Page 56 of The Gilded Survivor

Something new popped inside of me at the thought of death. “Do competitors… kill each other?”

Joaquín’s expression shifted. “Officially? They aren’t supposed to. But, there are always a few. Usually school rivals or thieves. Since you know few people, you have little to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about? There were young adults plotting the death of those they hated in preparatory school?

“About two days after the first whistle, you all should be at the base of either La Niña or La Doncella, depending on the starting position selected for you. They will throw a feast, where at least one person gets poisoned every year,”—he laughed, nostalgic almost—“and then you will wake up early the next day so you can climb your heart out and be the first to reach La Dama. She’s the tallest of the volcanoes, and the only one that is constantly active.”

All of them seemed to wince at the mention of the legendary landform.

“La Dama is a real bitch, I’ll tell you that. Hotter than the most miserable summer, and stupid steep. Climbing up that is the most challenging part of the whole damn tournament.” He twisted his mouth. “If poison and petty revenge deaths weren’t good enough for you, wait until you see someone unhook another persons anchor. Some break their legs, others are flattened like human hotcakes. Remember, in anything you do, there’s always the possibility of death.”

After a moment of thinking better of himself, Joaquín added, “Of course, it is imperative that the majority of competitors survive. Continuation of our class, and all that.” He waved his hand.

I nodded my head slowly, for the promise of opportunities would not stop blossoming before me. Death as a possibility, but… If I survived this, I would have a place of my own. Magda could live with me.

Fernando could live with us, too. And his mother. They could come under the guise of Trabajadores, but I would let them do as they pleased. Maestra Cecelia’s face popped into my mind. I could prove I had never tried to hurt her or the theater.

Most importantly, I wouldn’t have to kill anyone. The idiots would do a fine job of that without me, and I could focus on winning.

For a fleeting moment, the imminent danger seemed a reasonable price to pay for a future of opportunity and brilliance.

How messed up was I?

“That is very good news,” I said weakly.

Alvaro retook the floor, intently talking me through the strategies they were taking to control my narrative. “We will need to do a series of interviews during the training season. We want as many people as possible to know who you are, so that they might donate to your campaign as a competitor.”

My eyebrows furrowed just as Felipe Torres began speaking. What a lovely death machine Antonio had built for me.

“Yes. All competitors are allotted a certain amount of funds for the tournaments. It’s something written into the bylaws of the commonwealth. If you want better equipment, a better Key Bearer, and a better chance of winning, you need money.” Felipe flashed a too-white smile. “You’ll be pleased to know that you have already received generous donations from two wealthy families.”

I was stunned that someone had already donated to me. “But why?”

Señor Cabrera’s smile faltered. “Why? Because it is how things are done. Besides, it’s only loosely considered a donation. The families will make back whatever they have invested into you and more if you do well.” He paused for a second. “Excuse me, I meant to saywhenyou do well.” He winked, and I grimaced.

They were betting on me like a racehorse. Like those bastards Mateo and Giancarlo.

A bitter flavor coated my tongue and mixed with the salty feeling that came every time I cried.

This is good. This is normal for Élites. Which you are,I told myself over and over as the hours stretched on. I listened to the meticulously thought-out plans they had made, and the flowery, extravagant language they used to describe me and my talents.

I smiled, nodded, and tried to monitor how Ana perceived my actions. She was perpetually displeased.

After a few hours, my cheeks hurt from endless smiling. I listened to them talk about my audition tape, the tragedy of my parents, and the lack of refinement I must’ve suffered as a result.

They spoke about me as if I was not there.

So, after a while, I retreated into my mind. I replayed my favorite songs to dance to, and conversations with Magda. My little dreamer, who always believed in fairytales, mythical beasts, and love. I wondered how she was doing, with her lover and her uncomplicated life.

I thought about the man killed in the street for stealing, and effectively called forth a stomachache. I grasped for anything else.

Then my mind drifted to the Withering. It was a strange place to end up. I had been afraid of bleeding, but not because I feared sharing bodily fluids. Coughing or sneezing never fazed me like it did others.

Suddenly, Antonio Castillas stood up, and I became aware that the meeting had come to an end.

I smiled and shook each person’s hand. The advice they politely bestowed went in one ear, and out the other.

And then, I was standing alone in the room with only Antonio.

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