Total pages in book: 295
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
Figures.
“Yeah, it’s a real daydream around here,” Rhiannon responds sarcastically.
After Resson, I’m starting to realize that there’s a purpose to pushing us to the point of breaking. Better to shatter in here than get your friends killed once we leave.
“Here they come,” Nadine says, moving out of the way as the first candidates reach the top, their chests heaving from the climb.
“They look so young,” I tell Tairn, shifting my weight on the wall and wishing I’d been a little more careful wrapping my left knee this morning. Sweat has already loosened the brace, and the slipping fabric annoys the shit out of me.
“So did you,” he replies with a low growl. He’s been pissy for the past two days, and I can’t blame him. He’s torn between doing exactly what he wants— flying to Sgaeyl—and seeing me punished for his actions.
The first candidate’s gaze swings from Nadine’s purple hair to the crown of mine, showing all its silver in my usual coronet braid. “Name?” I ask.
“Jory Buell,” she says, struggling to catch her breath. She’s tall, with good boots and what looks to be a balanced pack, but her exertion is going to work against her on the parapet.
“Step up,” Dain orders. “Once you’re on the other side, you’ll give your name to the roll keeper.”
The girl nods as Rhiannon jots her name down in the first slot.
All of the advice Mira gave me last year races through my mind, but I’m not allowed to give it. This is a whole other kind of challenge, to stand by and do nothing while these candidates risk their lives trying to become…us.
For many of them, we’ll be the last faces they see.
“Good luck.” That’s all I’m allowed to say.
She starts across the parapet, and the next candidate steps up to take her place. Rhiannon takes down his name, and Dain waits until Jory is a third of the way across before letting the boy start.
I watch the first few candidates, my heart in my throat as I remember the terror and uncertainty of this day last year. When a candidate slips at the quarter mark and falls, the ravine below swallowing the last of his screams, I stop watching to see if they make it to the other side. My heart can’t take it.
Two hours in, I’m asking their names with zero intention of remembering them, but I take note of the especially aggressive ones, like the bull of a guy with a deeply cleft chin who charges across, tossing the scrawny red-haired candidate struggling at the midway point without hesitation.
A little piece of me dies watching the cruelty of it, and it’s a struggle to remember that every single candidate is here by their own choice. They’re all volunteers, unlike the other quadrants, which take conscripts who pass the entrance exam.
“Jack Barlowe Junior,” Rhiannon notes under her breath.
I don’t miss the way Dain flinches and looks my way.
Blowing out a slow breath, I turn toward the next in line, trying to forget how Barlowe put me into the infirmary last year. I shiver at the memory of the way he forced pure energy into me through his hands that day on the mat, rattling my bones.
“Nam—” I start, but the word dies on my tongue as I stare in shock at the candidate standing far above me. He’s taller than Dain but shorter than Xaden, with a muscular build and strong chin, and though his sandy-brown hair is shorter than the last time I saw him, I’d recognize those features, those eyes, anywhere. “Cam?”
What the hell is he doing here?
His green eyes flare with surprise, then blink with recognition. “Aaric… Graycastle.”
His middle name I recognize, but the last? “Did you just make that up?” I whisper at him. “Because it’s awful.”
“Aaric. Graycastle,” he repeats, his jaw flexing. He lifts his chin with the same arrogance I’ve seen in every single one of his brothers and especially his father. Even if I didn’t recognize him from the dozens of times our parents’ lives have tossed us into the same room, those startling green eyes mark him the same way my hair does me. He’s not going to fool anyone who’s ever met his father or any of his brothers.
I glance over at Dain, who openly stares at Cam—Aaric.
“You sure about this?” Dain asks, and the concern in his eyes gives me a glimpse of my Dain again, but it’s short-lived. That version of Dain, the one I could always depend on, died the day he stole my memories and set us on a collision course with venin. “You cross that parapet, and there’s no going back.”
Aaric nods.
“Aaric Graycastle,” I repeat to Rhiannon, who writes it down but clearly knows something is up.
“Does your father know?” Dain murmurs to Aaric.
“It’s none of his business,” he replies, stepping up to the parapet and rolling his shoulders. “I’m twenty.”