Page 69

Screaming for Air

“ T he ring. Here!”

Vaast tears off the piece of jewelry and places it in my hand. It’s heavy, large, and burns faintly against my palm.

“Why?” I press him harder into the ground. The sword tip at his throat. The blade leaks, and icy cold drops seep toward his chin. Each time they land, he flinches. There’s no sound except our frantic breaths.

He parts his lips. “She?—”

“Why in the fires would she give it to you?”

“Kathraanis wanted to buy one of my… shard-swords.”

“Right.”

“It’s, of course… the t-truth.”

“What did she want them for?”

“I don’t know.” The corners of his mouth sink, and he shrugs. “She’s drawn to… s-swords and is skilled in fencing and?—”

“I know. Continue.”

“She asked if she could pay in that… w-way. Which I accepted.”

“Oh yeah?” I hiss.

“As far as I know, the ring is… ordinary. I’ve never sensed any magic in it.”

There’s something about it. Just looking at the ring sends a shiver through me, and holding it is almost unbearable. I hand it back. Vaast slides it onto his finger.

“Do you remember the day you and Netharu’el saved me from the dragon?”

He nods, eyes flicking to Voenriel’s dripping tip.

“You did something to it, didn’t you?”

He parts his lips, but I don’t let him speak.

“You calmed it.”

“I—”

“How?”

“Remove… th-the sword.”

His pale eyes watch me softly like he’s trying to show me pain, stir guilt.

“No.”

“Remove th-the sword, a-and I’ll of c-course… a-answer.”

His eyes don’t look cunning, not like they usually do. For once, they seem honest. It could be a trick. A trap. He might be playing me. But I must know.

“As you wish.” I slide Voenriel back into its sheath and rise off his chest. “Now talk.”

He rises slowly, his movements stiff and his breaths shallow and hoarse. He licks his lips and runs a hand over his throat. A dark red mark where Voenriel’s tip had pressed against his skin.

“I didn’t… do anything.”

“I saw you?—”

He lifts his hands, already defending himself before I can move.

“To me, it all seemed… strange. That’s all.”

“So you say.”

“I don’t understand it either,” he says, tongue darting out. “Not really.”

“But you were staring at it.”

“Of course, I was s-staring. It was a dragon.”

“Why?”

“Same reason as you. I was shocked. I didn’t know what was happening.”

Footsteps. To the left. Someone is coming through the mist. Maybe Salahfar.

“Fine, Vaast. I believe you.”

“You do?” He steps back, crouching slightly. Wary now.

“Thank you for the information.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with you today… Iszaelda.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Even so… I hope you find what you seek.” He nods. “Go now. You need to keep moving.”

“I know.”

“The next trial is… speed.” His tongue flicks across his bottom lip. “You must make it through the passage. As fast as you can.”

“What passage?”

“You’ll s-see.” He pats my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. Then vanishes into the underbrush, swallowed by the shadows beneath the trees and the pale mist still clinging to the air.

I run. Not because of the trials. Not because of the test ahead.

But because of what just happened. Vaast seemed genuine.

And what does that mean?

That Kathraanis gave him the ring?

Isn’t the ring the Red Eye? Or… is Kathraanis the one who betrayed us?

I don’t bother to tread carefully. I don’t care that sharp stones dig into the soles of my feet. I’d been so sure, for so long, that something was amiss about Vaast. And now? Now I feel lost. Confused. Uncertain.

I need to talk to someone. To Netharu’el. I need to tell him everything.

Where are you?

And then I see it. The passage begins here. A tunnel so narrow my shoulders will scrape the sides. It’s a shaft of tangled plants and thick jungle, winding around and over the path in a series of coils. It’s pitch black.

Two yellow flags hang limp above the entrance, drooping from their thin sticks like wilted petals.

I dive into the darkness. Thorns snag at my sleeves. Branches whip at my face. Sharp berries burst under my feet. They tear into my skin and rip open my arms. The air reeks. Rotting meat. Mold. Wet seaweed. Swamp water.

It clings to me. Soaks into my skin. But I keep going.

I don’t let it stop me.

I dig deep and sprint with everything I have, faster than before. The ground is a chaos of branches, bones, and razor moss, but I don’t slow down. I don’t care.

