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HERBWITCH SHIT

ELYRIA

Elyria’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as she stepped through the archway, her boots striking solid ground with a finality that felt a lot like relief. The searing heat of the dragon’s breath clung to her skin, but it was only one of many things that would haunt her. The first trial had been far more than she’d expected—unsurprising, she supposed, since she hadn’t really known what to expect at all.

Perhaps being endlessly hunted by shadowy beasts—claws like obsidian, eyes like embers—was a fitting comeuppance for Elyria’s sheer stupidity in following Kit through the Gate. They’d been relentless, and Elyria had fought through them with a single-minded focus. There was only one thing that mattered, one goal: reaching Kit.

And so, Elyria had cut them down, her staff spinning in deadly arcs, her daggers cutting through flesh and sinew and bone. And there had been moments—brief but terrifying—when she hadn’t been sure she’d make it.

If Elyria made it through the rest of the Crucible alive, she would figure out a way to have words with the Arbiter about whatever that no-magic bullshit was.

Fighting to steady her breathing, Elyria ran her gaze around the dim stone chamber. Some of the other champions had made it through ahead of her. They were strewn around the room, still catching their breath, regrouping after whatever brutal encounters they’d faced during the trial. Most importantly, Kit was there, intact and unharmed. And that was all that mattered.

Even if Elyria still couldn’t make sense of the look that had been in Kit’s eyes when she’d finally caught up with her in the arena. So many overlapping emotions—relief and gratitude, obstinance and willfulness. Kit knew that Elyria was only here for her, and Elyria thought she might just love her for it...and loathe her for it at the same time.

Because Kit was in this to win—for Evander, for herself—and nobody was going to stand in her way.

Elyria wasn’t sure if she was proud or terrified. Likely a little of both.

The rush of adrenaline had barely faded when the other champions began shouting. Two more had just come through the archway.

It was him .

Elyria clenched her fists at her sides, trying to shake off the tangle of emotions twisting in her chest. Saving Cedric had been a reflex, the kind of instinct honed through years of combat—one she couldn’t just forget. For Solaris’ sake, she hadn’t even known whose fiery fate she was preventing.

But the look on his face after—the disbelief, the resentment —unsettled her. The frustration in his eyes when he realized who she was, the way his jaw had clenched with something like...shame? And there had been...something else there too. Something she couldn’t quite place.

Why did it bother her so much? Why did she care? At best, he was just some human, some rival from across the Chasms. At worst, he was an enemy. Another champion standing between Kit and the prize at the end of this deadly game. And thus, standing between Elyria and her ability to get her friend out alive.

On the other hand, he was clearly an idiot. What other reason could there have been for him to rush headlong into danger with no plan?

And yet...Seeing him pinned there, nearly broken under the weight of the dragon’s claws, had sparked something in her. Stirred some protective instinct she’d thought long buried.

Then there was the way he’d thrust himself back into the fray when the dragon returned, wounded and with no reason to risk his life further. She saw the way he rolled aside as the creature prepared to release another bout of vicious dragonfyre, drawing its aim away from the rest of them. Away from her.

Admirable fool.

He was going to get himself killed sooner rather than later if he kept acting like that.

Which, of course, didn’t matter in the slightest. She certainly didn’t care if he died.

Unfortunately, she also couldn’t explain why the knot in her chest tightened at the notion.

Elyria pushed the thought away. She had to focus on her present situation. On whatever was coming next .

The chamber she’d been thrown into was large and spacious. Thick stone bricks etched with intricate carvings made up the walls around them, which were dotted with high, small windows before curving up to form a large domed ceiling that loomed overhead. Wide stone benches and large floor cushions were strewn throughout the space. Tables laden with pitchers of water, bowls of fruit, and plates piled high with cheeses and dried meats dotted the room.

This was a space for recovery. A reward for having survived the harrows of the first trial.

