Page 21 of Storm of Stars (Pride of Praxis #2)

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Bex

I was on a plane again. This time, no parachute strapped to my back, no blindfold over my eyes.

It was a smaller plane than I’d been in before, and I was alone, well, alone except for the pilot.

He sat in silence, staring ahead, his grip firm on the controls as we flew northwest, away from Praxis.

We’d been flying for over an hour now, and the landscape below had become increasingly unfamiliar, confirming what I already suspected, we were heading deeper into unknown territory, farther than we’d gone for the transportation trial.

The plane hummed steadily in the air, but there was an undercurrent of tension that I couldn’t shake.

Eventually, the pilot started to slow the plane, descending smoothly over a wide expanse of water.

As we lowered, the view below began to come into focus.

A scattered group of small islands dotted the water’s surface, like a chain of forgotten rocks poking up from the depths.

A sharp breeze swept through the open cockpit, and I could see eight other small planes like mine, scattered across the sky.

They were flying lower as well, heading toward the islands, and my thoughts immediately turned to my Wildguard.

Where were they? Which plane carried them?

Before I could process that thought, the speaker in the plane crackled to life, and Annalese’s voice cut through the static, smooth and cheery.

“Good morning, Challengers, and welcome to the lumber trial!” she began, her tone unnervingly upbeat.

“Today, your task is simple. You’ll be dropped off on your own small island.

Each island has a watchtower, but they’re broken, unsafe, beyond repair.

.. mostly. Your task is to use the resources on your island to fix your watchtower and call for a rescue by lighting the rescue lamp at the top.

If your light is lit at dawn tomorrow, you will be rescued, and you will pass the trial! ”

I felt my chest tighten, the words sinking in. It sounded too simple. And I knew better than to trust anything that sounded simple in the Reclamation Run. There was always a catch.

“Fix your tower, survive the night, light the lamp, and signal the rescue team,” Annalese repeated, her voice almost sweet in its simplicity.

Survive the night.

There it was. Survival. She wasn’t just talking about building the tower or lighting the lamp. There was something else. Something on those islands that would make survival far from easy.

I glanced out the window, the first signs of the island coming closer.

Each one was small, isolated, and rugged.

There were no signs of habitation, no markers to indicate anything beyond nature’s cruel beauty.

But I could sense it, the looming danger, the unknown that lay in wait for us.

This wasn’t just a test of strength, skill, or even willpower.

It was going to be about outlasting whatever threats the island would throw at us.

The plane banked hard to the left, the pilot starting the descent.

I could already see the craggy shores of the island that would soon be mine to survive below, the jagged rocks and thick forest that stretched up toward the sky.

Somewhere on that island was my watchtower, or what was left of it.

I could feel my pulse quicken as the plane swooped lower.

What else would be waiting for me there?

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my thoughts focused. The sky was bright and filled with the midday sun. The plane began its final descent, and I braced myself for whatever was to come.

The pilot pressed a button on his dashboard, and with a soft mechanical whir, the side door of the plane slid open.

A rope ladder unfurled from the doorway, dangling thirty feet above the sandy shore below.

The engine hummed steadily, the only sound accompanying the rush of wind as I swallowed hard, trying to steady my nerves. This was it.

They hadn’t provided us with a pack this time—not even a stick of jerky.

At least Thorne had insisted on feeding us a hearty breakfast before we left.

I was grateful for it now. A solid meal in my stomach would have to sustain me through the night.

I could make it until tomorrow without food if I had to.

I turned my attention to the rope ladder, my fingers wrapping around the rough fibers.

Carefully, I tested each step with my foot, feeling the sway of the plane still hovering above.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about jumping off into the unknown, but there was no turning back now.

My hands and legs moved with deliberate care as I made my way down.

The cold air stung my skin, and my heart raced in my chest, but I focused on my breathing. One step at a time.

