My blade cuts through Helene’s leather armor, and part of me screams, Elias, what have you done? What have you done?
Then the dagger shatters, and while I’m still staring at it in disbelief, a powerful hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me off Helene.
“Aspirant Aquilla.” Cain’s voice is cold as he flicks open the top of Helene’s tunic. Glimmering beneath is the Augur-forged shirt Hel won in the Trial of Cunning. Except, like the mask, it’s no longer separate from her. It’s melded to her, a second, scim-proof skin. “Do you not recall the rules of the Trial? Battle armor is forbidden. You are disqualified.”
My battle rage fades, leaving me feeling like my insides have been whittled away. I know that this image will haunt me forever, staring down at Helene’s frozen face, the sleet thick around us, the screaming wind that can’t drown out the sound of death.
You nearly killed her, Elias. You nearly killed your best friend.
Helene doesn’t speak. She stares at me and puts her hand to her heart, as if she can still feel that dagger coming down.
“She didn’t think to remove it,” a voice speaks from behind me. A slight shadow emerges from the mist: a female Augur. Other shadows follow, creating a circle around Hel and me.
“She didn’t think of it at all,” the female Augur says. “She’s worn it since the day we gave it to her. It’s joined with her. Like the mask. An honest error, Cain.”
“But an error nonetheless. She has forfeited the victory. And even if she had not . . . ”
I would have won anyway. Because I would have killed her.
The sleet slows to a drizzle, and the mist on the battlefield clears, revealing the carnage. The amphitheater is strangely quiet, and I notice then that the stands are filled with students and Centurions, generals and politicians. My mother watches from the front row, unreadable as ever. Grandfather stands a few rows behind her, his hand tight on his scim. The faces of my platoon are a blur. Who survived? Who died?
Tristas, Demetrius, Leander: dead. Cyril, Darien, Fortis: dead.
I drop to the ground beside Helene. I say her name.
I’m sorry I tried to kill you. I’m sorry I gave the order to kill your platoon. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The words don’t come. Only her name, whispered over and over in the hopes that she will hear, that she will understand. She looks past my face into the roiling sky as if I’m not there.
“Aspirant Veturius,” Cain says. “Rise.”
Monster, murderer, devil. Dark, vile creature. I hate you. I hate you. Am I speaking to the Augur? To myself? I don’t know. But I do know that freedom isn’t worth this. Nothing is worth this.
I should have let Helene kill me.
Cain says nothing of the bedlam in my mind. Maybe, in a battlefield choked with the tormented thoughts of broken men, he cannot hear mine.
“Aspirant Veturius,” he says, “as Aquilla has forfeited, and you, of all Aspirants, have the most men left alive, we, the Augurs, name you victor in the Trial of Strength. Congratulations.”
Victor.
The word thuds to the ground like a scim falling from a dead hand.
Twelve men from my platoon survive. The other eighteen lie in the back room of the infirmary, cold beneath thin white sheets. Helene’s platoon fared worse, with only ten survivors. Earlier, Marcus and Zak fought each other, but no one seems to know much about that battle.
The men of the platoons knew who their enemy would be. Everyone knew what this Trial would be—everyone but the Aspirants. Faris tells me this. Or maybe Dex.
I don’t remember how I arrive at the infirmary. The place is chaos, the head physician and his apprentices overwhelmed as they try to save wounded men. They shouldn’t bother. The blows we dealt were killing blows.
The healers realize the truth soon enough. By the time night falls, the infirmary is quiet, occupied by bodies and ghosts.
Most of the survivors have left, half ghost themselves. Helene is spirited away to a private room. I wait outside her door, throwing black looks at the apprentices trying to get me to leave. I have to speak to her. I have to know if she’s all right.
“You didn’t kill her.”
Marcus. I don’t draw a weapon at the sound of his voice, though I have a dozen at hand. If Marcus decides to kill me in this moment, I won’t lift a finger to stop him. But for once, there’s no venom in him. His armor is spattered with blood and mud, like mine, but he seems different. Diminished, like something vital has been torn out of him.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t kill her.”
“She was your enemy on the battlefield. It’s not a victory until you defeat your enemy. That’s what the Augurs said. That’s what they told me. You were supposed to kill her.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“He died so easily.” Marcus’s yellow eyes are troubled, his lack of malice so profound that I barely recognize him. I wonder if he actually sees me or if he just sees a body—someone alive, someone listening.
“The scim—it tore through him,” Marcus says. “I wanted to stop it. I tried, but it was too fast. My name was his first word, did you know? And—and his last. Just before the end, he said it. Marcus, he said.”
It dawns on me then. I haven’t seen Zak among the survivors. I haven’t heard anyone speak his name.
“You killed him,” I say softly. “You killed your brother.”
“They said I had to defeat the enemy commander.” Marcus raises his eyes to mine. He seems confused. “Everyone was dying. Our friends. He asked me to end it. To make it stop. He begged me. My brother. My little brother.”