The archway she’d entered from was affixed to the wall on one side, while multiple doors lined the opposite wall. She watched a couple of curious champions try and fail to open all twelve of them.

The air was thick with ancient magic. Eager to test whether the rules from the arena were still in effect, Elyria drew forth the usual magic she used to cloak her wings, shuddering in relief when she found herself able to hide them with ease.

A heavy silence swept through the chamber as the other champions soon followed suit—flopping onto cushions or perching on benches to heal, to replenish, to refuel. She tried not to let her vision linger on Cedric and the sylvan woman—Zephyr—in the corner. His gauntlets and vambraces lay in a heap on the bench next to him as she wove some sort of healing magic over the knight’s head.

Kit was close by, scanning the chamber with the same sharp awareness Elyria was wielding. Elyria felt a prickle of pride, then a pang of guilt as she thought of their earlier confrontation—er, make that confrontations —and the harsh words they exchanged in Castle Lumin.

Now was not the time for regrets though. Not here. Not with whatever the hells the Arbiter, or the celestials, or whoever designed this stars-damned game had lurking around the next corner.

The next trial. The next danger. That needed to be Elyria’s sole focus—making sure that when the dust finally settled, Kit would still be standing.

Even if Elyria herself wasn’t.

“Still breathing?” Elyria’s voice was rougher than she intended as she stepped closer to Kit.

“For now,” Kit said.

“Good. Let’s try and keep it that way, shall we?”

A sudden tension filled the room. “So...is nobody really going to say it?” Gael said, waving her arms in a wide gesticulation, as if calling the champions to attention. “Fine, I’ll say it. What the fuck was that?”

“To what, precisely, do you refer?” The nocterrian, Tenebris Nox, was half-buried in shadows as they leaned against the left wall. “The onslaught of fangs and claws? The trek across mountain and valley just to get to another gate?”

“For me, it was the stars-damned dragon at the end,” Thraigg chimed in gruffly.

“And the lack of absolutely any information whatsoever,” groused the rodent-faced human with sand-colored hair, Alden. During the rundown Kit gave Elyria in the arena, she’d learned he was a “saint,” a title for his talent for healing magic that would have had Elyria snorting with laughter, had an enormous cockroach-like creature not decided to attack at that very moment. She’d long thought human naming conventions for their magic wielders were pointless. They called their mindwielders “sages” and their oracles “seers,” seemingly for no other reason than a desire to distance themselves as far as possible from the Arcanian terms—even if they meant the exact same damned thing.

“Precisely! They throw us into a literal lion’s den and expect us to figure out what to do, where to go?” Leona Blackwood’s voice hovered somewhere between snide and shrill, and it had Elyria cringing.

It also had her begrudgingly concurring, and she didn’t like that. Because she really didn’t like Leona.

“We all knew the risks coming in here,” said Cedric, though there was the slightest tremor in his voice.

“We had no magic !” Leona cried.

Paelin pursed his lips. “Yes, that wasa bit surprising, to be sure.”

“Oh, was it?” Leona spat. “I noticed your wings weren’t affected. You could have simply soared across the entire arena. How is that fair?”

“If only,” Paelin said with a snort. “Would have been nice. Too bad the volacarnii made doing so just a little tricky.”

Kit tensed at the mention of the creatures. Elyria knew what she was thinking, and was suddenly incredibly grateful that they hadn’t encountered the vicious flying monsters in the arena. They really were nasty pieces of work.

“Could barely get off the ground before they descended,” Paelin continued, pinching his tunic at his waist and holding it out to showcase a large rip in the fabric. “One of them nearly got me.”

“If only,” Leona repeated, sneering.

Gael rolled her eyes. “And anyway, our wings are not part of our magic, they’re part of us . Taking them would be like chopping off one of your arms, human. Is it our fault the Crucible did not hinder our natural capabilities during the trial? We were still without our powers, same as you.”

Zephyr let out a squeak of agreement. “Felt like part of myself was missing.”

