Page 17 of War Hour

Getting up from where I sat, perched between the creature’s shoulder blades, the ghost of fear drips off my back with a sag of relief when my skin leaves its fur.

I turn and stand. The creature’s gold eyes look back. Dragging the back of my hand across my cheeks, I wipe away the tears coating my skin. The Kadara watches before extending its wings. It lifts off gracefully, no longer bound by the chain. Soaring upward past the rim of the pit and up into the sky. Free.

I wave vacantly in its direction, sagging with a deep exhale, before muttering, “Yeah, good talk.”

A burning sensation erupts on my arm, like fire is licking its way across the skin. I stumble to the ground in pain, my eyes blinking in what feels like slow motion.

The last thing I see before losing consciousness is the large-winged animal getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

Chapter 8

When the numbing effect of sleep dissipates, a stronger ache echoes through my body. Even when I still my movement, the pain radiates in my bones and muscles. It’s a struggle not to listen to the part of me begging to keep my eyes closed. To just let myself succumb to the dreamless abyss and stay here where it’s safe.

I can remember echoes of waking in the Trialing tunnel and stumbling my way back out, using the wall as a crutch. Delirious in pain as the skin where the Kadara had bitten me burned and itched like a new type of torture. The last thing I recall is slipping through the Trial door and falling into a pair of arms.

A groan bursts from my mouth as soreness ripples through me when I sit up. Pain lingers as if bruises cover every inch of my body. Bones shift and crack as I toss my feet over the side of the bed.

I push up on my arm, guarding the area where the Kadara had sunk its teeth. I have to will myself to look at it—expecting achunk of flesh to be missing, but there are only two semicircles of red divots imprinted from the creature’s teeth.

Brushing my fingers across the open skin, I knit my brows.Considering how raw and fresh the injury looked, I’d expect a great deal of pain from touching the wound, but there is none.

Catching a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of dark ink marking my opposite arm, I switch arms. I’ve seen glimpses of these exact ones my whole life, present on every member of the Guard in Falland.

Trial tattoos from the Court of Valor, signaling my completion of the rite.

No longer an Untrialed, I’m the opposite of everything I thought I was. Now I’m just another Trialed for Drytas to use as he deems fit.

Scoffing, I shake my head in frustration, looking up at the ceiling as if it is to blame for the injustice.

If the tattoo is any sign, I passed the Trial despite releasing the Kadara, meaning it must have been a valid solution. My mind wanders, disgusted at myself for immediately thinking of how simple things would be now—if I let them, that is.

I wouldn’t ever have to go hungry again, but it would mean submitting to Lord Drytas. Something that contradicts every struggle I’ve experienced but very well may be powerless against.

My spine snaps to attention as the word crosses my mind. Powerless. No, I’m powerless no longer. I’m the very opposite.

I have a power of my own. One that I had earned.

Raising my hands, I examine them as if they are painted with what my new power would be.

While I doubt Drytas or Belthan would have set the Kadara free, I still imagine their powers in my mind and reach out as if I could summon the pillow across the room.

It doesn’t move an inch.

A bitter smile curls my lips at the ounce of disappointment that rolls off my chest. Less from not being able to move objects but from hoping maybe Lord Drytas secretly was a good lord who freed the innocent creature.

It’s a minuscule part of me. The only optimism I can muster, even if temporarily.

I’m not sure if two people could even free the Kadara. How did the Trials even work? Had I truly freed the tortured animal, or would it all reset as if I’d never been there?

A ball forms in my throat. If it all resets, the Kadara would be right back there to fight every other Untrialed Drytas deigned to throw at it.

By clearing their throat, someone interrupts me, not having even heard the door open. Turning on my heel, I stumble backward in surprise. Belthan stands mere feet behind me.

Realization strikes me. He didn’tusethe door.

I don’t let him see the horror threatening to cross my face at the implications of what he could do with his power. But there must be limits to what he could do, where he could go—right?

Arms crossed, Belthan smirks at me. “No one truly thought you’d survive, but here you stand.”

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