Page 8 of War Hour

I wonder if he has just as much choice in this as the rest of us.

My heart stops when I catch sight of Thoman. My eyes almost pass over him, hidden just out of sight—part of me wishes I had. I should have known he’d discover what happened beforeI even made it to the grand hall. Or maybe he’d drawn suspicious when I’d taken too long to return.

His lips are drawn into a deep frown, eyebrows knitted, as he watches me walk with wrists bound toward my fate. Thoman’s hands clench into fists at his sides, and when I think he is about to move forward—planning to do something he shouldn’t—I shake my head.

He doesn’t heed my warning, stepping out from the opening of the alley and moving toward us.

The only good thing that came out of losing Cenna was that, if I hadn’t, I’d never have met Thoman.

Angry and spiteful from being left behind, I’d talked myself into more fights than I could finish. Just a scrappy kid who couldn’t throw a punch to save her life.

Thoman saw past my biting words when I’d tried to pick a fight with him. He was a few years older and twice as large. I’d been practically asking to get pounded. Instead, he taught me how to land a killer right hook.

Letting him follow me to what could be my death would not be how I repay him now.

I have to stop him. If he gets to me... I know Thoman better than anyone else, and he would interfere with the guards. And then he’d end up Trialing right alongside of me.

Lurching forward, I slam my shoulder into the shifter’s side as if trying to take him out and make a run for it. The guards are on me before I can step away, yanking me into their grip.

Ardis looks at me with narrowed eyes. “That was a pitiful excuse for an escape attempt.” He wrinkles his nose at me. “I’m actually disappointed.”

Twisting my mouth, I glare back at him.

Dragging me past Ardis, the guards mumble to each other.

Even if I know better, I can’t help but sneak a last glance over my shoulder, finding Thoman shrinking in the distance. He curses, kicking the nearby wall.

My eyes cross Ardis’s, and I know he sees Thoman. A look of understanding passes over his face, and he appraises me with renewed suspicion. A rush of panic surges through me, and for a moment, I worry what he will do. Instead, he shakes his head, following us.

Thoman can be mad at me all he wants, but I am saving his life.

Chapter 4

It isn’t until I step through the doors of the grand hall that I consider making a run for it—which is a ridiculous concept now that I’ve crossed the threshold into Trialed territory. Dozens of guards focus on my every breath, capable of blocking any attempt at escaping.

They wouldn’t even need tomoveto stop me.

Maybe I might have stood a chance on the streets but then my common sense had been stronger than my fear.

Here—now, the same can’t be said. When fear is in charge, common sense is only a minor inconvenience to be ignored.

I’ve always wondered how the other half lives—the Trialed. But as the cold reality of my situation seeps down to my core, my eyes glaze over my surroundings. All I let myself see is the floor—black-and-white mosaic, so utterly spotless that it shines even in shadows.

I don’t move my gaze from it, willing for this all to slip away like another nightmare.

Dragged to a stop, I barely process the sound of Ardis and more guards grumbling to each other. They go silent, and every second only adds to the weight on my chest.

Towering doors screech open as a man steps through, guards perking to attention at the sight of him. He stands to the side, a smirk creasing his mouth when he sees me, before gesturing for me to be brought inside.

My slow pace spurns the members of the Guard, who walk behind me and shove me forward. I bite my tongue, worried an impulsive quip will leave me gutted on the pristine floor. Knees shaking, I pray my cowardice isn’t as visible as it feels.

Surveying the room, I note the members of the Guard lingering at each entryway, including the one we just entered. They possess no obvious weapons, and I have to remind myself that the Trialed do not need them to be dangerous. I can’t help but periodically glance between the stone-faced guards.

A massive chandelier hangs above, lit candles reflecting off its crystals. Similar gaudy ornaments fill the room, screaming of the wealth occupying its walls. My blood boils at the sight.

At the furthest side of the room sits an imposing male figure, dressed in bright crimson clothes. A gold crown rests atop cropped salt-and-pepper hair. The middle-aged man stands out in the monochromatic space.

I’ve never been in the man’s presence before, only knowing what I’ve heard in hushed gossip, but his residence upon the gold throne leaves no question of who he is.

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