Page 29 of Carry Your Debt

The perfect pawn for whatever price the Red Court has in mind for determining the next leader of the South.

Either he comes out on top for the Gray Men—or he dies trying.

Again, a win-win scenario for Sebastian.

The ominous pronouncement seems to have been all the signal needed for a second figure to approach the stage, this one in a hooded white cloak. The Herald quickly takes up position by the massive base of the hourglass before beginning her own rehearsed speech.

“It is by request of the Northern Sovereign that the Red Court formally intervene in the matter of succession for the Southern Crown. It is thus the decree of the Red Court and her esteemed Grace, the Arbiter—that the issue of Southern succession now be settled by participation in and completion of”—a dramatic pause—“The Twelve Labors.”

The room immediately comes alive with a mixture of excited and intrepid conversation. The last time the Labors were initiated was in 1968—after both Sovereigns and their heirs were assassinated during the opening ceremony of that year’s Symposium. The attack had sparked an all-out war between the Northern and Southern factions at the time and was the reason the Law of Hospitality was invoked in the first place.

Twelve weeks of increasingly difficult tasks in an officially sanctionedHunger Gamesbetween vying factions.

Twelve weeks of every man for himself.

“To formally place a bid for the Crown, representing factions may nominate no more thanthreelegitimized heirs for participation in the Labors.”

Wait.

Heirs, plural?

A second Grayson heir.

“Shit.” I feel like my corset has crushed the last remaining air from my ribs.

“Don’t look,” Zeus warns, “he’s still watching.”

I swallow roughly. I couldn’t, even if I was feeling ballsy enough to risk it. I don’t know where Apollo ended up during the opening address, and aside from the little bubbles of space afforded to the most influential players standing closest to the platform, the rest of the throng is impossible to see through right now.

But this throws amajorfucking spanner in the works.

There’s no way we can risk waiting until we get back to Rox City to have our conversation with Tristan. Not if there’s even the slightest chance an allowance for multiple nominations might have Sebastian pushing up his timeline—and dropping that bombshelltonight.

“No limits have been placed on the number of auxiliary team members, however, alliances with both Northern and Neutral entitieswillbe strictly prohibited for the duration of the Labors,” the Herald continues, her loud voice cutting cleanly through the rising chatter of the crowd.

“Although inter-faction interference during the execution of a trialispermitted, participants may not wilfully conspire to cause direct harm to another. Harm befalling participants during the natural execution of a Labor—while unfortunate—willnotbe considered a punishable offense,” she further clarifies, and the excitement swells once again.

“Nominations are to be officially submitted within seven days. The Labors will begin following the release of the roster, and will continue until the last grain falls, or a single participant remains—whichever transpires first.”

The room sobers a little, faced with the real possibility a significant portion of the next generation will be heading home from the Labors in a cushy pine box.

“The encrypted details of each Labor will be relayed electronically, one trial at a time,” she continues. “Transmissions will be sent at 7pm, Pacific Standard Time, on the Sunday following the conclusion of each Labor.”

So potentially, this whole ordeal could be over in as little as three months.

Unless, of course, not every heir makes it through to the end and they don’t need to run all twelve trials.

Fuck.

Without staying to take questions from the increasingly agitated crowd, the Herald turns and disappears back past the curtain screen. The Arbiter, left standing vigil on the dais, raises a single hand and the murmurs of the crowd fall completely silent.

“Thank you, everyone. You may now move through to the next hall. The dinner service will begin shortly.” And then she too turns, retreating from the stage in a flourish of crimson robes.

Released from her hold, the atrium once again explodes with a mixture of heated opinions and excited conversations. When the lights brighten again, I warily scan the nearby crowd, but the noise is quickly becoming deafening and does absolutely nothing to help my burgeoning headache.

No doubt the Fates are already doing the rounds, drafting up a list of projected nominees, and handing out their death pool odds. There’s only one thing more universally loved throughoutthe Underworld than mutual bloodshed—and that’s betting on it.

And right now there’s at least one crime scion in the room who has no idea his hat’s about to be thrown into the ring.

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