Page 14 of War Hour

Once the corridor is basked in enough light to see the rough walls I’ve been holding tight to, I stop, sucking in a deep breath to steady myself.

In crudely drawn letters, thousands of names coat the stone walls.

Names of people who had, like me, gone to Trial. I try not to dwell on how many made it to the end. Maybe they were living lives of luxury in the upper city, but I doubt it. The space in front of me contains more names than could fit in Falland.

I can’t help but search the wall for hers--Cenna.

Walking along the slab, I read each name, flickering back a second time at every Cirin or Candyn. It’s hard to believe she would indulge herself in the tradition, never having been one for sentimentality.

I squash the thought as I glimpse the five letters before me.

Hand trembling, I brush over the name with my fingers before bringing them to my mouth.

A sob breaks from my throat, emotions I’ve suppressed for ages reemerging with force. Even if I’d seen her enter the hall, even if I’d known she planned on Trialing, it’s another thing seeing her name carved here as proof.

Leaning down, I pick up a rock from the tunnel floor. Rolling it in my hand, I find the marred white side. I drag the stone against the bumpy surface, spelling out my name, fingers still shaking.

Lysta. Right next to my sister’s.

The anger swells in me, held at bay by the grief accompanying it.

For all I know, she is dead.

I stare at the wall before letting the rock fall from my hand. Continuing to the end of the tunnel, I’m unable to tell whether the shiver slithering down my spine is from the slight chill in the cave-like path or the implications of having written my name among so many others.

As I standat the entrance of a deep pit, my eyes are drawn upward to an unimpeded view of the sky. No longer in a building or simply underground, the cave’s ceiling is gone, leaving a crater-shaped hole to the outside. The early morning sky fills the space, and the first sun rays crest over the edge of the pit’s opening.

A low growl rips my attention from the calming sky. Perched at the bottom of the pit is a massive black figure, camouflaged in shadows. Bright gold eyes pierce me, and as I step back, the creature stands. On all fours, it resembles a panther. Sleek midnight fur with a purple sheen where the light hits it—almost iridescent.

As it rises, wings unfurl across its shoulder blades. I can’t stifle my gasp. They sweep open with a staggering span. Pushing off the ground, the beast launches upward, headed straight up before a golden chain latched around its neck yanks it back down.

Falland is remote from so much of the world, with its walls keeping us in and others out. Only rumors and folk legends made their way through the city, but this animal is one I remember hearing of.

Back when I joined a ragtag group of kids, where I first met Thoman, we had stayed up at night, sitting around a pitiful excuse of a fire and telling stories. Sometimes, blips of what weheard on the street that day, more than likely made up nonsense, never knowing which was which.

The beast in front of me is obviously no fable.

Kadaras were winged beasts, whose deadly, sharp talons and teeth could shred flesh into ribbons. Their fur is coated in a secreted substance, giving them their purple tinge. Any skin contact with it causes visions or hallucinations. The old tales never clarified that part, just that you would do anything to escape touching it.

I’m struck with a horrible realization. The people who have failed the Trial but made it out alive—we always said it was as if they were stuck in a nightmare. Is this how? Did they touch the Kadara and go insane?

People hoping to escape their past—and the fears the animal represents—worshipped these beasts as blessed creatures and wore medallions with the Kadaras engraved upon them.

Standing twenty feet from the majestic beast, I could understand why some thought them blessed. It’s every bit as beautiful as it is terrifying.

Drawing my eyes away from the animal, I see a stone slab just inside the pit’s entrance. With jagged edges, its surface is covered in a range of weapons. Swords and daggers, whips, and bows and arrows. Items so highly desired on the streets of Falland, the entire table is worth at least a year of food.

A gold plate adorns the center of the table, writing etched across its face.

Kill the fear to free the innocent.

Startled, I grip the slab, leaning my weight on my arms as I look up at the animal. As if I’m suddenly a threat, it hisses, curling its lip up over sharp teeth.

Kadara’s are called fear incarnate.

My stomach drops, and I push away from the table, shaking my head. By killing the fear, did it mean for me to kill the Kadara? Can that really be what the Trial requires?

If the riddle was referring to the one Trialing as innocent, it was rather ironic it was being used as a punishment for deemed criminals.

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