Finally, I felt the sand beneath my boots. My feet sank just a little into the soft texture, and I paused, steadying myself as I glanced back at the plane. And once I was free from the rope ladder, they pulled away, leaving me standing alone on the island.

I turned back toward the shore, the shoreline stretching thinly across the island, the water lapping gently against the sand.

I bent down, letting the cool water wash over my hands and took a deep breath, the scent of lake water filling my lungs.

It was thick and murky, tinged with the acrid scent of fish.

The smell was sharp, but not inherently not unpleasant.

When I lifted my gaze, my eyes fixed on the island’s dense terrain.

Towering, thick trees crowded the space, their trunks reaching up toward the sky, and the steep cliffs rose sharply at the edge of the land.

Roots snaked outward, crawling up the rocks as though trying to claim the whole place. It would be hard to scale these cliffs.

As I looked around, something caught my attention, a camera perched against one of the trees, its small lens turning in my direction.

I could hear the faint whirring as it adjusted to focus on me.

I wasn’t surprised. These islands were much smaller and much more contained than the Wilds were.

It would be easy for every inch of this island to be under the watchful eye of Praxis.

The air had a strange scent now, too, something warm, almost smokey. For a moment, it reminded me of a meal Thorne had cooked for us a few nights ago. The thought hit me harder than I expected. I missed them. I hoped they were alright and that their towers weren’t beyond repair.

I pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the task ahead. My heart tightened, but I steeled myself, lifting my chin as I approached the island’s rocky base. There was no time to dwell on homesickness. I had a tower to fix.

I started up the exposed roots, grabbing at the rough bark to pull myself higher.

Each movement was slow, deliberate, as I navigated the tough climb.

When I reached the top of the island, sweat began to bead on my forehead despite the warmth of the sun.

I wiped it away with the long sleeve shirt they had insisted I wear, sweat clinging to the fabric despite the heat.

Pushing through the thick trees was no easier. The dense foliage made every step a challenge, and I had to duck and weave around low-hanging branches. After several minutes, I finally emerged into a small, almost circular clearing. In the middle of the clearing stood a wooden tower.

Or at least, that’s what it used to be.

“Shit,” I whispered under my breath as I took in the sight.

The structure was barely recognizable. Eroded beams hung loosely, swaying slightly in the breeze.

There were no solid stairs to climb, just a hollow step leading to a gaping hole where once there had been a platform.

It looked like one of the old water towers from back home in Canyon, dilapidated and dangerous.

Four large posts jutted out of the earth, their support beams cracked and splintered. It was a death trap waiting to happen.

I circled the structure, taking in the damage. No amount of patching up could make this tower safe again. My heart sank, but I knew I had to make do.

To the right of the tower sat a workbench, a pile of tools scattered haphazardly across it.

I walked over, heart sinking further. There were hammers, saws, and hatchets, but not much else.

A bucket of used nails, some rusty scrap metal, and a pile of lumber that looked barely enough to repair a fraction of the tower.

I let out a frustrated breath. This wasn’t going to be easy.

I was going to need more than just tools and scrap wood to make this tower even remotely functional.

I glanced back toward the thick forest, my mind racing.

The trees were my only hope. I’d have to cut branches down and use what I could find.

The smokey scent hung thick in the air now, clinging to my senses. I looked around again, trying to spot the source, but saw nothing. Perhaps it was just the island’s natural scent.

I rolled my shoulders back, pushing through the exhaustion that had already begun to settle in. There was no time to waste. I had to get to work.

Grabbing the hatchet, I started chopping at the nearest tree, my arms aching with each swing. The sun hung heavy overhead, and the sweat on my brow stung my eyes. But I couldn’t afford to stop. The clock was ticking.

A few hours later, the sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes, as I stood surrounded by a growing pile of thick, sturdy branches.

It would have to be enough. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, the golden hue fading to a soft orange that spread across the water.

The day was slipping away, and I had to move faster.

I couldn’t risk being left in the dark when the island’s challenges could be lurking just beyond the fading light.