they would die. Was this just another part of the Crucible’s strange magic?

She pursed her lips, looking around the room at the furious, confused faces of the champions and their entourages. Even as someone who thoroughly disagreed with the entire stars-damned concept, she had to admit it hardly seemed fair that the Crucible would keep its champions ignorant as to the true nature of the trials.

Unless, it hadn’t.

She thought back to Ollie’s recitation of the prophecy back in Coralith, regretting the way she cut him off before he finished. The prophecy might have been common enough knowledge throughout Nyrundelle but, having made a distinct point to avoid all Crucible-related topics for the past twenty-five years, Elyria’s recollection was rather rusty.

From shadow and fire, champions rise, she thought, trying to remember. Forged in the Crucible of fate.

That part seemed simple enough. A rather dramatic beginning, but here they were—a room full of champions about to take on the Crucible.

Strength, spirit, magic, and concord test the trials beyond the Gate. Again, easy.

But what was the next part? “From bitterest rivals to...Bitterest rivals...” she murmured, thinking aloud as the cacophony of complaints around her continued to swell.

“To heartbreaking ends.” A low voice cut through the noise as smooth as a knife through butter.

Elyria looked up to find the brown-haired knight eyeing her with bemusement. “What?” she snapped.

“From bitterest rivals to heartbreaking ends,” he said. “The prophecy, yes?”

She rubbed her jaw, grinding her teeth as she wondered just how long he was watching her.

Her reaction certainly didn’t seem to bother him as he continued to speak, however. “From shadow and fire, champions rise, forged in the Crucible of fate. Strength, spirit, magic, and concord test the trials beyond the Gate. From bitterest rivals to heartbreaking ends, blood shall find a way. With mettle and promise, darkness and light, so dawn brings a new day.”

Elyria felt the skin tighten around her eyes as she listened to the knight—whose input she most definitely did not ask for—complete his recitation with an ostentatious flourish, a smug look in place. She wanted to wipe it right off his chiseled face. She bit down on the impulse, though, supposing she couldn’t be too annoyed with him. As obnoxious as it was, the knight had been...helpful. She’d clearly forgotten more than she realized.

Although she could have sworn she remembered the prophecy being much longer. And that last line in particular felt foreign, like she was hearing it for the first time only now.

She also had absolutely no idea what it meant. Perhaps there was a touch of what the Arbiter had proclaimed hidden within the prophecy—wasn’t concord just another word for unity?—but it was so subtle that Elyria couldn’t blame the champions for not recognizing it ahead of time.

“Cryptic celestial bullshit,” she muttered, and the knight’s accomplished expression morphed into a glower.

“Don’t say things like?—”

“This must be a test!” cried one of the champions, cutting off what Elyria presumed was some protestation at her obvious sacrilege. “It’s meant to throw us off kilter, have us distracted, fretting over alliances instead of focusing on the challenges ahead.”

“All I know is I’d rather face the Crucible alone and die with honor than debase myself with one of them ,” said someone else.

“Silence,” commanded the Arbiter. They did not yell. They did not scream. But the word reverberated through Elyria’s very being, as if spoken directly into her mind.

The grand hall fell silent.

“You will have many decisions to make inside the Sanctum,” the Arbiter said. “No longer will the Crucible’s magic dissuade you from fighting one another. The choice to progress alone or together belongs to each of you.” They paused, allowing the weight of those words to sink in. “But know this simple truth, champions: Without unity, you will fail.”

“I shall take my chances,” said Paelin.

“So be it,” replied the Arbiter, and Elyria thought the layered voice sounded disappointed. “Paelin Saltwillow, do you commit yourself to the Arcane Crucible, to pursuing the truths and challenges held within?”

“I do.”

“Do you consent to be marked by the celestials, binding yourself to the Celestial Sanctum?”

“I do.”

“And do you do this, knowing that once you step through the Gate, you shall not return until the Crucible is complete and its prize claimed?”

“I do.”

The Arbiter raised their arm, their hand remaining hidden within the billowing sleeves of their robe as they touched Paelin’s forehead. “ Then I crown you a champion of the realm. Go forth and enter the first trial with the blessing of the celestials.”

Cheers rang out from the crowd of spectators. Paelin didn’t glance back as he strode toward the Gate and walked straight through. The Gate glowed, the curtain of light within blowing on some otherworldly breeze, and he was gone.

Gael went next. “See you on the other side,” she said to no one in particular before stepping through the curtain.

One by one, the champions came forward. One by one, the Arbiter called their names and branded them with the magical contract that bound them to the Celestial Sanctum.

The dwarf, Thraigg Ironfist.

Cyren Tenrider, the blue-haired fae, though not before sending a sinful grin in Elyria’s direction.

Leona Blackwood, the human trio’s leader, followed by those miserable redheaded siblings, Belis and Belien Larkin.

Tenebris Nox, the nocterrian from the jail, and their crimson-skinned compatriot, Dissidua Pyr.

