Page 108 of The Shadow Sanctum

CHAPTER 30

LUNA

The circle has grown.

It used to be a modest ring—packed dirt stamped by years of blood and ceremony. But tonight it’s swollen wider, stretched to contain the sheer number of challengers. The crowd presses close to create a living wall of bodies. The hum of their unease shivers through the air.

I push through them until I reach the edge. Torchlights lick high against the cloudy winter sky, and shadows dance across faces. I brace myself for sneers, for hatred, for eyes gleaming with vengeance.

But that isn’t what I find.

There’s anger, yes. Always anger. But mixed with it are furrowed brows, pale cheeks, lips pressed tight—not with rage but worry. Concern. Fear.

Not fear of me. Fear for me.

It cuts sharper than hate ever could.

When my eyes find Sawyer across the circle, I don’t even feel surprise. My chest aches as I mouth the words, Please go.

He only shakes his head.

A breath slowly trails over my lips. He’s a hypocrite for all the times he’s called me stubborn, and for once, I understand the frustration. It won’t be long before the police come. It’s lucky he’s good at escaping. Better than anyone.

He’ll find a way.

And maybe it will take longer for a raid than I’m anticipating. What do I know of the authorities? Nothing, really. No interaction, no history. Only stories of raids and punishments, cages and trials. Told by my father and by books. I don’t know how fast they move or how hard they’ll strike.

But they’re coming.

I step into the circle. Heat from the torches licks my face. The crowd falls to a hush.

There’s less anger among my opponents than there was earlier. And more hesitation. Even some of the fighters, standing shoulder to shoulder in their makeshift line, avoid my eyes. Part of me finds it strange, but the other part knows my father. It’s easy to get caught up in the fever of his words. Caught up in the weight of the moment. Now, in the quiet, they look uncertain.

It brings me a strange kind of peace. I will die knowing not everyone despises me. Not everyone sees me as a monster.

Father enters the circle from the opposite side. His face is schooled into holy severity as his shoes kick up dirt. When he raises his hands, the crowd leans forward to catch his voice.

But before he can speak, another voice slices through the silence.

“Stop!”

The word bellows like thunder, and clunky footsteps I hear in my dreams follow. I would know that voice anywhere. Those steps anywhere.

Thorne storms forward, shoulders squared, eyes wild but steady. The crowd parts to make room for him. My pulse lurches.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. He steps into the circle and towers over Father with his chest heaving.

“I’ll be fighting in the Head Keeper’s place.”

The words crack like lightning.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. A murmur rises, confusion threading with disbelief.

My heart tears in half.

Father freezes for a beat. Shocked. Not because it’s particularly uncommon for someone to take a fighter’s place but because it’s unheard of for me. It’s disrespectful for Thorne to try.

When the shock fades, Father’s lips twitch. A subtle smugness slides back into place.