I wasn’t naïve. Everyone in Tarlor knew what the Mortal Trials were. Umma had explained it to me before I was six.
Every decade, on Augustine, the elven were entitled to take thirteen mortals, one from each of the islands of Tarlor, to compete in an elaborate series of twisted challenges designed to weed out the strongest of the lot, the ones most genetically compatible for the final challenge, the Rite. Participating in the Rite would bestow the ultimate gift upon the winner – immortality – and thus a chance to become elven.
The choice of which mortals were taken was always at the discretion of the elven. Volunteers were never considered. There was no age limit, but generally, most candidates were in their twenties. And the girl seated across from me was right. No one ever made it through the Rite.
It was horrifically dangerous to even compete in the challenges, and the few who passed through and made it to the end swiftly found Azrael, the God of Death, waiting on the other side.
All but one. The only mortal to ever turn elven in the past seven decades.
Augustine Devior.
“But August–”
“Don’t start with the‘but Augustine managed to survive, so there’s hope’delusion. There’s no hope. There’s only gruesome death, painful death, and semi-painful death. You should take your hope and place it on the third.”
“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” I muttered, leaning back against my pillows.
“The irony that that is the meaning of my name is not lost on me.”
“What? Sunshine?” I rolled onto my side to look at her properly.
“Solana. But you can call me Lana. My friends do.”
“Are we friends now?”
She shrugged, rolling off the bed and standing. “If we’re going to die here together, we might as well be.”
I mimicked her movements, pushing the duvet off and getting to my feet carefully. They felt wobbly. “I’m Lirahna. Lirah for short.”
“Lirah and Lana,” she mused. “When they sing the song of our deaths, at least it will be poetic.”
I didn’t respond. Her words, though pessimistic, were not wrong. But I owed it to Umma to at least try to make it out of here. Hope was a dangerous thing, but deciding you’d failed before even trying to survive meant certain death.
I watched as Lana padded to the wooden door at the corner of the room and thumped twice. Nothing happened. She tried the doorknob, but it didn’t give.
“It’s locked,” she huffed, facing me. I smoothed down the crumpled night clothes I still wore from Augustine and surveyed the rest of the room. Two identical cots, a narrow window, door, ceiling, walls. No other furniture save for a small wooden chest built like a safe and painted the exact eggshell white of the walls, so that it camouflaged into its background. My gaze would have skipped right over it were it not for the small indentation near the side where one might open it.
“Look.” I pointed, crouching down to run my fingers over its edges.
“What is it?” Lana asked, coming to stand beside me.
I slid a nail into the crack between the indentation and the edge and the chest popped open. Several objects were stored inside. I pulled them all out and placed them in a line before us.
The first two items were a set of identical clothing. Sturdy black pants that molded perfectly to my body when I tried them on. The top was fashioned into a corset, made of hard leather. Three gold buckles strapped down its center. The boning was slitted on the sides to store… I didn’t even know what.
“A corset?” I said, staring down at the garment in distaste.
“A cuirass,” Lana clarified. “It’s meant to go over your long-sleeve. Protects the torso.”
Right. Another reminder that I was now in a situation where my torso would need protection.
“It looks like a corset.”
“Compete for your lives but make it fashionable?” She shrugged. “I can’t understand the elven.”
I pulled the corset – cuirass – on, buckling it into place as Lana reached for the third and final item laid out.
It was a small page, dark lettering in sprawling curlicues stretching from end to end.