Elyria’s brow shot up when a sylvan woman who had been tucked against the far wall approached. Zephyr, the Arbiter called her. No surname. She was petite, equipped only with a small dagger sheathed to her thigh and a belt full of pouches and pockets and clinking vials.

No cheers or sobs rang out from the crowd as she met the Arbiter. She’d come alone, and Elyria couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing here. Was the lure of glory so great it reached even the sylvans in their forests? Zephyr bit her lip as the Arbiter branded her forehead, but that was the only sign of any potential hesitance before she stepped through, and Elyria had to admire her gentle confidence.

It was a quality that could not be ascribed to the two human champions who went through next, hooting and hollering as they waltzed through the Gate.

Then, finally, it was that obnoxious, judgmental knight’s turn. He finished conversing with the nobleman Elyria had noticed watching their earlier confrontation. The noble clapped the knight on the back before leaning close and whispering something in his ear. The knight nodded, and there was a vulnerability in the expression on his face that, against all reason, made Elyria’s heart clench.

“Cedric Thorne,” called the Arbiter as he approached, and that heart-clenching feeling was quickly snuffed out as Elyria stifled a snort. How a name so plain could simultaneously sound so pretentious, she wasn’t sure. She supposed it fit him.

“Convenient, isn’t it, how easily a name can be used to disguise the truth?” Her own words from earlier came back to her, rattling around in her mind. She wasn’t sure why. She grinned to herself as she recalled what the knight—what Cedric —had said back.

“What truth? That you’re not the dark butcher everyone knows you to be?”

Dark butcher. Now that was an epithet Elyria could get behind. No more of this Revenant shit. It was all too clear that moniker had taken on a life of its own.

“Best of luck, Sir Thorne,” Elyria said smoothly as the knight stepped away from the Arbiter. “Do try not to die in there.”

He looked at her with the strangest expression, somewhere between murderous and astonished. But Cedric Thorne said nothing as he walked through the Gate.

Elyria took a trembling breath. Only Kit remained now.

She had lingered, Elyria noticed. Hung back. Elyria’s chest felt tight. Had her pleas finally gotten through to her? Or perhaps the change in plans, the Arbiter’s declaration—warning?—had thrown her?

Kit’s stunning, mismatched eyes met Elyria’s. There was pain in them.

The hope squeezing Elyria’s heart turned into a cold iron vise.

She hadn’t changed her mind.

“Katerina Ravenswing.”

Kit’s face was set with determination as she came to a stop before the Arbiter.

Elyria rushed to her side. “Kit, no,” she begged, pulling Kit’s arm to force her away from the Arbiter. To face Elyria instead. “Please.”

“I have to do this, Ellie.” She placed a gentle hand on top of Elyria’s, still gripping her forearm.

“You don’t.”

Kit’s eyes filled with a mix of emotions that Elyria didn’t understand. “I think he would be really happy that you tried so hard, you know. Perhaps even if I don’t come out on top in there, just knowing how hard you worked to save me will still bring him some peace.”

Elyria’s eyes burned.

“Don’t worry, though,” Kit added, scrunching her nose. “I still have absolutely every intention of winning.”

And with that, she wrenched her arm out of Elyria’s grasp and waved her hand. Gasps rang out from the surrounding spectators as a wall of ice cut across the room. It happened so fast, Elyria barely had time to step out of the way as the frozen barrier grew higher and higher, not stopping until it spanned the entire room, floor to ceiling. Completely cutting Elyria off from Kit and the Arbiter.

It was an extraordinary display of magic, and Elyria might have been proud of Kit if she wasn’t so thoroughly pissed off.

Elyria pounded on the ice, each blow a frigid sting against her naked palm. A shadow crossed behind the opaque barrier, and Elyria thought she could make out the outline of a hand being held against it.

“I’m sorry, Ellie,” Kit said, her voice muffled. “This is how it has to be.”

“Kit!” Elyria cried, beating her fist against the wall harder, but anything else she might have said was interrupted by the blistering cold suddenly traveling up her arm. With a jolt, she jumped back, cradling her frostbitten hand, powerless to do anything but watch as Kit’s shadow turned away.

“I am ready,” Kit said.

The Arbiter’s voice was still clear as a bell as it rang in Elyria’s mind. “Do you commit yourself to the Arcane Crucible, to pursuing the truths and challenges held within?”

A frustrated cry ripped from Elyria as Kit said, “I do.”

“Do you consent to be marked by the celestials, binding yourself to the Celestial Sanctum?”

“I do.”

“And do you do this, knowing that once you step through the Gate, you shall not return until the Crucible is complete and its prize claimed?”

There was a moment of hesitation, and despite the frosty barrier between them, Elyria felt Kit’s gaze find her through the ice.

“I do,” said Kit .

Elyria screamed in her throat.

And then she was gone.

The instant Kit stepped through the Gate, the wall melted away, drenching Elyria’s legs with ice-cold water as it puddled to the floor in a massive sheet. Still, she stood there. Stunned. Helpless.

