Page 36 of To Dwell in Shadows (Shadows of Aurelia #2)

S am’s plans were going all wrong.

He paced the riverbank, boots crunching against the loose rocks, thinking through everything that had led him to this moment and wondering how he could salvage it.

Was that even possible?

Since the Infernal Combat Trial had been blood-soaked chaos, Sam assumed the next trial would be more nuanced.

A challenge that tested cunning, leadership, or arcane aptitude.

Instead, the council had decided on a trial where the consequence for failing was essentially death.

With every fallen contender, the weight on Sam’s shoulders grew heavier.

Because the fewer who remained, the more his parents would insist he was meant to rule.

It no longer felt like a trial, but a culling.

Sam could feel Drath’s eyes on him as he paced, but he refused to acknowledge the demon’s presence.

Drath’s method for crossing the river had been clever, but not the kind of clever that would impress his parents.

While Drath apparently knew how the trials were tied to the crown, he likely didn’t know the outcome was ultimately irrelevant.

The king and queen would make the final decision themselves.

Thus far, Sam’s attempt to recommend a worthy candidate had failed entirely.

He was so deep in thought that he barely noticed a young demon of Mishap approach. “Excuse me, Your Highness.”

“Yes?” Sam said absently.

“M-my name is Chort. I was wondering if I could shake your hand.” His high-pitched voice ended with an upward inflection.

Sam looked down at the small, bright-eyed demon. “For what reason?”

“For luck.” Chort said sheepishly. “You see, it’s my turn next. And maybe some of your great power will rub off on me.”

Sam stuck out his hand, and Chort shook it vigorously. The demon’s skin was covered in small holes, but his palm was dry.

“Dark blessings to you, Chort.”

He beamed up at Sam. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you!”

A second later, Ghar called Chort’s name. The demon skipped away toward the river enthusiastically, leaving Sam to resume his pacing.

Sam would be the last competitor after Chort and he hadn’t yet devised a plan to retrieve the coin himself.

In truth, he was considering forfeiting his place in the trials altogether so they would no longer continue.

His parents would be furious, possibly even humiliated, but maybe stepping aside would create space for the right ruler to emerge.

“And how do you plan to cross the river?” Ghar asked.

“Well, as my aunt Empusa always says: ‘The frost remembers what the flame forgets.’ So I’m going to try to freeze the river.”

“Brilliant boy!” Empusa shouted from the crowd.

Sam glanced up and spotted Empusa seated beside Selene. His mate looked decidedly anxious, which only strengthened his temptation to forfeit.

“Proceed, then,” Ghar said.

Sam watched as Chort cautiously approached the river, stopping just short of the water’s edge and crouching low.

One by one, the small orifices across his skin opened and closed like tiny, gasping mouths.

It was an unpleasant sight that was then made worse as water began to drip from each hole, pooling at his feet.

With a look of intense focus, Chort extended a finger and touched the growing puddle.

Instantly, a jagged sliver of ice shot from it like a lightning bolt, zig-zagging across the river’s surface.

It slowed slightly until more liquid seeped from Chort’s pores, feeding the puddle and allowing the ice to surge forward again.

“Damnation and ruin!” Empusa shouted. “That’s a clever trick.”

The crowd cheered. Despite the turmoil Sam was feeling about the trial, a small smile tugged at his lips as Chort took his first step onto the icy path he’d carved.

Slowly and carefully, pausing now and then to steady himself, Chort inched his way toward the Purgatory. The ice was slippery and Chort’s foot nearly skidded into the water a few times. But each time he righted himself. A hush fell over the crowd the closer he came to the looming ship.

After several tense minutes, he finally reached his destination.

He stood beneath the towering wooden ferryman, the prized coin nearly within his grasp.

Bending his knees, Chort sprang into the air.

One hand seized the ferryman’s outstretched arm; the other stretched desperately toward the waiting palm above. The crowd burst into wild cheers.

But the celebration was short-lived.

As Chort hung midair, reaching for the coin, the icy trail he had forged began to melt—dissolving into the dark river below until there was nothing between his small, dangling body and the churning waters beneath.

“No!” Empusa cried. There were gasps from some demons in the crowd, while others hooted with bloodthirsty glee.

Panic overtook Chort’s face as he dangled precariously by one arm. The cleverness of his approach, contrasted with the senselessness of his impending death, sent a surge of righteous anger coursing through Sam.

I must stop this.

An image of the hydra he had created flashed through his mind. But this time, he resolved not to be a victim of his own uncontrollable power. This time, he would command it.

He summoned the shadows to him. With clear intent, he ordered them to form a long, thick rope.

They obeyed instantly, swirling together with a strange eagerness, as if thrilled to finally be given a purpose.

The black, mist-like rope coiled around Sam briefly, then shot through the air toward Chort.

The moment the rope reached him, it wound around the little demon’s body.

Chort wiggled a bit, as though testing the rope’s fortitude, then squeezed his eyes shut.

Slowly, he peeled his fingers away from the ferryman’s arm, one by one.

The moment he realized he remained suspended in the air, Chort’s eyes flew open with astonishment. He beamed at Sam.

The shadow rope then snaked upward with Chort in tow. It hovered him above the ferryman’s hand, just long enough for Chort to reach down and retrieve his coin.

When Chort pumped his fist in the air victoriously, Sam let out the breath he’d been holding. At his mental command, the rope sailed through the air toward the shore. Gently but efficiently, Chort was deposited on dry land, right at Sam’s feet.

The crowd erupted into cheers, and without hesitation, Chort threw his arms around Sam’s waist in a hug. Sam patted his back awkwardly until Chort stepped away to bask in the crowd’s celebration.

Empusa whooped so loudly from her place in the stands, that Sam looked up. But when he glimpsed his parents, disapproval was written across their faces. Perhaps they objected to him aiding another contender?

Ghar’s voice rose above the fading cheers. “Another victor—young Chort! ”

The crowd erupted again, even those demons who had been hungering for Chort’s death mere moments before. Ghar raised his arms to quiet them, and gradually, the noise faded into an expectant hush.

“And now,” he announced, “our final contender of the day, Prince Samael.”

Sam squared his shoulders. He could do it again—use the shadows to retrieve the coin with ease. But seconds ago, he had made the decision to step away from the trials, hoping his withdrawal might bring the games to an end.

He opened his mouth to speak, to make it final.

But before a word could leave his lips, Chort strode forward and shouted, “No!”

With bold confidence, he seized Sam’s hand and pressed a coin—identical to the one he had claimed for himself—into his palm.

“The prince has retrieved the coin,” Chort declared. “I secured his, as well as mine.”

Ghar’s mouth hung open in surprise.

Chort gazed up at Sam. “You have my gratitude, sir.”

Sam mumbled, “And mine,” then looked toward King Asmodeus, who was glowering from his high seat, silent and stone-faced.

“Well... this is highly irregular,” Ghar said, his brow furrowing in thought. After a brief pause, he continued, “But the rules state the contender must retrieve the coin—they don’t prohibit having a proxy do it for him.”

He motioned for the other victorious competitors to gather around him.

Once they had assembled in a line, Ghar turned to the crowd and declared, “Demons of the Underworld, behold the victors of the River of Hated Trial!” Several of the contenders waved, including Drath, whose body rippled with pleasure like a caterpillar.

“Our next and final trial to find the king’s champion will occur in five days. ”

Sam closed his eyes briefly, grateful that the end of this farce would be soon.

He opened them to look at the polluted river, the savage spectators, and the way his father swayed with fatigue in his seat .

He had come this far in his quest to save the Underworld—he might as well see it to its completion.