Elyria couldn’t disagree with that. It had been disconcerting not to feel the magic that constantly simmered in her veins. Downright dangerous. But if she was being honest, it was also...peaceful? That shadowy presence in the pit of her belly was quiet for the first time since...

“So, what are we supposed to do now?” Paelin asked.

“What we’re already doing, asshole,” muttered one of the other pot-stirring humans from earlier. The redheaded brother—Belien. “We wait. We heal. We wait for the rest.” While Leona sat nearby, chuckling at his response, Elyria realized his sister was nowhere to be seen. And she wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Speaking of the rest, where’s your other half, ginger prince?” quipped Gael, limping slightly as she moved to a nearby bench.

“We were separated in the arena,” he said darkly.

“She didn’t make it? You have my deepest sympathies,” Gael said, sounding anything but sympathetic.

The murderous look on Belien’s face had Elyria bracing for the human to lob another ill-fated attack at Gael. The Arbiter said the rule barring violence against one another was no longer in effect, but they were all injured, all exhausted. Elyria had hoped they’d get at least a little reprieve before the fighting started anew.

To her great surprise, the humans seemed to agree. With a sigh, Belien leaned back and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Belis will come through any minute,” said Leona, placing a reassuring hand on his knee.

“We will pray it is so.” An irritatingly earnest voice came from behind Elyria, so close it made her shiver. That charred sandalwood scent drifted over her as Cedric Thorne walked past, Zephyr close on his heels, and took a seat with the other humans—Belien and Leona on one side, Alden on the other. He shook hands with the saint before turning to engage the other two in conversation, gesticulating animatedly.

Elyria bit back a huff of annoyance. So much for whatever shamble of an alliance they had formed during those last moments in the arena. If Cedric wanted to associate himself with human trash who handed out slurs against Arcanians like they were candy, so be it.

But as Elyria wandered back to the other side of the room, taking her own seat beside Kit, a pang of pity ran through her on Zephyr’s behalf. The sylvan stood awkwardly behind Cedric, shifting on her feet as Leona, Belien, and Alden vacillated between exchanging knowing looks with one another and shooting highly obvious sneers at Zephyr.

Elyria didn’t know if Cedric didn’t realize his compatriots were being openly derisive toward the sylvan, or if he didn’t care. And she didn’t know which was worse. She also didn’t know why Zephyr was subjecting herself to this. Whatever reasons the sylvan had for aligning herself with Cedric, she couldn’t possibly have known Leona and Belien would be part of the deal.

Elyria’s irritation rose, starting to meld with a rage that, logically, she knew didn’t belong to this situation. It’s not as if anything had happened yet, after all. But “yet” was, in fact, the key. Elyria had heard too many stories over the ages of what humans did to the innocent Arcanians found in their lands. Did the knight not realize what he was potentially subjecting Zephyr to by association?

Thoughtless fool.

“You all right, Ellie?” Kit’s voice broke through Elyria’s indignation, her casual use of the nickname calming the thrumming shadow that had started to stir in her core.

“Sure,” Elyria replied, tearing her glare from Cedric as she leaned back. “Just anxious for whatever comes next.”

Kit nodded. “Aren’t we all.”

In the end, only one more champion came through the archway. It was not Belis. And the keening cry that came from Belien when a bloodied and battered Cyren Tenrider stepped through the archway and it finally stopped glowing, the magic inside stilling, was haunting. The quiet sobbing that followed as the archway disappeared entirely, leaving only a blank expanse of stone along the wall in its wake, was worse.

Elyria might have felt bad for the man, had he and his sister not proven themselves to be terrible people. She would be lying if she said she felt the world of Arcanis was worse off with one less prejudiced asshole in it. And thankfully, she didn’t have to listen to his wailing for long. Not when a sudden, booming voice resounded through the chamber.

Many voices, speaking as one, in fact.