Pain flares in my feet and stings across my arms and cheeks. Blood trickles down my skin, dripping as I move.

You can do this, Iszaelda.

The path slopes downward. The air grows thick. Claustrophobic.

I can barely see my hands in front of me. The air is damp, and it’s hard to breathe. The ground turns soft, sucking at my steps, squelching with each stride.

The deeper I go, the stranger it feels. The terrain is wet and unstable.

The ceiling lowers, closer and tighter. The space narrows.

I force my way through, shoving aside vines and leaves, leaping jagged rocks, and wading through mud.

Seaweed spills from the tunnel walls, brushing my legs as I pass, growing bolder, as if reaching for me, grasping, trying to hold me back, stop me, break me, kill me.

The water rises knee-deep in seconds.

I wade through the cold sludge, my soaked training clothes clinging like a wetsuit. A yellow flag whips past in the corner of my eye.

I dive. Arms flailing, legs driving, I swim hard and frantically.

Until the surface is gone above me, and I’m forced to breathe deep and go under. The world turns green. It’s thick with algae, clouded with floating grit, soil, broken leaves, and shreds of plants.

I push forward, kicking off with my legs and cutting through the water with my arms. It’s warm, like the hot springs outside Eytherthlarn.

The tunnel dips lower. Narrower. It scrapes against my skin.

The light is gone, and only moss-colored murk remains.

And then the seaweed moves. It thrashes like octopus arms, rising from the depths and stretching toward the surface.

It wraps around my ankles, calves, and thighs, snaring me loop after loop. It’s sticky, clinging, and refusing to let go.

I writhe, thrash, and fight against its grip.

My wide-open eyes sting as debris slips in. I blink it away and tug my hair free. I can’t scream. I can’t breathe. I twist, pull, and strain the vines.

But they hold.

My lungs flare as hot as coals behind my ribs. I’m not desperate yet. But close. Closer with every spark.

I draw Voenriel. My fingers slip on the hilt.

She’s my only chance.

I’m not getting out of this unless the next contender, Salahfar, gets to me in time. I know it. I won’t survive.

I swing. The blade cuts through water, but the seaweed only curls around it, too soft, too loose to sever.

Maevux.

Stay calm. Focus. Focus. I kick again, stretch the vines taut.

Bending forward, I grab a handful in one hand and slice with the other.

One strand tears free.

Then another. And another. Right. Left. Above. Below. Behind. Ahead. Beneath me.

My head throbs, pain blooming from skull to spine. My stomach twists into knots, my limbs shudder.

My throat claws for air, a scream held back by force alone. My vision blurs.

But I’m free. The vines fall away.

I press on, relishing the freedom to move my legs again.

Voenriel stays raised before me, still carving my way through.

Finally.

I break free of the tunnel, and the seaweed slips away. Ahead, a barren lakebed stretches into emptiness.

I spread my arms wide, lowering the blade, and kick upward.

My throat burns. My lungs scream. My body jerks and trembles, like something inside me is trying to claw its way out.

But I keep my lips sealed, jaw locked, and tongue between my teeth.

I burst through the surface with a gasp. Water churns in a widening ring around me as air rushes into my lungs. Strength returns, sharp and sudden.

The splashing quiets. Silence settles. The lake lies still as glass, a sleeping oasis cradled by jungle.

Its surface shimmers, mirroring broken fragments of treetops, tangled branches, and drifting vines.

I turn, searching. Mist curls low across the water, soft and shifting.

The far bank is barely visible, but I swim toward it, stroke after stroke, the shoreline revealing itself piece by piece.

My feet touch something slick. I haul myself onto a stone, then another, climbing, my palms sinking into the thick mud as I pull myself up. Once I’m up, I shake off the water, teeth chattering.

Every scrape burns across my skin, open wounds stinging along my arms, legs, and sides.

I glance around, searching for flags.

Where do I go from here?

There.

A sword. It glints faintly in the filtered light. I lift it. Feel the weight.

A plain longsword, no etching, no elegance. Dull gray. Stiff. A training blade. I toss it aside and run, hoping I haven’t chosen the wrong direction.