In the Wake of the Wicked (Veridian Empire #1)

45. Rose

45

Rose

T he great hall was eerily silent as Nox and I made our way through the doors. Nobody spoke a word, not even the lords and ladies who’d joked and conversed during the first debriefing like it was some sort of party.

Instead of refreshment tables full of food and drink, chairs were lined up facing the raised platform on the south end. Challengers, guards, palace staff, and guests alike took their seats, all dressed in the Emberfell colors of light blue. On the platform rested a glass box, and even from across the hall I knew what it held.

Callista’s body.

She had never woken from the challenge. When the healers tried to give her the potion that was supposed to wake you after all the other challengers had passed the trial, nothing had happened. She’d already been dead.

They didn’t know exactly how long ago her heart had stopped. The head healer estimated only a couple of hours.

The architects spent the rest of the day yesterday consoling Callista’s family and planning her memorial ceremony paired with the second trial’s rankings. The five remaining challengers were ordered not to leave palace grounds until after the news had been spread. I passed the time with Morgana and Beau, trying not to think about how easily it could have been me.

Nox and I sat together toward the back of the hall, watching as a few remaining guests filed in. While the space appeared light and cheery with all of the pale blue rushing like a summer’s wave, the mood was anything but. The only sounds that echoed off the stone walls were that of the scribes, once again stationed at the front with their pencils scratching against paper, and awkward shuffles and coughs from those in attendance.

Once the hall was full, Lark stood and walked to the podium. Her dark hair was wrapped around her head, with pearls dotting the braid. She wore a light blue pantsuit that hugged her thick curves. Her tone was somber, showing genuine regret for losing a challenger on her watch.

“We are here today to remember the life of Callista Greyhound. A Lightbender from Emberfell, but more importantly, a Veridian. One of our own, who so bravely represented her people and fought for the chance to bring glory back to them. She was an example to us all, a light in a time of competition who didn’t let the prospect of danger dim her spirit.”

She went on to talk of Callista’s skill during the first trial and other accomplishments of her time back in Emberfell. As she spoke, three women at the front cried in silence, their shoulders hunched over and a handkerchief passing between them. Her family, if I had to guess. The ones who had come with her. I wondered how many people she left behind in her home province. People she would never see again.

This tournament had delivered blow after blow, but this one…this one felt different. More permanent. More threatening.

When Lark stepped down, the three women took her place. Looking at their faces, I could definitely tell they were related to Callista. The oldest one had the same dimples on her tawny cheeks, evident even as her features were crumpled with grief. The other two were younger, similar in age to Callista—sisters, perhaps. All three of them spoke a few words, telling stories of love from Callista’s youth. Sniffles rang out in the hall from guests of the city as they spoke.

I, however, felt only frustration. That they would use this time in honor of her memory as a spectacle for the tournament. Did these guests, these outsiders, think of us as real people? Or were we simply entertainment for them, beings to cheer for or against in this power play of the empire? Even this memorial served a double purpose. Heightened drama for the following rankings. Higher stakes for the remaining challengers. This entire evening would be on display for others to read by morning.

Callista didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve for her sacrifice to be turned into a performance.

Gayl wasn’t even in attendance. I’d searched for him when we first entered, but he was nowhere to be found. Indignation burned within me. He couldn’t be bothered to show honor to a citizen who died under his very roof.

The memorial portion of the service ended, and Lark took her place behind the podium again.

“Now, we will reveal the rankings for the second trial and overall standings for the entire tournament.”

There was no fanfare this time, no flourishing speech about the trials or summary of each challengers’ courageous acts. Lark simply raised her hand and conjured her shadows, speaking each name in a carefully controlled tone.

“The first challenger to pass the second trial was Nox Duma of Drakorum.” His name appeared in black wisps like ink, but there was no applause. The hall stayed silent, still wrapped in the heaviness of the evening. “Next was Rose Wolff of Feywood.”

I felt nothing at the sound of my name. No spark of pride or excitement. I just wanted it to be over.

In quick succession, shadows formed Callum’s name, then Arowyn’s, and finally, Alaric’s. There was a poignant pause when Callista’s name should have appeared last.

“After the completion of both trials, the rankings have been combined and averaged as follows.” Slowly, the names written in shadow rearranged themselves, forming a new list.

Arowyn was still in first, her lead after the first trial enough to give her an edge even when coming in fourth this time. Callum was next. And then Nox, Alaric, and I all tied for third.

Whispers of interest swept the hall. Three of us in the same position.

I glanced at Nox, who gave me a grim smile. There was no such thing as a tie in the Decemvirate. The third and final trial always broke them, and it usually wasn’t a pleasant break.

It was a good thing we still had over two weeks to prepare. Two weeks for me to put the tournament out of my mind and focus on my other purpose: getting close to Gayl. I wasn’t sure which I was more frightened of.

As we stood to exit, voices picked back up, the solemnity of the memorial cracking. I turned toward the entrance doors and stopped.

Swishing at the floor was a familiar long, emerald cloak, the end of it barely visible as the figure strode out of the hall, his dark, shoulder-length hair fluttering when he disappeared from sight.