Page 30 of Hallowed Games

I dipped down under the warm water, wetting my hair.

The Order taught us that our salvation lay in our minds, our spirits. But they really didn’t seem to mind comfort, did they? In here, there was even a mirror that reflected the bright sunlight. I’d only looked in a proper mirror a few times, in the Baron’s home.

I rubbed the soap over my skin, inhaling the faint scent of rose. In the heat of the bathwater, the old scars on my wrists turned an angry red.

When I stepped from the bath, water dripped off my body. The veiled woman hurried over with a white linen cloth, eager to stop me from upsetting the Luminari again. As I dried myself off, she slipped away. Wrapped in the linen, I crossed over to the mirror. Polished silver, framed in gold—I’d never seen anything like it.

I stared back at my face.

Father always said I looked like my mother, but I could hardly remember her. I saw only my father—thick, dark eyebrows and eyelashes, a full mouth, sun-kissed olive skin, a beauty mark on my cheekbone. Vanity was a sin, but I thought it would be a shame for this face to burn in the flames of a witch-stake.

Behind me, the veiled woman approached. I stared into the mirror while she handed me clothes to dress myself. The black leather trousers surprised me—women in Merthyn almost always wore dresses. But here, I supposed we were to lose our old identities.

I slid into a sleeveless black shirt, the material soft against my skin. A black leather doublet fit tightly over it, almost like a corset. I ran my fingers over the material. This would do nicely as a little bit of armor during the trials, I mused.

The woman handed me long, black gloves, and I slipped my hands into them. No more using my cursed magic here at Ruefield.

Dressed head to toe in black, I stared at the image of an assassin.

But it seemed I wasn’t finished because the woman draped a black hooded cloak over me, then pulled up the cowl over my wet hair. Even if she didn’t speak, I understood the message: I was no longer Elowen, only a Penitent.

I stared back at my shadowed face.

I didn’t care if Maelor was the Raven Lord. If he harmed Leo in any way, I would end his life.

* * *

Draped in black, I followed the woman up a swooping stone stairwell to the entrance of a vast dining hall. As I stepped under the archway, my stomach plummeted at the numbers. In the hall, a legion of other Penitents sat at long tables that stretched from one end to the other. Light from stained glass windows flecked their anonymous black cowls with gold and crimson. My heart sank at the sight of them. Weeks from now, they’d all be dead.

As I stood in the doorway, they turned to stare at me, and the murmurs died down to silence. My gaze landed on the man I’d walked near in the cart—the man with a shaved, tattooed head.

Scowling at me, he mouthed, “Witch.”

My fingers curled into fists. So, I definitely had a target on my back. In fact, everyone was staring at me. I guess the rumors had spread fast—the stories about the witch who murdered a soldier and escaped on a stolen horse. I suppose they probably never expected me to come back alive.

My gaze flicked to the empty tables in arched alcoves that lined the hall. I desperately wanted to sit alone, except setting myself apart even further didn’t seem like a great idea.

While I searched for a place to sit among the others, my gaze locked on Lydia, a wisp of her platinum hair escaping from her hood. I narrowed my eyes at her, feeling the scars on my wrists tingle under my black gloves. She dropped her eyes, hiding in the shadows of her hood.

I recognized another familiar face, though. Without a word, I stalked into the hall and took the seat next to Percival de Montfort. If nothing else, he at least seemed normal.

“You know, I did hope you would make it out alive.” His cut-glass accent reminded me of the Baron for just a moment.

“The Ravens are hard to escape,” I muttered.

Across from me sat a pale, gaunt-looking man. His dry, flaxen hair hung in front of enormous eyes, and his cheekbones stood out sharply. On his fingers were tattooed the words HARP and BARD.

He smiled at me. “Hello,” he rasped. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“That’s really too bad.” In Merthyn, being the center of attention was never a good thing.

A veiled woman slid a plate before me, and I was shocked by how sumptuous it looked: roasted lamb with pumpkin and turnips, and the whole meal flavored with rosemary and thyme. The woman poured me a glass of wine. They really were looking after us here before they killed us. Probably, this was just another way to display their power.

The table had been set with bowls of bread and slices of cheese. I still had no appetite whatsoever, but I did take a piece of bread to gnaw on.

As I did, silence fell over the hall—one that sent chills running over my skin. I turned to watch Sion stride purposefully into the room, his sword slung around his waist. As he passed me, I felt his thrilling power ripple over my skin like the cold sea. His terrifying beauty was like a fist around my throat, choking me.

When he turned to face us, a cold smile flitted over his lips. His energy radiated from him. “Penitents.” He spoke quietly, smoothly, because he had our full attention without the need to shout. “I hope you are giving thanks to us for the delicious food we provide in our generosity. The Archon is merciful, and between trials, he wants you well-fed and well-rested. In his infinite mercy, he will choose one of you to survive these trials. The forgiven one will survive a deadly labyrinth tomorrow. Many will lose their way and die of starvation. Others will succumb to the hunger of the wolves. Only those guided by the Archon will make it out alive.”

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