Page 54 of A Match Made in Error

It’s meant for judgment. For performance.

I inhale deeply. The air smells like the sea and old magic.

Contestants murmur, shifting uneasily on the stone benches, excitement dulled by nerves. No one quite knows how this trial will unfold, and the Moirai are down in front of the entrance to the arena with that look about them. They wait, hands clasped and poised in front of them as they stand quiet and expectant, the way predators wait once the trap is already sprung.

I roll my shoulders, loosening muscles out of habit. Performance nerves. That’s all this is. I’ve danced, fought, flirted, and lied my way through worse rooms than this.

Still…

I feel it.

Pressure coils tight behind my ribs. Not fear. No. It’s responsibility. The kind that sits heavy once you realize someone else might pay the price if you misstep.

Poppy watches a half-step away from me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her arm, far enough that it feels intentional. She’s quieter than usual. Pulled inward. No muttered commentary, no dry asides under her breath. Her hands are folded tightly in front of her, knuckles pale.

Anxiety, I decide.

Anyone in our shoes would feel it here. Anyone would worry about slipping up, about being found out. About losing.

But the thought curdles in my gut as it settles.

Because this whole ridiculous idea was mine.

Fake it.

Perform.

Sell it to the crowd.

Win the trials and walk away after the Festival, unchanged and free from curses.

At the time, it felt harmless. A gag like many others I’d played in my time. I know how to win an audience. I know how to make people believe what they want to see. But watching her now, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on the arena like she’s bracing for impact, something uncomfortable tugs in my chest.

I have nothing to lose, but what if the act costs her something real? What if the game I dragged her into makes the thing she wants most slip further out of reach?

Love.

The word lands harder than I expect.

Poppy wants love. And she deserves it too.

I glance at her again, trying to read her expression, trying to decide if that distance is nerves…or regret. And for the first time since this all began, I wonder if pretending might be the riskiest thing I’ve ever asked her to do.

What was I thinking?

Sweat slicks my palms. No wonder she’s been distant and moody. As always, she’s the smarter of the two of us and has realized just how stupid this whole thing is. And it’s too late to back out now.

“Matches.” The Moirai’s trio of combined voices echoes more ominously in the wake of my realization.

“Be seated,” the Maiden says, her voice soft and ethereal.

“It’s time you learn of trial two,” the Mother adds, her voice stern but nothing like the demanding rasp of the Crone’s.

The scrape of shoes on sand-covered stone scruffs through the air, halting to pin-dropping silence as soon as we’re all seated in the risers above the arena and the Crone begins to speak.

“After nearly two weeks, you should be well-bonded now. Time to test it.” A snap and pyrotechnics dance through the air. Dramatic. “Couples will be placed in a magically generated environment of our choosing. Illusions are cast using a Septhis Stone.” I wince. The unit I was in during the Ogre War used a Septhis Stone to practice battle simulations—the ancient relic has the power to make anything feel real. It can tap into a participant’s inner self and draw on their fear and natural instincts to challenge them to their core. Not the best option when your subconscious mind is hiding the fact that your lovey-dovey relationship with your match is fake.

“You will get scored on teamwork more than outcomes,” the Mother explains. “Each couple will face challenges in their labyrinth, and unlike previous years, when we all watched your choices be acted out on a simulation screen, this year, you will actually be in the simulation.”