The crowd of spectators had been steadily thinning as their respective champions entered the Sanctum. What few folks remained started to shuffle toward the exit. The show was over. The Crucible had begun.

Fourteen champions now fought for their lives in the Celestial Sanctum.

Feeling returned to Elyria’s numbed skin in a sudden rush, a thousand painful pinpricks fluttering up her arm at once. The shock caused her to bolt forward, her body uncontrolled as she stumbled directly into the Arbiter.

With a sneer, Elyria shoved the white-cloaked being away. She didn’t know what kind of celestial smiting might befall her for doing so, but she shoved, nonetheless. It was like pushing on air. Yet, when an ethereal, glowing hand emerged from the Arbiter’s oversized sleeve and grabbed Elyria’s arm, it was solid as steel.

“Your quarrel is not with me,” said the Arbiter’s many voices, their grip crushing.

“I beg to differ,” Elyria spat.

The Arbiter’s head tipped back, and for a moment, Elyria thought she might glimpse the face hidden beneath the voluminous hood. But it stayed in place, the being’s face still masked in shadow as the Arbiter started to tremble. Then shake.

Elyria’s arm ached under the Arbiter’s iron grip as they convulsed, their layered voice strained and eerie as words tumbled forth.

“From bitterest rivals to heartbreaking ends, two bloods shall find their way. Through sacrifice, darkness, and friendship betrayed, as dawn brings a new day.”

Almost as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

“What the fuck was that?” Elyria yelled as she wrenched her arm from the Arbiter’s grasp. The being swayed on their feet, dazed.

“The prophecy!” called a lingering spectator, awestruck. “Praise to Lunara! ”

“The Revenant is celestial-blessed!” called another.

Elyria spun, halfway prepared to violently correct whoever had spoken, and halfway determined to demand the Arbiter explain. Why were they spewing this prophetic nonsense at Elyria, of all people? And why did it seem different than the version Cedric had recited only minutes before?

A scream pierced the air before she got the chance to ask.

Elyria whipped around, her eyes wide with shock as someone burst back through the Gate, clutching his shoulder. Brandon Cormac, one of the human champions. His face was contorted in terror, blood gushing from a deep wound that started on his upper arm and cut across his chest. Elyria thought she glimpsed a flash of white bone amidst the jagged, torn flesh.

He staggered forward, collapsing onto his knees in front of Elyria. “The t-trial,” he garbled, his mouth full of blood. He tried to speak again. He couldn’t. Not aloud.

“The beasts. They’re savage. They’re everywhere. Get to the gate.” The words echoed in Elyria’s head, and she trembled at the realization that Cormac was a mindwielder. “You have to get to the gate. But you can’t—they don’t—they won’t allow ? —”

He shuddered. Clutched his forehead with a red-stained hand. Then let out a scream so agonizing, so harrowing, Elyria knew she would hear it in her nightmares for a long, long time.

The celestial mark on Cormac’s forehead glowed brightly, even as his body crumpled. Elyria reacted quickly, crouching to catch him before he hit the floor. She rolled him onto his back. But there was nothing she could do—nothing to be done.

His eyes were frozen open, unseeing.

The man was dead.

A piercing wail sounded from somewhere behind her. A horror-stricken gasp. Someone was sobbing. Other voices began to mix in Elyria’s ears, gossiping whispers and words of comfort alike.

A voice pierced the din. Many voices, speaking as one. “He was marked. He was bound to the Sanctum.” The Arbiter bowed their head, still swaying unevenly. “He left the Sanctum.”

Brandon Cormac’s body erupted in blue flame.

And as he burned, as the flames reduced his body to ash, Elyria could think of only one thing: Kit.

Her eyes met the shadowed void where the Arbiter’s face should be. She sensed an infinitesimal nod from beneath the hood.

Elyria shivered, colder now than when Kit’s magic had nearly frozen her in place. Kit could have already fallen. Could have been clawed apart by whatever vile creature had left Cormac so wounded and so terrified that he’d risked the celestials’ wrath by running back through the Gate rather than face it. The thought stole the breath from Elyria’s lungs.

The curtain of light within the Gate wafted in a phantom breeze, as if beckoning her forth. Did it simply want someone to replace the champion the Sanctum had lost? And was Elyria absolutely insane for considering it?

“This is madness,” she said to herself.

The Arbiter responded anyway. “Perhaps.”

Elyria stood.

“Should you do this, you must know there is no turning back. Not for you, Elyria Lightbreaker.”

Elyria clenched her fist, her fingernails biting into the skin of her palms. She couldn’t just stand by knowing the horrors Kit was likely facing at this exact moment. She certainly couldn’t simply leave .

What did she have to go back to anyway?

She took a deep breath. Tightened the straps of the dagger sheaths on her thighs. Made the mistake of looking toward what remained of the crowd of spectators, many of them staring at her in awe.

The Revenant is celestial-blessed!

Elyria snorted. Then, recalling the prophecy, she took a deep, slow breath. “Forged in the Crucible of fate, right? Champions rise?”

The Arbiter nodded.

“Well then. What have I got to lose?”