“Congratulations, champions,” said the Arbiter’s voice. “You have bested the Trial of Strength. ”

Elyria searched for the source of the sound but there was no sign of the white-hooded figure.

“Only those willing to bleed for the crown dare dream to hold it. You have fought. You have bled. You have experienced loss,” the voice echoed in her head. A strangled sob escaped from Belien. “You have proven your strength. Now you will take the time to heal.”

Murmurs rippled through the champions.

“Welcome to the Celestial Sanctum. The doors before you lead to rooms where you may rest, bathe, and continue tending your injuries. Use this time wisely. Tomorrow, the second trial begins.”

The voice faded, uneasy glances suddenly replacing the unfocused wonder that adorned most of the champions’ faces. They might be receiving a night of respite, but that did nothing to relieve the palpable tension stretching throughout the chamber.

Zephyr, ever the healer, seemed to take the Arbiter’s words as decree. She immediately set to work, moving from champion to champion with quiet efficiency as she offered to tend to their wounds. Leona waved her away with a shrill laugh— idiot —but Elyria accepted the assistance with gratitude.

“How did this happen?” Zephyr asked in a soft voice, prodding at a gash on Elyria’s lower back that she hadn’t been able to reach.

“Same story as everyone here, I’d imagine,” Elyria replied, relief sweeping through her as she felt her skin knit back together. “Some little monster caught me by surprise.”

Next to Elyria, Kit rolled her mismatched eyes. “It happened because she was too busy pushing me out of the way to watch her own back,” she said with a rough laugh. “Because she has apparently forgotten I am a fully grown fae, more than capable of defending myself.”

“I just don’t like you having all the fun,” Elyria replied, trying her best to keep her tone light.

Kit’s gaze softened. They hadn’t really spoken about the fact that Elyria was here. Hadn’t had a chance to. But had they been alone, Elyria thought Kit might actually admit she was grateful Elyria had entered the Crucible for her.

Then Kit’s expression hardened, and Elyria immediately second-guessed that thought .

“You don’t need to protect me, Ellie. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can.” Elyria struggled to keep her voice even. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep trying.” She waved her arm, gesturing to their general surroundings. “Clearly.”

The corners of Kit’s mouth twitched upward—a small smile. “You’re impossible.”

Elyria shrugged, feigning nonchalance, even as warmth spread through her chest at Kit’s thawing toward her. She supposed that fighting their way through an arena of death together was as good a way to work through their issues as any. She wondered whether she should say more—or if it would push Kit away again, reigniting their fight.

And then she thought, fuck it.

Chances were high she would die in this stars-damned Crucible anyway. The rules were different now. Might as well say what she wants. Might as well tell the truth.

“I know I have a lot of lost time to make up for,” Elyria said, her voice soft. “I hope this shows you how serious I am about doing so.”

Kit’s eyes glistened but she just nodded, an acceptance that lifted a weight from Elyria’s shoulders. They fell into a comfortable silence as Zephyr finished healing the wound on Elyria’s back and made quick work of the numerous shallow cuts and scrapes decorating Kit’s limbs.

“Oh.” Zephyr halted Elyria as she was getting ready to move on. “Did you also want me to...”

Elyria followed her gaze and saw that her pant leg had ripped, exposing a sizable section of her left thigh.

Shit .

“What the fuck is that?” Kit asked sharply, her gaze narrowed on the grotesque checkerboard of scars that were now visible.

“It’s nothing.” Elyria hastily pinned the torn flap of her pants back in place with a tendril of magic.

Kit knocked her hand away. “That’s not fucking nothing, Elle. What the quartered hell happened to you? Is your entire leg like that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Elyria snapped, her tone sharper than she intended.

Turning her head, warm brown eyes met her own for a split second before they darted away. Had Cedric been watching their exchange? A flush of embarrassment crept up Elyria’s neck. The idea of him seeing the evidence of her at her most vulnerable, most exposed, tied her insides in knots. She hated the feeling.

