Kaleb
The night sky melts into shades of orange and red as the first pyres are lit. Small crowds gather to throw flowers, coins, and other personal tokens into the crackling flames and smoke, which paint the sky a deep, rolling black, swallowing the stars.
I stand in the shadow of the space between two buildings, my arms crossed, my skin already prickling with the heat fanning off the funeral fires. The flames will burn all night. It’ll take a massive amount of energy to burn through four-hundred bodies, but by morning, only ashes and flickering embers will remain, and the souls of those we lost to the fae and their twisted games will have been released into the world that waits for all mortals.
I’m not sure I’m going there, to be honest. I’ll meet every fae king, their lords, and their warriors who allow this to happen at the gates of hell, and that’s a promise.
A smooth, graceful shadow melds with mine as robes carrying the perfumed scent of roses and camphor swish to a stop beside me.
Silas sighs heavily, the deep blue hood of his cloak obstructing half of his face. A sharp nose and perfectly chiseled, almost feminine features give away his nature. He’s fae. Fully fae.
He’s also my brother.
A half-brother, at least, older than me by fifty years or so, but he looks to be only about twenty-five, which is when these bastards stop aging at a normal, mortal rate. He’s young for a fairy, all things considered, yet holds a prime position within the king’s court. Our mother was to thank for that.
“My men have just delivered a funeral feast to the pack house, courtesy of his Highness,” Silas drawls as he adjusts the flaps of his cloak, his pale, white fingers catching the firelight. “I doubled it. It should be enough food to last a week or so for the whole pack, and there’s more on the way.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did. You’re all starving.”
“Well, that’s what your king wants, isn’t it? Keep us weak and hungry? We’re more amiable that way.”
Silas rolls his lower lip between his teeth as he gazes at the pyres, at the people now kneeling or standing just in front of the flames. “I tried to stop the king from pulling so many from the Glade, and you know that.”
I flex then relax my shoulders, rolling my neck to try to ease the tension there that won’t ever go away. “What do you want me to say, Silas? Do you want me to thank you? Look at these people–these women–and tell me how I should feel about four-hundred fathers, brothers, and sons being ripped from their homes to fight to the death.”
Silas stands in silence for several long, aching moments before replying, “I will make this right. You know the plans in place.”
I turn into the darkness, walking several paces between the buildings. “It’s too late for that. The games have already begun. There’s no stopping them now. No one can stop them, even your precious resistance.”
Silas hurries after me, bowing his head to keep his face hidden from the shifters weaving through the streets toward the pyres along the far wall. Not that he needs to. It’s not uncommon for fae lords or guards to be seen in the Glade. It’s also common knowledge that Silas and I shared a mother. Halfings aren’t uncommon at all.
Silas eyes another halfling as the large, lumbering man steps between us on his way to the pyres.
“Another one of our brothers?” I joke, and Silas throws me a cutting glare.
“That’s not funny.”
“I find it funny,” I remark with a soft growl as I close in on the tangle of four-story shanties where my home rests, “that most halflings from the Glade weren’t chosen for the Culling to begin with. It’s what we are bred for. They all came from the fae cities.”
“The king made the call, not me.”
“Obviously,” I reply, turning to face him. “What do you want, Silas? Did you only come to tell me you’ve delivered food to my starving people? Are you here to pay your respects or to rub this in my face?”
Silas eyes me cooly before replying, “I thought your victor would like to know that her friend, Chessie, is safe and settling in.”
The thought of Lexa–which I’ve spent the entire day trying to scrub from my mind–ignites the questions that took root during her sparring session this morning and the uneasy feeling I’ve carried all day.
“I’d like to see Lexa myself,” Silas adds, trying to step around me to access my front door. I stop him with a hand on his chest.
“No, I’ll tell her anything you’d like to convey.”
“Do you not trust me anymore?”
“Seeing as we’re sponsors of competing victors,” I begin, dropping my hand to my side, “I can’t allow you to speak with her. I can’t risk you trying to sway the outcome.”
Silas searches my eyes. “The outcome has already been decided.”
“Then all you’re doing by relaying the fact you’re not starving, torturing, or assaulting her friend is leading her to believe they all have a chance of getting out of this alive. They’re lambs being fattened for slaughter, and you know that.”
He steps into me. “The outcome of your Trial was also decided weeks before your round of the Culling, Kaleb. Now, tell me again that your victor doesn’t have a chance of repeating history?”
“And yours?”
Silas leans away, his face shadowed by a flash of grief, of the cold, hard truth. “You believed that Lexa has a special connection to Chessie which is why you asked that I sponsor her and keep her close, and I believe you’re correct. They’re friends. They’re deeply bonded. If you can keep Lexa alive, I can keep Chessie alive for as long as possible. I’ll find a way to ensure they’re placed in the same rounds of the upcoming games together. We can draw out the games that way and give my people more time to act. You already agreed to this plan during the Culling. You agreed.”
I should ask him if Chessie has given him any idea where she’s from, but I refrain.