Revulsion rises inside me like bile. I’ve spent years loathing Marcus, thinking of him as nothing more than a snake. Now I can only pity him, though neither of us deserves pity. We are murderers of our own men—of our own blood. I’m no better than he is. I watched and did nothing as Tristas died. I killed Demetrius, Ennis, Leander, and so many others. If Helene hadn’t unwittingly broken the rules of the Trial, I’d have killed her too.
The door to Helene’s room opens, and I rise, but the physician shakes his head.
“No, Veturius.” He’s pale and subdued, all his bluster gone. “She’s not ready for visitors. Go, lad. Go get some rest.”
I almost laugh. Rest.
When I turn back to Marcus, he is gone. I should find my men. Check on them. But I can’t face them. And they, I know, won’t want to see me. We will never forgive ourselves for what we did today.
“I will see Aspirant Veturius,” a quarrelsome voice says from the hallway outside the infirmary. “That’s my grandson, and I damn well want to make sure he’s— Elias!”
Grandfather shoves past a frightened apprentice as I walk out the infirmary door, pulling me to him, his arms strong around me. “Thought you were dead, my boy,” he says into my hair. “Aquilla’s got more spit than I gave her credit for.”
“I nearly killed her. And the others. I killed them. So many. I didn’t want to. I—”
I’m going to be sick. I turn from him and retch right there, at the door of the infirmary, not stopping until there’s nothing left to get out.
Grandfather calls for a glass of water, waiting quietly as I drink it down, his hand never leaving my shoulder.
“Grandfather,” I say. “I wish . . . ”
“The dead are dead, my boy, and at your hand.” I don’t want to hear the words, but I need them, for they are the truth. Anything less would be an insult to the men I killed. “No amount of wishing will change it. You’ll be trailing ghosts now. Like the rest of us.”
I sigh and look down at my hands. I can’t stop them from shaking. “I have to go to my quarters. I have to get—get cleaned up.”
“I can walk you—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Cain appears from the shadows, as welcome as a plague. “Come, Aspirant. I would speak to you.”
I follow the Augur with heavy steps. What do I do? What do I say to a creature who cares nothing for loyalty or friendship or life?
“I find it hard to believe,” I say quietly, “that you didn’t realize Helene was wearing scim-proof armor.”
“Of course we realized it. Why do you think we gave it to her? The Trials are not always about action. Sometimes, they are about intent. You weren’t meant to kill Aspirant Aquilla. We only wanted to know if you would.” He glances at my hand, which I didn’t even realize was inching toward my scim. “I’ve told you before, Aspirant. We cannot die. Besides, haven’t you had enough of death?”
“Zak. And Marcus.” I can barely speak. “You made him kill his own brother.”
“Ah. Zacharias.” Sadness flits across Cain’s face, infuriating me further. “Zacharias was different, Elias. Zacharias had to die.”
“You could have picked anyone—anything for us to fight.” I don’t look at him. I don’t want to retch again. “Efrits or wights. Barbarians. But you made us fight each other. Why?”
“We had no choice, Aspirant Veturius.”
“No choice.” A terrible anger consumes me, virulent as a sickness. And though he is right, though I have had enough of death, in this moment all I want is to plunge my scim through Cain’s black heart. “You created these Trials. Of course you had a choice.”
Cain’s eyes flash. “Do not speak of things you do not understand, child. What we do, we do for reasons beyond your comprehension. “
“You made me kill my friends. I almost killed Helene. And Marcus—he killed his brother—his twin—because of you.”
“You’ll be doing far worse before this is over.”
“Worse? How much worse can this get? What will I have to do in the Fourth Trial? Murder children?”
“I’m not talking about the Trials,” Cain says. “I’m talking about the war.”
I stop mid-stride. “What war?”
“The one that haunts our dreams.” Cain keeps walking, gesturing for me to follow. “Shadows gather, Elias, and their gathering cannot be stopped. Darkness grows in the heart of the Empire, and it will grow more still, until it covers this land. War comes. And it must come. For a great wrong must be righted, a wrong that grows greater with every life destroyed. The war is the only way. And you must be ready.”
Riddles, always riddles with the Augurs. “A wrong,” I say through gritted teeth. “What wrong? When? How can a war fix it?”
“One day, Elias Veturius, these mysteries will be made clear. But not this day.”
He slows as we enter the barracks. Every door is closed. I hear no curses, no sobs, no snores, nothing. Where are my men?
“They sleep,” Cain says. “For this night, they will not dream. Their sleep will not be haunted by the dead. A reward for their valor.”
A paltry gesture. They still have tomorrow night to wake up screaming. And all the nights after.
“You have not asked about your prize,” Cain says, “for winning the Trial.”
“I don’t want a prize. Not for this.”
“Nonetheless,” the Augur says as we arrive at my room, “you will have it. Your door will be sealed until dawn. No one will disturb you. Not even the Commandant.” He drifts out of the barracks doors, and I watch him go, wondering uneasily about his talk of war and shadows and darkness.
I’m too exhausted to think long on it. My whole body aches. I just want to sleep and forget this ever happened, even if it’s just for a few hours. I push the questions out of my head, unlock the door, and enter my quarters.