The black leather cuirass slipped over my head as my body ran through the motions of dressing for battle like a marionette pulled by a puppeteer’s strings. Peleus stood before me, adjusting the armor and pulling the leather bindings tight until it melded to my torso like a second skin.

I felt this, as I did the grit of the sand beneath my boots and tasted the salt air from the sea just beyond the city’s cliffs. I heard the roar of the crowd from the soaring stands around me and squinted—eyes bred for the darkness of the Underworld—against the bright glare of the morning sun.

But my focus strayed and fixed on the golden figure who stood on the canopied pavilion only a story above.

The Korai seemed carved from gold, as still as she was. The Emperor, stooped and withered, held her hand aloft, displaying her for the crowd who cried their approval. Adresto was old, even by God-Blooded standards. The sands of his life slipped through the hourglass. My own gifts told me his time was short, and soon, Varian would wear the crown.

My friend, once, so long ago it seemed a different life; the sting of Varian’s betrayal was still a sour wound. I doubted Varian would prove any better than his tyrant of a father. And if he won the Korai? Dark, cold death rose like smoke within me at the thought.

No. She was a weapon he could not be allowed to wield.

The Emperor dropped the hand of the Korai, leading her—her face an emotionless mask—to her seat beside his throne.

“Well, she’s easy on the eyes,” Peleus said. “No wonder my sister’s so jealous.”

Jealous.

After I'd announced my true intentions the night before, Nerina rose from the settee without a word, yanked the decanter of wine from Peleus' hand, and stormed from the room.

The hurt in her eyes was something I'd been trying to keep from my mind. I didn’t bother to respond.

Uncharacteristically silent, Peleus handed me my weapons—twin short swords. Black-tipped, the Stygian steel blades were forged in the bowels of Tartarus. Fashioned into a gentle curve, they were perfect for slashing strikes. I took them, settled by the familiar weight in my hands, but Peleus lingered, frowning.

“What?”

“I know you’re focused on the prize, brother, but look around. Some of your rivals aren’t exactly what I expected.”

My mind on the task at hand, admittedly, I’d paid little attention to my surroundings all morning. I’d allowed Peleus to drag me through the motions while the rest of my Seven waited beyond the gated portcullis that led from beneath the stands to the arena floor. Now, I did as my friend suggested.

My blood chilled.

I’d set sail for Doria with certain expectations—God-Blooded Dorians, trained to make the best use of the strange battle magic that ran through their veins; Bloodlust, they called it. They were bred for battle. Shaped from the cradle to become ruthless killers. But what I found . . . A tight ball of nausea settled in my gut. “No . . .no, this can’t be right.”

Many of the Dorians were true warriors—their appetite for bloodshed honed on the battlefield. But not all of them. The rest? Most seemed more accustomed to holding a hoe than a blade.

But worse than that were the boys.

As green as saplings and just as fragile, they gripped their swords tight, still-soft cheeks flushed with naïve excitement. They would fight for the fable that was glory. And they would fall like spring’s first reaped grass.

For the first time in decades, my hand trembled at the coming fight.

“I can’t—”

Peleus’ calloused grip wrapped around my fist. “Too late, brother. You fight or you die.”

My attention caught on the nearest youth—a boy, perhaps fourteen, who wore the first feather-down of his juvenile beard.

My oldest friend tracked my gaze.“They will die. They would’ve died anyway, even if we’d never come here. It’s the truth of Doria and it’s why we need the Korai.”

I nodded, numb. Gold and glittering, she watched from above, her face detached and calm. Did she realize how young and innocent some competitors were? Did she care?

A decision settled in my mind and with a practiced movement, I sheathed the blades.

“Aidon?”

“Bring me your sister’s staff.”

“What? But you have your blades. The staff will only weigh you down.”

I turned the full force of my eyes—my father’s eyes—towards him. “Go. Get. It.”

Too accustomed to my shit to be intimidated, he shook his head. “You’re mad. The whole point of this Trial is to test your strength—which to the Dorians means how well you kill. At best, the staff will earn you ridicule and the crowd will throw rotten cabbage at your head. At worst . . .” He shrugged. “Well, I’m sure your father will be pleased to see you.”

My attention drifted away from his sea-green gaze. Rowdy a moment before, the crowd had quieted.

“Aidon—”

I held up a silencing hand as I scanned the stands. From the gateway on the opposite end of the field, beneath the Emperor’s pavilion, robed figures appeared. They marched forward in pairs, their movements too like be coincidental. This was some Dorian ritual, which meant the First Trial was beginning.

“I’m aware of the intricacies of Doria’s barbaric culture,” I said between my teeth. “What I’m not interested in is killing children! Get the damn staff. Now.”

His jaw hardened, but he nodded. He took off towards the open gate behind us, towards the dim tunnel where the rest of the Seven watched.

I prayed to any god listening that he’d make it back in time.

The High Priestess appeared in the Emperor’s box, in the same place the Korai had stood. When she spoke, her words were in Old Dorian—a harsh, rhythmic language I couldn’t understand in the slightest. It was an effort to keep my mouth from dropping open. None but the Eleutherian tribes, scholars, priestesses, and Dorian nobility spoke the language. A glance around told me I was not alone in my confusion. The stands were full of baffled faces. Even many competitors glanced around, uncomprehending.

Priestesses moved closer, then, their undyed robes marking them as acolytes who’d not yet taken their vows. As they grew nearer, they came into view. Each carried an earthenware bowl.

