Page 112 of Wings of Ash & Flame
Solflara coasted on a careful breeze, her movements deliberate and steady. Hadrian swept overhead in protective arcs. Every heartbeat felt like another thread slipping from the tether holding Kaia to life.
Kaia’s skin was clammy against Alaire’s arm. “We’re almost there. You wouldn’t believe what happened to us…” She kept talking, spilling every detail of their journey. Even if Kaia couldn’t answer, she would know she wasn’t alone.
Hadrian dipped lower, his silhouette casting long shadows over the silver willow ahead. The Consortium’s sigil glowed faintly on its massive trunk, the final flag humming with magic sharp enough to set Alaire’s teeth on edge.
None of it mattered anymore. Not the finish line, not the promise of glory.
All that mattered was Kaia.
Alaire held her breath as they touched down on the grassy knoll. Carefully, she laid Kaia within Solflara’s flames, then slid down, scanning the silent clearing.
“Where is everyone?” she murmured.
“Something about that crest is radiating strong magic,” Solflara answered.
Alaire approached, brushing her fingers over the sigil. The ground rumbled beneath her boots. Silver leaves shivered loose, catching in her hair. A blinding arch of light spilled from the Consortium’s mark as the willow’s bark swung inward.
She raised her arm against the glare. “Here we go.” She glanced back to confirm Kaia was safe in Solflara’s embrace.
Solflara held her gaze and gave a firm nod.
A tugging sensation hooked Alaire’s stomach, yanking her forward.
When reality snapped back into focus, her ears rang and the ground still swayed beneath her feet. Alaire stumbled, but Solflara’s beak caught the back of the thin shirt that now skimmed her belly button.
“What was that?”
“A portal,” Solflara clarified.
Once again, she stood in the sand of the Aeriel Coliseum—but this time, no novices were waiting to take their turn. In the stands sat her peers, all looking just as disheveled as she was. The administration and Professor Ross shot to their feet at the sight of Kaia’s limp body draped across Solflara’s back.
They had made it. They’d survived the trial. Barely.
Alaire stepped away from Solflara. “We need a soulwarden now!” she bellowed.
“What happened?” Professor Ross rushed across the coliseum.
“On my way toward the finish line, we spotted Kaia on the ground, bleeding. She was attacked.”
Professor Ross’s gaze swept over her. “That’s a heavy accusation.”
“It’s not one I make lightly. She has several abrasions on her neck and a raw wound along her ribs.” She rubbed the semicircle of skin between her index and middle fingers. “We used the pin. I waited and waited, but no one came. Thought you should know.” Alaire eyed him suspiciously. He’d warned her that her life was in danger if she didn’t win. Had he orchestrated this? Or had Kaia simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time?
“She’s lucky you got to her when you did.”
Fury curdled in Alaire’s gut. If Professor Ross had been honest from the beginning, maybe this all could’ve been prevented. Her helplessness at Kaia’s condition, everything out of her control, thrashed inside her, begging to break free. But exploding now wouldn’t help Kaia.
She swallowed the rage, forcing a mask of calm.
Turning her back on him, she focused on the pair of soulwardens in their flowing green garments trimmed with silver thread.
Solflara dimmed her flames, allowing them to use their magic to float Kaia onto a stretcher. Hadrian followed closely as they carried her from the coliseum. She knew the soulwardens would need time to work.
Alaire didn’t linger to see who came in first for the Nocturne Crucible. She didn’t care. Her leathers, caked with blood and dirt, creaked with every step. Her hair was tangled, her stomach hollow. Her body needed to move.
If she stopped, even for a moment, everything would come crashing down.
Hours later, Alaire shielded her eyes against the stark shades of white covering every inch of the infirmary. It was impersonal, rigid, and stiff. Beds lined the rows, those occupied separated by curtains for privacy. Each makeshift cubicle bore a name card.
