Empire of Flame and Thorns (Flame and Thorns #1)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A listair warned me to watch my back. And I have. In the two days since the first trial, I have carefully checked everything I eat and drink, even though Maximus is already dead, and I have made sure not to end up in a room alone with Alistair or his friends. And because of that, I’ve been able to heal without getting new injuries.

I did go and get the wound on my arm cleaned and stitched up, which helped it heal quicker. The torn tendon in my leg has also mended itself. And my ribs are almost healed as well.

Physically, I’m doing well.

Mentally, not so much.

I try to ignore the cold weight that presses against my heart as I sneak through the deserted halls of the Golden Palace. As in all other corridors as well, the faelights have been ripped out and replaced by torches. The flickering firelight dances over the pale walls, painting them with ominous shadows. I try to keep my mind on the task at hand, but I can’t entirely block out the uncomfortable feelings that have been twisting in my chest like thorny vines these past two days.

When I entered this competition, I thought… I don’t know. That I would breeze through the trials? Or something like that.

It sounds ridiculous now. But I just thought that because I wanted to win so badly, it would give me an edge against everyone else. But the more time I spend here, the more I realize that everyone desperately wants to win. And I don’t know if I’m skilled enough, and ruthless enough, to beat them.

As I turn another corner and sneak down the next corridor, my mind drifts back to the previous trial.

Bitterness crawls up my throat.

That trial was a brutal reminder that I can be eliminated at any time. I was lucky that I managed to make it through to the next trial. People like Isera and Alistair have magic that is much more versatile. Mine is so specific. So limited. And that’s not even taking into account my own stupidity.

I clench my fist and shake my head at myself as I disappear down another corridor.

During the trial, I didn’t even try to win. I just tried not to lose. I didn’t even think about ways of making other people go outside the ring. All I thought about was how to keep myself inside by trying to calm people down or create sympathy so that they wouldn’t attack me. It was a dangerous and stupid and frankly outright pitiful tactic.

If I wanted to, I could have reached out with my magic and increased everyone’s panic and worry. Because I know that most of them felt it. Most of them were worried that they would be pushed outside the ring and were panicking when they were being attacked. I could have latched on to that fear and panic and made them lose their cool entirely. It would have made lots of people blindly sprint away, causing them to end up outside the ring before they even knew what they were doing.

But I didn’t.

Because deep inside my stupid heart, I still want people to like me.

I resist the urge to bang my fist against the wall in frustration. This is an important competition, I know that. Important and rare . After this, there are one hundred and fifty years until we’re given another chance to compete in the Atonement Trials and win the privilege to leave the Seelie Court. I need to win this one. Right now. So that I can make a real difference for our resistance. So why do I still worry about something as trivial as whether or not people like me? It’s absurd.

Once more shaking my head at my own stupidity, I slip down the stairs and finally reach a section of the castle that I have never visited before.

The previous trial showed that I can be sent packing at any time, so I need to make the most of this opportunity in every way I can. If I can’t win the Atonement Trials, maybe I can at least overhear something important here among the dragon shifters that I can bring back to the leaders of the resistance.

Drawing myself up along the wall, I cast a quick glance around the corner.

Empty.

After slipping around the corner, I sneak down the hall on silent feet. The south wing is quite far from the royal wing, so I doubt that I’ll be able to make it all the way to the Icehearts’ rooms. But maybe I can manage to spy on some of the clan leaders.

My heart patters against my barely healed ribs as I approach the next corner.

Voices drift out from the corridor beyond.

A jolt shoots through me.

Pressing myself against the wall, I edge forward until I can flick a glance around the corner. I yank my head back, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

Two shifters are standing in the corridor beyond. Thankfully, they were facing each other when I glanced around the corner, so they can’t have seen me. I risk another quick look to determine who they are.

My gaze drifts over two sets of black leather uniforms before I pull back again. Black uniforms. That means that they’re from the Black Dragon Clan. Draven’s clan.

“Lower your voice,” one of them hisses.

“I just don’t know how much more of this I can take,” the other growls back in a voice that is certainly not lowered. “Did you see how he bowed and scraped before them back there?”

An angry breath echoes between the walls. “Yes. And trust me, I despise it as much as you do. Despise him as much as you do. But you need to keep your voice down. These walls might have ears.”

“I don’t care! It has been two hundred years. Two centuries of bowing before the Icehearts and watching Draven degrade our entire clan by behaving like their loyal lapdog. How could he sell us out to those fucking vultures?”

My heart lurches. Draven? They’re talking about Draven? Shock and disbelief pulse through me. I had heard the rumors, of course. But I hadn’t realized just how much his own people despise him.

“I said, lower your voice! You and Draven might have been friends back then, but he’s their creature now. If he hears you disrespecting him like this, he’ll have your fucking head.”

“Let him try. Fuck, I can’t believe that Azaroth chose him. How could he ever pick someone as corrupt and spineless as Draven fucking Ryat?”

I’m not an expert on dragon shifter culture, but I know that Azaroth is their god. And because only one person in each clan can possess their signature magic at any given time, which also makes that person the clan leader, they believe that Azaroth is the one who chooses which one of them to pass the magic to. Apparently, they’re not happy that Draven inherited their storm magic when their last leader died.

“You believed in him once too,” the calmer of the two replies. “Remember? You were his best friend.”

“Don’t remind me. If I had known what he would do, that he would willingly make us all subordinates of the Silver Clan just so that he could get the job as the Commander of the Dread Legion, I would have killed him before he even inherited his magic.” He heaves a deep sigh. “I thought… I really thought I knew him.” A bitter laugh rips from his throat. “But apparently, Azaroth isn’t the only one who was fooled by him.”

Resting the back of my head against the cold stone wall, I consider their words. The angry-sounding guy apparently used to be Draven’s best friend. And now, he hates him. All of his people hate him.

I wonder if that affects him. Bothers him in some way.

A scoff threatens to escape my throat, and I have to clamp my mouth shut to stop it.

Of course it doesn’t affect Draven. Someone who sold out his own people doesn’t have those kinds of emotions. If he gave up his whole clan in exchange for the position as the leader of the dragon army, the Dread Legion, then he clearly cares nothing for other people.

“Did you hear that?” the calm one suddenly snaps.

“No.”

“Someone is here.”

Alarm crackles through me.

Pushing off from the wall, I sprint back down the corridor in the direction that I came from.

And when the two dragon shifters round the corner, I’m already gone.