After a beat of silence, he says, “Chessie wants Lexa to know that she’s okay, and she’s comfortable and entertained. She has all the books she could ever want, and she finds the maids and servants in my house friendly and warm. She also told me she enjoys my company, as well, and she wanted Lexa to know that. She’s worried Lexa is going… what did she say? Nuts with worry. I assume that’s a bad thing.”
“Don’t get attached, Silas.”
He smirks–an expression I see in the mirror often enough. It’s the only thing between us that’s even close to familial. “I’ll start having my men move the food into the storeroom at the pack house.”
“I’ll make sure you’re not fucking us over on the supplies.”
“I’ll see you soon, then.” He leaves without another word, blending into the shadows. Colin’s three younger sisters step out of one of the houses lining the courtyard and quickly dip out of sight when they see me, their bodies angled toward the street as they move toward the pyres to say their respects and cast their prayers in Colin’s stead, seeing as he’s hunting tonight with Avery and a few other men.
I turn toward my house and exhale deeply before moving into the darkness and closing the door behind me.
It’s quiet in the house. Lis and Chastan are down at the pyres with the rest of the pack. Lexa, however, is not.
I climb the stairs to the second floor and turn into the snug hallway housing her room. I don’t knock. The door isn’t locked. It’s my house, after all.
Lexa rises from bed and curls her hands into fists, prepared to defend herself as I step into the room and close the door behind me by leaning against it. Fabric is scattered all over the room, and the beginnings of what I believe is a dress of some kind rests on the quilt covering her bedspread.
I haven’t spoken to her since this morning after I practically dragged her by her hair around the sparring ring. All of my men will have new scars and chipped teeth thanks to her, but I can’t readily admit it’s a bad thing. She’s stronger than any man I’ve ever trained. She’s quick on her feet and oblivious to pain.
But it’s clear she didn’t know what it felt like to be bested, to be beaten, until today.
I catch the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes when I cross my arms over my chest and level her with a patronizing look.
“Get out,” she sneers.
“Gladly. But I come bearing news of your friend Chessie. I thought you might like to know that I spoke to her sponsor.”
She immediately drops her fists to her side, her deep, dark blue eyes widening. Yeah, Silas was correct when he mentioned these two women are deeply bonded. Not sisters, though. They look nothing alike.
“And?”
“She’s safe and well looked after.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“She mentioned how you were probably going nuts with worry?”
She blinks then looks down to hide the smallest, most relieved smile touching her lips. I feel a jolt of… maybe guilt, when she looks back into my eyes. She’s beautiful; I’ll give her that. Hot-headed and overconfident, however, which are two traits I tend to beat out of any warrior who wants to train with my men. Overconfidence kills. Brash, rushed decisions are a death sentence. She’s going to need to learn that if she has any shot of keeping her head attached to her neck.
“Where is she exactly?”
“She’s been sponsored by a fae nobleman named Silas. I know him well. He treats her fairly. More than that, I believe, knowing him.”
She searches my face, but I keep my expression and feelings on the matter skillfully guarded. But there is something I need to discuss with her that’s been weighing heavily on my mind all day–something I need to clear up before I end up in a duel with her father.
“You mentioned your bride price. Paying it was never my intention. Who is your father, and what pack does he hail from? I can get a message beyond the wall to clear this up–”
“Well, hopefully your messenger has a fucking boat,” she says with so much vitriol I can taste it.
I arch a brow, scanning her face for inconsistencies.
“I already told you where I’m from and who my father is. I wasn’t lying. I wouldn’t make shit up unless it helped me get out of this fucked up situation.”
“You can’t be from Endova because Endova doesn’t exist anymore. It’s folklore.”
“Well, so are the missing tribes of the Deadlands,” she says pointedly. “There used to be dozens, according to the stories of my people in Endova. So is this where they went? Or have I been thrust through time and living in the days of hell and famine in the aftermath of the fall of the Firestone queens?”
“Then Eastonia still exists?”
“Of course it does,” she says quietly, but her eyes turn dark with sudden rage. “And I hope… I pray they don’t come for me because they’ll be wasting their time.”
I hold her gaze, noticing the flecks of silver around her irises–the strange way they shift and deepen, like blinking stars.
“Why would they be wasting their time?”
“There will be nothing left of this place when I’m done.”
“Many men have said the same.” I smooth my hands down my thighs. “If you’re done licking your wounds, I need help in the pack house.”
“I have no interest–”
“If you want to eat, you will pull your weight,” I cut in.
She stiffens but looks away from me, her gaze settling on the door at my back. “Training begins tomorrow–just you and I.”
“Training for what? Another massacre like the Culling?”
“No,” I breathe, knots tangling in my chest as I look at her–really look at her. She’s so young. Somewhere in her early twenties. So confident. So impressionable. Beautiful and fierce, though. The kind of woman I might have allowed myself to pursue if I felt I had any kind of future to give to a family.
But not here. Never here.
“The first Trial is a week from now. The Beast Trial.”
“Beasts?”
I nod. “You’ll be allowed to shift during this Trial. I confirmed it.”
“What do you mean by beast?”
“Think of the worst possible thing you could see in your nightmares,” I tell her, turning toward the door, “and double it. Triple it. Come on, we have people to feed.”