How much had he seen? How much had he heard? He was a fair distance across the room, so chances were he couldn’t see much, but the last thing she wanted was for those eyes to fill with pity. She didn’t need any more of his judgment. She didn’t need him thinking she was weak. And she certainly didn’t need him knowing about her past—anything more than he already thought he knew. Least of all, anything true .

“Ellie?” Kit’s voice pulled her back, though Elyria could still feel the burn of Cedric’s lingering gaze.

“It’s nothing, truly. An old wound,” she lied. “Nothing Zephyr can do about it anyway.”

“Well, that’s not—” Zephyr cut herself off. “I mean, that is...I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” she said meekly.

“No, go ahead. What were you going to say?” Elyria prodded.

“I just...I have a poultice that I think will help with the scarring, if you would like.”

“Stars above,” Elyria exclaimed, a beaming smile erupting on her face. “Yes, yes, I would like. I would like very much.”

Kit pursed her lips at Elyria’s overeager reaction, but Zephyr only laughed. The sylvan healer fished a tin from one of the many pouches hanging from her belt. “Given where we are and what we’re doing, perhaps there’s no point...but here, give this a try. Layer it over the worst of the scars before you go to sleep each night. I warn you it doesn’t smell amazing...”

She popped the top off the tin and Elyria took a tentative sniff. She immediately regretted it.

Zephyr took in the look on Elyria’s face and was quick to add, “But the smell doesn’t linger, I promise. And you should see a marked improvement in both appearance and texture within a few days. Is there pain?”

A mock gagging sound came from nearby before Elyria could answer. “Four fucking hells, cap that foul shit, greenie,” sneered Belien, crouched on a pillow a few feet over while Alden wrapped his ankle.

The word might’ve been a derogatory term for Zephyr’ s people, but it was Elyria who saw red. “Why?” she spat. “I’d think your tear ducts would appreciate the reprieve.”

“What was that, fae scum?” Belien hissed.

Elyria sighed at the distinct lack of creativity in his insults. “Just that if you’re busy protecting your delicate sensibilities from a smelly bit of medicine, at least you’re probably too busy to keep crying. I imagine your eyes could use the break.”

Belien stood abruptly, a movement designed to intimidate. The effect was rather lessened by the way he wobbled on his good ankle, however. “Watch that smart tongue, pixie, lest I be tempted to tear it out.”

Elyria rolled her eyes. So much for choosing the path of unity. “Didn’t you learn your lesson about threatening us back at the castle?”

His eyes narrowed. “There’s no celestial magic to stop me now that we’re in here.”

Her mouth pulled up in a lazy grin. “Shall we put that to the test?”

“Don’t waste your energy on him, gorgeous,” called Cyren from across the room. “Though I can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy the show.” He shot yet another wink at Elyria, and she raised an eyebrow in response. She was starting to suspect it was his signature move.

“The man has a point,” Kit said. “Just because we can fight each other doesn’t mean we should. Not when the Crucible seems more than happy to do the deed itself.”

Elyria was readying another cutting remark to direct at Belien when a petite, green hand touched her forearm.

“It’s all right, Elyria,” Zephyr cut in, her tone pleading. “Please don’t trouble yourself with him. I’m fine.”

Belien snorted as if he’d won something and sat back down with a smug grin. Alden snickered, and Elyria could’ve sworn she heard the saint mutter something that sounded like “herbwitch shit” under his breath.

She wasn’t familiar with the term, but it was clear from the way Zephyr’s face fell further that it was just as unwelcome as the slur Belien had used.

Zephyr hastily crammed the cap back on the tin before handing it over. “Each night before bed,” she reminded Elyria, her voice timid.

Fury burrowed deeper in Elyria’s chest. But Zephyr had asked Elyria to back off, not wanting to cause a further scene. So, instead of taking out her ire on the bigots who deserved it, Elyria’s dagger-filled gaze sought someone else.