An Ember in the Ashes (Ember Quartet #1)(97)

“Sir.” The door pounds open, and Sana tumbles in. She looks as if she hasn’t slept in days, and she doesn’t share the smug smiles of the two men behind her. When she sees me, she does a double take. “Laia—your face.” Her eyes drop to my scar. “What happened—”

“Sana,” Mazen barks. “Report.”

Sana snaps her attention to the Resistance leader. “It’s time,” she says. “If we’re going to do it, then we need to leave. Now.”

Time for what? I look at Mazen, thinking he’ll tell them to wait a moment, that he’ll finish with me. But instead he limps to the door as if I’ve ceased to exist.

Sana and Keenan exchange a glance, and Sana shakes her head, as if in warning. Keenan ignores her. “Mazen,” he says. “What about Laia?”

Mazen stops to consider me, the annoyance on his face ill-concealed. “You need more time,” he says. “You have it. Get me something by midnight, day after tomorrow. Then we’ll get your brother out, and this whole thing will be over.”

He walks out, engaged in low conversation with his men, snapping at Sana to follow. The older woman gives Keenan an unreadable look before hurrying out.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “A minute ago, he said we were done.”

“Something’s not right.” Keenan stares hard at the door. “And I need to find out what it is.”

“Will he keep his promise, Keenan? To free Darin?”

“Sana’s faction’s been pushing him. They think he should have broken Darin out already. They won’t let him back away from this. But . . . ” He shakes his head. “I have to go. Be safe, Laia.”

Outside, the fog is so heavy that I have to put my hands in front of me to keep from running into anything. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but the sky grows darker by the second. A thick bank of clouds roils above Serra as if gathering strength for an assault.

As I head back to Blackcliff, I try to make sense of what just happened. I want to believe that I can trust Mazen, that he’ll hold to his end of the bargain. But something is off. I’ve struggled for days to eke out extra time from him. It makes no sense for him to suddenly give it away so easily.

And something else sets my nerves on edge. It’s how quickly Mazen forgot about me when Sana showed up. And it’s how, when he promised to save my brother, he didn’t quite look me in the eyes.





XXXVIII: Elias


On the morning of the Trial of Strength, a bone-shaking rumble of thunder jerks me from sleep, and I lay in the darkness of my quarters for a long time, listening to the rain drub the barracks roof. Someone slips a parchment marked with the Augurs’ diamond seal beneath my door. I rip it open.

Fatigues only. Battle armor is forbidden. Remain in your room. I will come for you.

—Cain

A quiet scratching comes at the door as I crumple the note. A terrified-looking slave-boy stands outside, offering a tray of lumpy gruel and hard flatbread. I force myself to shovel down every bite. As disgusting as it is, I need all the fuel I can get if I’m going to win in combat.

I strap on my weapons: both Teluman scims across my back, a brace of daggers across my chest, and one knife tucked into each boot. Then I wait.

The hours inch by, slower than a graveyard shift on the watchtowers. Outside, the wind rages, sending branches and leaves tumbling past my window. I wonder if Helene is in her room. Has Cain come for her already?

Finally, in the late afternoon, a knock comes at my door. I’m so charged I want to rip down the walls with my bare hands.

“Aspirant Veturius,” Cain says when I open the door. “It is time.”

Outside, the cold takes my breath away, cutting through my thin clothes like an icy scythe. It feels as if I’m wearing nothing at all. Serra is never this cold in the summer. It’s hardly ever this cold in the winter. I look sideways at Cain. The weather must be his doing—his and his ilk. The thought darkens my mood. Is there anything they can’t do?

“Yes, Elias,” Cain answers my question. “We cannot die.”

The hilts of my scims knock against my neck, cold as ice, and despite the all-weather boots, my feet are numb. I follow Cain closely, unable to make heads or tails of our direction until the high, arched walls of the amphitheater rise up in front of us.

We duck into the amphitheater’s armory, which is packed with men in red leather practice armor.

I wipe the rain from my eyes and stare in disbelief. “Red Platoon?” Dex and Faris are there, along with the other twenty-seven men in my battle platoon, including Cyril, a barrel-shaped boy who hates taking orders but accepts mine readily, and Darien, who has fists like hammers. I should find comfort in knowing these men will back me up in the Trial, but instead, I’m jumpy. What does Cain have planned for us?

Cyril holds out my practice armor.

“All present and accounted for, Commander,” Dex says. He looks straight ahead, but his voice betrays his nerves. As I buckle on the armor, I take in the mood of the platoon. Tension radiates off them, but that’s understandable. They know the details of the first two Trials. They must be wondering what Augur-conjured horror they’ll have to face.

“In a few moments,” Cain says, “you will exit this armory and find yourself on the amphitheater field. There, you will engage in a battle to the death. Battle armor is forbidden and has already been taken from you. Your goal is simple: You are to kill as many of the enemy as you can. The battle will end when you, Aspirant Veturius, defeat—or are defeated by—the leader of the enemy. I warn you now, if you show mercy, if you hesitate to kill, there will be consequences.”