Page 151 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

My fingers curl into the edge of the bench on either side of my thighs.

A vine bristling with twisting thorns lashes from the hedge to her right. The contestant drops just in time, the strike snapping through the space where her head had been. Scrambling forward on hands and knees, she clears the section and surges back to her feet.

My chest tightens as she hops, skips, and leaps over ground that crumbles beneath her sprint. She dives, rolls, and when she comes up grinning, triumph flashing across her face, I almost believe she’s made it.

Then a curtain of fire crashes down from the stone archway above her.

Her smile shatters into an agonized scream.

I slam my eyes shut, breathing through my nose, telling myself I’m too far away to smell burning flesh.

This has been the pattern all evening.

Contestants are met with elaborate, merciless traps—attacks hidden within the deceptively beautiful hedge maze.

Only one man has reached the exit on his own, and he paid for it in blood.

The first two contests were nothing like this.

The events meant to celebrate Jason and Daphne’s impending union tested each magic user’s precision and skill without blatant violence. This trial is another beast.

It’s barbaric.

Cruel.

And each time the mayor and his family cheer behind me, my opinion of them and of Virendrell’s betrothal customs erodes with every clap.

“What a shame,” Leto mutters.

I open my eyes.

He shifts, smoothing the fabric covering his toned thighs, staring at the young woman below. “To be felled by your own element… I cannot think of a worse humiliation.”

The woman was a fire wielder, then.

And the creases tugging the corners of Leto’s eyes hint that he cares about her fate.

On my other side, Anders sighs. “Excuse me, Elara. This injury will need my tending.”

He stands and adjusts the waist of his trousers.

Like every male seated in the stands, he is shirtless, though his heavy-looking medallion hangs over his pale sternum. The gold chain gleams, as does every piece of jewelry worn by those around me. The opulent wealth sets me on edge.

Anders bows to the row behind us before hurrying down the steps to assist the contestant.

Behind me, casual banter and easy laughter continue.

I clench my jaw and keep my eyes on the maze, resisting the urge to shoot a disgusted glare over my shoulder.

Two servants in flowing togas kneel at the contestant’s side and lift her onto a stretcher. Its white fabric is already marred with the dried blood.

Pained screams ring in my ears when they touch her. My fingernails crack against the wood.

“Well, that was unfortunate.” A young woman appears next to me, lowering herself onto Anders’s abandoned seat.

She wears a red gown cut daringly low, but it’s not the fabric that draws the eye—it’s the way she wears it, unbothered by who’s watching. Strong. Self-assured. Stunning.

“But not surprising,” the woman continues. “You fire wielders are too cocky. You never bother to learn how to protect yourselves against your own element.”