The High Priestess paused in her speech a moment, then uttered a single guttural word that sounded like a military command. She raised her arms, the silver and gold bangles she wore reflecting a blinding glare of sunlight, and the surrounding competitors moved, falling into a loose, circular formation. I followed, taking my place between the downy-bearded youth and a sinewy male dressed in piecemeal leathers that were tattered along the seams. The rough-looking male gave my sheathed blades a hungry, appraising look. This one had lived hard. Whatever small drop of God-Blood he possessed must have done him little good in life. The only reason a male like himself would enter these Trials was pure desperation. And how would he pay for his ambition?

Darkness crept in along the edges of my vision, dread filling my mind. A gift or a curse given to me with my father’s blood, the familiar foreboding was rarely wrong. Death shadowed this one.

“The Korai isn’t worth throwing your life away,” I whispered.

He sneered, lips pulling back over a mouthful of browned and broken teeth. “You know nothing of my life’s worth, my lord.”

The bitterness that dripped from each word painted a vivid enough picture. I turned away.

The acolytes continued filtering onto the sand, falling into a formation that mirrored the competitors. Each approached a single male, earthenware bowls glistening with fragrant oil.

Eyes straining in the bright light, I saw my assigned acolyte and groaned.

Blonde hair flipped over a shoulder, nose turned up, the novice from the previous night refused to meet my gaze.

The High Priestess uttered another strange command, and the young priestesses stepped forward in unison until they stood within reach of a male. Well . . . all but one. I waited, willing my expression into a bland smile, even so, the novice stood rooted in her spot. When she graced me with a glance, her brow furrowed and nostrils flared. She looked at me with the hate and disgust usually reserved for a murderous criminal at the gibbet. Beside her, a rare Dorian brunette hissed a low reprimand. Still, she did not move. Apparently, Nerina had managed to turn her distaste for Myridians into outright hatred overnight.

The other acolytes murmured words of prayer and offered sacred oils meant to aid the journey to the Underworld should a competitor fall. Mine just stood in the sand, bowl held so tight I feared she might break the pot in two.

Fine. I certainly had no intention of returning to my father’s court anytime soon.

But then the laughter began. It rumbled through the stands with the intensity of a minor earthquake. The smile glued to my mouth turned unpleasant—arrogant and feral. It was as much armor as my leathers were. But we would see how Doria laughed when I walked away with their greatest prize.

The High Priestess kept up her string of Old Dorian and the females fell back, moving as one towards the gate beneath the Emperor’s box. The blonde novice offered me one more venomous glance before following her companions.

When they were gone, a gravid silence fell. Then the sound began.

A low hum rose from the ground. A slight annoyance at first. It grew until it became a heavy grating. The sand danced, vibrating as the sound echoed throughout the oval arena. The grains spun away from the center of the field in strange waves. Cresting and cratering, the sand parted in ten evenly spaced depressions.

The stones emerged.

Cylindrical pillars rose from beneath the sand, a glimmer of gold shimmering as the grains fell away from each column’s crown. Slowly, they climbed and climbed, the grinding sound a dull roar. When they came to rest, they formed a circle in the center of the arena, each standing twice the height of a male.

The High Priestess spoke again, her words still in that gods-forsaken language. Frustration gripped me. I couldn’t complete the Trial if I didn’t know what the damned test was?

A voice murmured to my left. I stiffened. Beside me, the downy-bearded youth whispered, “Your challenge is this . . . One golden discus crowns each pillar. Do whatever you must to retrieve one and keep it, for the ten males left standing, discus in hand, will be the day’s victors. There are no rules. No limits, though wards have been placed to prevent magic. You have a moment now to choose your weapons and plan your strategy. The Trial will begin and end with the ringing of the gong.

“I wish you luck today. And for those of you who fall, may your journey to the Underworld be swift and painless.”

With the slightest of nods, I offered the boy my thanks. But I was troubled. Why would any Dorian, nonetheless a competitor, offer me aid? I waited for Peleus to return, tracking the boy from the corner of my eye. An older male approached, stern-faced and straight-backed, alike enough in coloring to be the youth’s father. He spoke to the boy, laying out a strategy like a general, but when the youth appeared more concerned with the thousands of faces watching from the stands than his instructions, the older male pulled him in by the straps of his breastplate and shook him hard enough to rattle teeth.

Perhaps even some Dorians were tired of the cruelty that tainted every action—every breath and drop of blood—of their people.

The other competitors spread across the field. Beneath the Emperor’s pavilion, Varian stood dressed in his fire-gilded armor, Deimos already in hand. It was a longer blade than any other competitor carried, its length running from the ground to the center of Varian’s chest. Passed down to him from his father, it was god-forged—lightweight and unbreakable. I had faced it in battle before. Only the magic that lurked in my own veins had kept me from feeling its bite.

Other competitors rushed about, making a final choice of weapons and listening to last words of advice. One thick-shouldered male wore the long braided beard of the northern tribes. He hefted a massive battle axe onto his shoulder. A warrior close enough in appearance to be his twin carried a war hammer. These were males who still lived like the ancients, true Dorian conquerors. Curiosity peeked. Part of me was excited to see them in action.

“Aidon!” Peleus called.

My eyes found him still yards away. He fought the crowd, the competitors’ various followers fighting against him to flee the arena before the gong rang. He stood just below the gate. The portcullis above his head began to lower.

With an overhead throw, Peleus sent his sister’s staff flying over the throng. I caught it, my hand circling the smaller grooves worn by Nerina’s grip.

Then the gong rang and the First Trial began.